Page 50 of The Best Ex of My Life

‘Afternoon, Miss Cook,’ he says without slowing down.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ I say, sounding more like a student than a teacher.

The door to Elliot’s office has been left open, so I walk right through it before stopping in my tracks.

‘Elliot?’

I know stress can age you like nothing else, but Elliot looks way older than he did before he got the promotion. He’s crumpled and dishevelled with dark rings around his eyes. In front of him his desk is chaotic, with open folders balanced on top of each other, coffee cups, and loose paper everywhere, including the floor. There’s a stale smell to the room that must have been even more intense before Mr Montgomery came in and left the door open.

He looks up at me, but he can barely manage a smile. He’s holding himself so tightly together, I can tell that any alteration to his state will pull him apart.

‘You don’t look too good, El,’ I tell him, which is the biggest understatement of my life. He looks dreadful. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ he says, his lips barely moving, like he’s a ventriloquist not wanting to give the game away.

‘No, you’re not. Yours is not the face of a person who is fine. What’s going on?’

‘I said I’m fine.’

‘When did you last leave this room? Have you eaten today?’

‘I’m busy,’ is all he says.

I want to go over to him and put the back of my hand against his forehead to check he’s OK. I want to put a blanket around him and feed him soup. I don’t want to see him like this ever again. I decide right then, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I thought the best way to get rid of my feelings for Elliot was to not be around him, to do it alone, cold turkey, but it turns out I was completely wrong. Now I’m with him, and I can see he needs help, all those feelings that made me want to keep my distance are pushed to the back of my mind, and instead I move forward. Elliot isn’t just a man I’ve been avoiding to squash my feelings, he’s also supposed to be my friend. I’ve let myself forget that too much recently.

‘Come on, stand up. I’m taking you back to your flat.’

He scoffs at the idea. ‘I can’t go back. I’ve a report due tomorrow. I’ll speak to you later, OK? It was nice to see you.’

If he thinks he can dismiss me that easily, he’s sorely mistaken.

‘It’s nice to see you too, now move.’

‘I can’t,’ he says firmer. ‘If I don’t finish this report tonight, it will roll on into tomorrow, and tomorrow I’ve got to observe two teachers, write another report and attend a meeting, in which I’ve got to do a presentation on progress data, so if you don’t mind.’

‘OK. I get it, but you’re missing out a few vital things from that to do list, like sleeping and eating and breathing fresh air. If you insist on finishing the report, grab the files you need, and I’ll take you back to the flat. You can do it there, OK?’

I manage to cajole him out through a series of time-saving promises. If he lets me take him back, I’ll stop nagging him and let him work. If I take him now, we’ll miss rush hour, and he can be back at the flat in twenty minutes. If he lets me in, I’ll make him food while he works, and I’ll make him something he can eat with one hand, so he doesn’t need to stop. If he lets me help, I’ll leave him in peace much quicker than if he refuses.

He’s tense and quiet the whole journey back, fretfully looking at his phone every minute or so. He tells me he’s put his work emails on his personal phone so he can always be contactable, and I tell him he’s an idiot. The first time he properly looks at me is when I pull up outside his flat.

‘Thanks for the lift. You don’t need to come in. I promise I’ll eat. I might even take a shower,’ he says, giving me a smile that doesn’t crinkle the skin around his eyes like normal.

‘That wasn’t the deal, and you know it. I’m coming in, Elliot,’ I tell him.

‘Fine,’ he relents, ‘you can come in for a bit. Just be warned the flat is a bit of a state.’

It’s not a state at all. When my flat is a state, it tends to mean the dishes haven’t been done in days, there are clothes draped off every piece of furniture I own, and the carpets are covered in a combined layer of my hair and Bud’s fluff. There’s no sign of any of those things in Elliot’s flat, but that doesn’t mean it’s as it normally is. The first thing that hits me when I walk in is how cold it is. The kitchen is spotless, but in that unlived in way you might find in a holiday rental. The only nod to dishevelment is the unmade bed I spot when I walk past his open bedroom door. In better times, I’m certain Elliot is the kind of person to make his bed as soon as he gets out of it.

It’s only when I sit on the chilly sofa, I spot what he might be getting at. Down the side is a tumbling pile of papers that have been heavily highlighted.

‘Can I get you something?’ Elliot asks, startling me as I’m flicking through them, struggling to make any sense of the numbers and columns on them.

‘No. You sit down here, and I’ll get you something. When was the last time you had a proper meal?’

‘I don’t know. Does cereal count?’