‘Yeah, he’s found a good one,’ I reply, flatly. ‘There’s hope for us all, eh?’
I see Harriet and Noel to the door and wonder when the rest of the party will fuck off, too. As much as I appreciate everyone coming to send me off, I just want them to go. I need to leave now.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Waking up with a hangover is vile enough, but combined with guilt and confusion, I think I’m just about ready to be put down. I pull my pillow around my head and sigh deeply. I should never have had that bloody party. I should have just left. No fuss. No sentimental bullshit. No reason for Sarah to—
‘Van will be here at ten,’ I hear Matt yell from the hall, his tone unusually icy and flat as my pillow springs back into shape. Fuck. My mind races back to last night; his face when he saw Sarah and me. . . Sarah’s face as she asked me how I felt about her. . .fuckfuckfuck. The irony that I decided to leave London to avoid this very thing happening isn’t lost on me.
My phone informs me that it’s 9.35am, leaving no time to shower, so I drag myself up and throw on some clothes, manoeuvring round the boxes which are ready just to chuck in the removal van. Matt stays in the living room, boundaries set firmly in place by his oversized headphones while I quickly use the bathroom and grab some breakfast, though in the end I barely touch it. Even without the hangover, I’d be in no mood to eat. Everything just feels wrong.
By the time the van arrives, Matt’s barely said two words to me. This isn’t the final-morning, ‘Goodbye, London’ send-off I’d hoped for. I can’t bring myself to ask him what’s wrong because we both know the answer already and then I’d need to lie to him again. Tell him what he saw was nothing and that he’s reading too much into it. God, I’m such a coward, but I’d rather leave for Oxford with my best friend mad at me, than with no best friend at all.
The annoyingly upbeat movers bring down my bedroom furniture, while Matt and I deal with the boxes and bags that have been cluttering up my room and the hallway for the past week. At least he’s helping me move and not just throwing my bags from the window with a loudfuck you. I give my bedroom a final once-over; it looks so stark now: furniture gone, pictures taken down and packed away, every trace of me removed and crammed into cardboard boxes. It’s almost like I was never here.
We trudge downstairs and step outside, the morning sun instantly warming the top of my head while I drag the last three bin bags to the van. On a day like this, Matt and I would normally be nursing our hangovers in a beer garden somewhere. My stomach twists as I wonder whether that will ever happen again.
‘All set then?’ Matt asks as the removal men close the van doors. ‘If you’ve left anything, I can send it on.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply, trying to remain as chipper as the knot in my stomach will allow. ‘I think I’ve got everything.’
He nods, shuffling from foot to foot while his hands remain firmly stuck in his pockets like a kid who’d rather be anywhere else but here. I’ve known Matt for eleven years, but I’ve never felt like such a stranger.
‘Ready when you are, pal.’
As I wave at the driver, signalling I’ll just be a second, Matt takes the flat keys from his pocket, jangling them as an indication that he’s also ready to go. ‘Have a safe trip.’
‘Thanks. I’ll give you a call later, maybe?’
‘Sure,’ he replies, shrugging. ‘I’ll be around.’
I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to sink any lower, but it now appears to be somewhere near my knees. He turns and retreats towards the flat.
‘Matt! Please, we can’t just leave things—’
He stops and turns to face me, rubbing the back of his neck. I can’t tell whether he looks angry or confused but as he moves swiftly towards me, I steady myself, prepared to accept whatever’s coming my way. Matt throws one arm around me and pulls me in with a hug that feels almost threatening at first – but slowly he brings around his other arm and it becomes something more tender.
We stay like that for a few seconds before Matt pulls away, sniffing loudly and dabbing his eyes with sleeve of his hoodie. My own glistening eyes cause him to smile reassuringly. He slaps me playfully on the arm, giving himself a shake.
‘You take care, Nick, you hear me. Don’t be a stranger.’
‘I won’t,’ I assure him. ‘God, this is all so weird. Can’t believe I’m actually doing it. . . wish me luck?’
He grins and backs up towards the door. ‘Nah, you don’t need luck; you’ll crush this.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘You still need a haircut though. . .’
I laugh and swivel around, giving him the finger as I climb into the rental car parked behind the removal van. I’m aware that I’ll be stuck on the motorway in wall-to-wall traffic for the next two hours, but I honestly don’t care. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Matt and I are good. Thank God, we’re good.
It’s nearly 1pm by the time we reach my new flat in Headington and I’m so grateful that, from the outside at least, it looks exactly like the pictures provided by the letting agents. A small brown-brick, one-bedroom, ground-floor flat in a modern development about five miles from my new office. God,my new office. I feel a rush of excitement, quickly followed by a jolt of anxiety, because for the first time, I’m on my own. No roomies, no bill sharing, no passive-aggressive fights over the washing up – just me.
Collecting the keys from a lockbox by the door, we quickly unload the contents of the van into the flat, which apart from white goods is completely unfurnished. Once the movers leave, I wander aimlessly from room to room, wondering what the hell to do next. Even with my bedroom set in place, it’s just so empty. The thought of turning this blank canvas into a home is a daunting one, but it’s clean and newly painted, and once the living room furniture I’ve ordered arrives, I’m sure it’ll feel less of a mammoth task. Probably. Jesus, I’m thirty-one and I’ve never been accountable for every single thing in a flat. Fuck, I’ve never even had to buy a spatula. It was always just. . . there.
I open up Spotify and shuffle some music while I park myself on the edge of my unmade bed. I can do this; I just need to be organised. Make some lists. Find the nearest supermarket so I don’t starve to death. It’s not rocket science – people do this shit every day.
As I begin to unpack my clothes, I hear ‘Without You’ by David Guetta playing in the background and it stops me in my tracks. This was the song I danced to with Sarah at Matt’s birthday party and for a second, I’m back there, laughing and drinking and falling for her. Christ, if things were different, maybe. . .
