And twenty-four hours after that, he’ll be gone. Just like he was fifteen years ago.
Only this time, I’ll know just how much I’m losing, and the hole he leaves behind will be so much harder to fill.
Chapter 53
I’m distracted at work the next day. Everything reminds me of Mark.
This morning on the tube, I almost missed my stop because the woman sitting opposite me was wearing a silk scarf the same shade of pale blue as his sheets.
I get a patient’s name wrong after he tells me about the holiday he’s planning in Sicily.
At lunch, Charles mentions he’s refurbishing his flat and asks if I’ll come with him to John Lewis to help him pick a kitchen table.
‘Kitchen table?’ I’d parroted dumbly.
Does he know? How could he possibly know?
I come to my senses in time to tell him I can’t because I’ve got a manicure booked. Then I spend my lunch break trekking round salons until I find someone who can fit me in so my lie stands up to scrutiny.
When I return to the office at 2 p.m., my nails are a wanton shade of dark red. The name of the varnish: Carnal Knowledge.
Rich notices. I never painted them red when we were together. When his eyes snag on my nails, I feel like I’m wearing a sign that says: I’m having mind-blowing sex, and I don’t care who knows.
He doesn’t say anything.
It’s not until I’m home that evening that I realise I’ve completely forgotten to eat lunch. But when Mum offers me a plate of hermoujendra, a lentil and onion dish I can usually consume in huge quantities, I find I’m not hungry.
A little later I drive us to the hospital to pick up Dad.
‘I’m looking forward to sleeping in my own bed,’ he says, as I help him put his shoes on.
His first attempt to put them on by himself was met with a stern ticking off from Mum.
It’s great to see him so well, with the colour finally back in his cheeks.
I try not to dwell on the fact that this was Mark’s workplace until a couple of days ago. And even though I know he’s in Leeds, I can’t help feeling jumpy whenever we turn a blind corner in case he’s come back for some reason and we bump into him.
‘Mark says hello,’ reports Dad from the backseat, as I drive us home.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ says Mum, next to me. ‘Tell him hello from us, too.’
‘Will do,’ says Dad, tapping on his phone.
Dad’s in a text conversation with Mark?
‘I didn’t know you were in touch,’ I say, keeping my voice even.
‘He wanted me to give him updates.’
I swallow a lump in my throat and concentrate on the road. Mark being demonstrably thoughtful with my family makes something swell inside me.
As if I didn’t have enough reasons to find his imminent departure difficult.
It’s one in the morning. I’m in bed, but I’m wide awake. I managed to get through Tuesday without any professional clangers. I even managed to go and look at kitchen tables with Charles – and was highly unimpressed by how flimsy they all felt.
I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and I can’t stop listening to boyband ballads. Today, Backstreet Boys’ ‘Incomplete’ has been on repeat.
I know what these symptoms usually mean, but it can’t be that. I won’t let it be that.
