‘Don’t you think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself? You’re just as human as your patients. Nobody’s perfect. And that’s okay.’
I sit with that for a few moments.
‘He’s moved to Venezuela.’
Her eyes widen. ‘That’s possibly more of a barrier to a relationship. But it’s interesting you didn’t lead with that.’
I smile. ‘The word “interesting” is doing a lot of heavy lifting there.’
She smiles, too. ‘You know how this works.’
‘I can’t talk my way out of the physical distance between us. It gives me carte blanche to ignore all these complicated feelings because, at the end of the day, we’re living on different continents, so all we can be is friends.’
‘You’re being kept apart by something you can’t change.’
‘Exactly. I miss him, but I get a perverse pleasure being miserable about it. I can tell myself we’re like tragic star-crossed lovers. I was crushed when things ended with Rich, and terrified I’d never recover. I can’t risk feeling that way again.’
‘But you did recover, didn’t you? I’m not saying you don’t bear any scars, but do you feel crushed now?’
‘No, but Mark was a great distraction. He made me feel wanted and attractive when I was at my lowest.’
‘Is that how you feel – that he was a distraction and nothing more?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘It’s okay not to have the answers,’ she says.
‘I hate feeling like this.’
‘That’s the difficult part – sitting with uncomfortable feelings.’
She’s right. I tell my patients that all the time. But it’s hard to put into practice.
And the unsettled feelings remain long after I’ve left.
Chapter 57
A couple of days later, I’m still reflecting on my conversation with Selma.
I’d told her Mark was a good guy and someone I’d want to be friends with, so I challenge myself to put my money where my mouth is.
I message him.
It takes meagesto compose the perfect text. It needs to be light and breezy, but also show I’m interested in how he’s getting on. I work out the time difference and send it when I know he’s asleep so I don’t spend the next six hours climbing the walls.
When I don’t hear from him for a whole day, I want to kick myself for putting myself out there. But then at midnight, while I’m sitting on my bed, reading a print-out of the first draft of my book, Zorba by my feet giving me evil looks because he wants the light off so he can sleep properly, my phone pings with a message.
It’s from him. I don’t open it, not for a few moments; I want to savour the relief and sheer delight he’s replied. The message itself will probably be disappointing – how could it not be when there’s so much riding on it – but he’s thinking of me and the proof of that has lit up my phone.
I open it, and I’m crestfallen because it’s so short. But then I read it.
I hate texting – are you around for a call?
YesI immediately reply.
Maybe ‘sure’ would have been better? And maybe I should have waited five minutes to look a little less keen. But fuck it, it’s done and—
He’s ringing. On WhatsApp audio. I just have to accept.
