I think of George quietly watching the TV next to me last night, the same as ever. Texting. Now I wonder who.
I google her face.
Holy shit.
Things start to fall into place.
I tap on the least glamorous shot Google Images offers me in an attempt to work out what Naomi Fairn actually looks like. It’s a makeup-free shot from an impossibly cool magazine. I study the beautiful wrinkle-free planes of her face, and I want to die.
None of those things ever seemed to matter until now.
I read on. Even her parents are cool. Both gorgeous, both actors. Her dad basically was the 1990s. I think of my dad, Trevor, bicycling around the Bedfordshire countryside in an anorak.
With trembling hands, I tap out a message to George, hit send, and unlock the cubicle door. Standing in front of the vast washroom mirror I look at myself, checking my eyes to see if it’s possible to tell that my heart is cracking open just by looking.
You can’t.
I guess I am a good actress after all. I straighten up my hair, reapply some lipstick, and take in my twenty-eight-year-old reflection. And the face of Jane Eyre stares back at me.
I know what she’s thinking, because it’s what I’m thinking.
We’re so fucked.
2
Stranger at the Door
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 5
I’m home alone, hours later,staring at my text to George.
Why didn’t you tell me about the job? x
I could have said a million things but I didn’t, I said that. And he hasn’t replied. So when I hear a knock on the front door—even though he obviously has his own key—I’m convinced it will be him: rain-soaked, sad, and contrite, prepared to explain everything away.
It might sound naive, given the circumstantial evidence, to expect this whole thing to be a purely innocent misunderstanding, crossed wires, but hope has gotten me this far in life. EverynoI’ve ever received, in my mind, was almost a yes. And all I’ve ever really needed was analmost a yes.
I turn the latch letting a gust of wind and rain into the warmth of the house. But of course it’s not George standing on our doorstep, it’s a smiling stranger in a red bomber jacket.
“Hey. Mia, is it?” He’s about my age with an easygoing manner and a warm Irish lilt.
“Yeah?”
He looks down at a damp and crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “So, I’m supposed to be collecting George’s things.”
“George’s things?”
We both stand there in silence for a moment as I try to make sense of the Irishman’s words. When it clicks, fear chases my confusion and then just as suddenly I feel the calming certainty that I must be misunderstanding what’s going on here. And yet my grip on the doorframe tightens.
“I’m really sorry, but who are you?” I ask. My voice has a faraway distant sound. Perhaps it has decided it doesn’t want to live with me anymore either.
“Sorry, right. I’m Andy.” He extends a hand warmly. “I work for, um, Fantastic Movers.” He cringes at the company name as I numbly shake his hand.
“Right, okay,” I manage, then clear my throat. “I see. And is George coming to—?”
Andy’s handsome face creases into an apologetic frown. “I wouldn’t have thought so, no.”
Two hours later the living room is pockmarked with missing chairs, books, and pictures. Shapes left in the dust that I hadn’t even realized was there. The front door is gently pulled to by Andy and once I hear his engine start, I finally release the hot angry tears that have been silently choking me from inside since he entered the house.
