‘A wetsuit. That thing he was carrying. A skintight garment for swimming, surfing, diving … Emphasis onskintight.’ She grinned lasciviously.
Rosie rolled her eyes and laughed a little, grateful for Niamh’s indefatigable commitment to smutty jokes.
‘So … what the fuck happened, Rose?’ Niamh asked, more serious now. She uncorked a bottle of wine as Rosie thrust the pizza box in her direction, then placed two glasses on either side of it. They pulled out the two stools that sat just beneath the worktop, sinking down to sit on them.
Rosie was surprised to discover that, despite its inevitably seismic consequences, the story of James’s departure took her mere minutes to recount.
‘Oh my god,’ Niamh said when she’d finished, her words filtered through a mouthful of cheesy garlic bread. ‘I’m fuckingrabid. I don’t think I’ve ever been angrier.’
Rosie managed another laugh. ‘Really?’
‘Yes!’ Niamh cried, waving Rosie’s disbelief away and picking up another slice of pizza. ‘I’m plotting James’s slow and painful death as we speak. I cannot believe he’s done this to you.’
‘Can’t you?’ Rosie asked. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d said it, but the silence that followed her question struck her as significant.
‘I’m shocked,’ Niamh eventually said, after what Rosie concluded was a fortifying gulp of wine. ‘Truly shocked that he’s behaved so brutally. I mean, writing you a letter and leaving it for you to find … What is he, twelve?’
Rosie shook her head sadly, eyeing the sealed envelope that she’d left on the coffee table. She’d told herself that reading it was hardly a matter of urgency; that tearing it open would elevate its importance, giving its contents a gravity they surely didn’t deserve. Besides, what could it possibly say that she didn’t know already, or that would make her situation worse?
‘I sense a “but” on the horizon,’ Rosie said, turning back to look at her friend.
‘OK. I’m not entirely surprised something’s kicked off between you,’ Niamh admitted. ‘I’d never have expected him to besucha spineless wanker, but …’
‘But …?’ Rosie repeated.
‘Look, I don’t want you to hold this against me in the event he turns up tomorrow, admits what an utter twat he’s been and begs for forgiveness. But I’ve been convinced for a while that he doesn’t appreciate what he’s got in you. He takes you for granted, Rosie. As his body’s shrunk, his head has swollen. He’s mistaken having an amazing, supportive girlfriend for someone who’sweighing him downorhampering his potential.’ Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘Ouch,’ Rosie murmured.
‘However, it won’t be long before he realises that life without you is a lot harder andmuchless exciting than he imagined,’ Niamh insisted hotly. ‘Tosser.’
‘You think so?’ Rosie asked, her tone involuntarily brightening.
‘Absolutely,’ Niamh said, sounding considerably less happy at the prospect. ‘Do you want honesty here, Rose?’
‘I think so … yeah,’ Rosie said, summoning courage.
‘Well then, I think the question isn’twhetherJames will come back to you, I think it’swhen– and, more importantly, if you’ll let him. You need to think about how he’s treated you. Ask yourself whether you could ever really trust him again after this. I’ll hold my tongue on that point for now, but should you decide you want the full Ted Talk, you know where I am.’
‘I do,’ Rosie agreed.
‘I guess the pressing question now is practical: what’s the deal with this place?’
Niamh gestured at their lovingly renovated surroundings, and Rosie felt moisture pool in her eyes. ‘I’ve no idea. Which is why I suppose I should read his letter.’
After blinking away tears and wiping her sticky fingers on a piece of kitchen roll, she padded back to the sitting room and picked up the envelope.
Inside it was a single sheet of paper covered in James’s haphazard script: one stream-of-consciousness paragraph that felt insultingly brief. The fact he hadn’t put much time or effort into his ‘Dear Rosie’ missive compounded her hurt that it existed at all.
It stated that, in hindsight, the break-up had been ‘inevitable’ for some time; that James felt he and Rosie had drifted into being housemates or friends rather than lovers. On this, she could grudgingly admit, he had something approaching a point. Their sex had hardly been on fire recently – but that was as much down to James’s relentless exercise regime as any disinclination on Rosie’s part.
He wrote that he wasn’t sure they wanted the same sort of future anymore, and conflated this with his new-found commitment to ‘health and wellness goals’. Implying that her refusal to eschew rice in favour of quinoa was the reason why he couldn’t commit seemed nothing short of absurd. Rosie swore out loud as her eyes swept over the words, and – though it must have cost every scrap of her self-control – Niamh resisted the urge to ask why.
Eventually, Rosie placed the thin piece of A5 next to the half-eaten, rapidly congealing pizza and put her head in her hands. The sudden wetness of her cheeks and chin alerted her to the fact that she was crying.
She felt torn open by James’s letter in a way she hadn’t by their face-to-face discussion. It was as if the written word had a power his clumsy, garbled reasoning had lacked when spoken aloud. Between James’s carelessly scribbled lines was the message:I think I can do better than you, and I’ve decided to try.
He didn’t want her anymore, and seemed certain he didn’t need her. Apparently, he didn’t think she was good enough, attractive enough,anythingenough to stake his future on. Rosie had given James her heart, had put everything she had into making them a home and would have promised to take care of him for the rest of her life. Yet he’d walked away as if the love she offered him was cheap or trivial.
