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It’s been such a long time since I’ve been in anything resembling a relationship that I’d forgotten what it’s like to be floating on cloud nine one minute, then thrown from it the next.
I replayed last night in my head, wondering if I missed something, missed a sign that Owen was acting on his grief.
He said he’d wanted to do that to me the first moment he saw me over a year ago. That doesn’t sound like a man who is acting on impulse. But he also begged me to spend the night, and I can’t help wondering if part of that was because he misses Paul. Misses the company.
Owen called me on my lunch break and asked me what I was doing, and I told him I was sitting in the garden, soaking up the sun and enjoying my very healthy lunch of a Pot Noodle, which had been the only thing I could grab on my rushed return home this morning.
He’d sounded happy to talk to me, deeply concerned about the Pot Noodle, and genuinely excited about picking me up later.
But I can’t stop thinking whether Taylor is right and, at some point, he’s going to come to his senses and see our new status for what it is—a reaction to losing a pet he loved, who was a very large part of his life and is now gone.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I barely notice the woman standing behind the counter, a baby swaddled to her chest, her dark hair piled into a messy knot on top of her head.
She’s staring at me, a little maniacally, but I figure she’s a new mother who probably hasn’t slept a wink in weeks and is only here to get away from the nappies, crying, and constant breast-feeding for a couple of hours.
She wouldn’t be the first.
Only a few months ago, Jamal realised a group of new mums had decided that Kitchen City would be a great weekly meeting place to discuss baby yoga, teething gels, and weaning techniques over free tea and coffee.
“Hi there. Can I help you with anything?” I ask, switching back into work mode.
“Oh, yes,” she replies. “This kitchen.” She dusts her hand over the gleaming work surface. “Does it come in any other colours?”
“Yes, it does. All our kitchens come in a range of colours. This is just an example of it in Indian blue. I’d be happy to show you the other colours in the technical area.” I go to move, but she remains as if she’s anchored to the spot.
“Lovely.” She’s still staring at me, her eyes glazed and roaming my face as if she’s analysing me. It’s the complete opposite of every kitchen shopper I’ve ever encountered, their eyes never meeting mine as they’re far too absorbed in the kitchen they’re about to pay thousands of pounds for.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” I push.
“It’s just this kitchen,” she replies, without looking at the kitchen at all. “I really like it.”
“Yes, it’s one of our more popular ones.”
Although I don’t know why, as I can’t stand it, I want to add.
This woman is acting so strangely. It’s like she’s here but not here, and I wonder if she’s on medication or whether she’s just so sleep-deprived that she doesn’t know where she is or what she’s doing.
“Have you come here by yourself?” I ask, tipping my head to the side, and it’s then that she appears to snap out of it—whatever “it” was.
“Yes. Yes, I’m here alone. Well, not alone.” She looks down at the swaddled child, then places both hands on the baby and begins to bounce up and down. “Just looking at kitchens for my new house, that’s all.”
“Well, you came to the right place, although we close in about ten minutes, so you might want to come back tomorrow. We open at nine, and it’s fairly quiet first thing if you want to avoid the rush.”
She takes a step back. “Thank you. I’ll do that. You have such lovely kitchens.”
“You’re welcome.”
She scurries away, heading for the stairs, and I wonder if that’s what you turn into when you become a new mum—wandering around kitchen showrooms on a Sunday in an exhausted haze, making kitchen advisers freak out.
Although the encounter with the sleep-deprived woman left me rattled, my anxiety is still being led by what Taylor said to me today about Owen only being with me because he’s suffered a traumatic loss.
What scares me the most is that in every other relationship I’ve been in, I would never have been fazed by this possibility. I would’ve probably shrugged it off and said it didn’t matter. I was happy to be the distraction or part of the healing process. Or I’d be under no illusion that things would last, and I wouldn’t even be contemplating the long haul.
So why don’t I feel the same about Owen? Why do I feel like I’m gripping onto something so tightly that I’m probably going to squeeze the life out of it?
Is it because I’d vowed never to get attached again? Is it because I’d given up on finding someone to spend the rest of my life with? Or is it because my feelings for Owen go way beyond just caring about him?
Trying not to look at the grey clouds that have gathered over the car park, I leave Kitchen City as soon as the last customer has gone and find Owen standing with his arms folded, his back leaning against the passenger door of his car. It’s as if he hasn’t moved in the six hours since he dropped me off this morning.
