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He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I can’t argue that one. But I can tell you I’m trying to make up for it.”
I know he is—he’s been trying to make up for it for weeks. I’ve let him, allowing him to call me, send me flowers. Giving him hope we’ll regain what we’ve lost. But this one’s all on me, and I know it. I need to get over it, to stop dwelling on that bloody picture. To stop thinking about it all the time. I need to stop closing my eyes and seeing it etched in the blackness. My worst fears in photograph form.
I need to do a lot of things. I just don’t know how.
24
“Look, you know I’m not his biggest fan, but I do think you need to cut the guy a break.”
I’m walking with David through Hoxton market a few days later, buying big brown bags of fruit and vegetables to make up some meals for Max.
“You’re right, I know you are.” I hand over my money to the stall owner, waiting for my change. “It’s easier said than done, though.”
“What is it about the picture that upsets you?” David asks. It’s the first time I’ve told him about the photo, and I’ve deleted Facebook from my phone so I can’t even show him. Even if I could I’m not sure I know the answer myself.
“I don’t know, but it gets me in the gut.”
I’ve been analysing my reaction for weeks. From a purely professional point of view, I know I’m overreacting. I believe Alex when he says that nothing happened. It’s like when a doctor hits your knee with a hammer. Even if you don’t want to kick out, you do anyway. A purely instinctive reaction.
“What would you say to me if I was in your position?”
“As a friend or a counsellor?” I ask.
He laughs. “Either.”
Putting the brown bag into the basket below Max’s buggy, I ponder on his question.
“I’d tell you to get over yourself.”
David smirks. “Good answer.”
“Ugh.” I rub my face with my hands, allowing David to take over the buggy-pushing. “I know this, I do.”
I’m being stupid and immature, and I know it’s a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong. I’m homing in on the picture, but there’s so much history behind it. So much angst.
We carry on down the road, passing vans selling falafels and Jamaican street food. The spices linger in the air, drifting towards us, their meaty aroma making my stomach rumble. I stop at a stall selling jewellery, sifting through the beads and bracelets, wanting something bright and joyful.
“How are things with you, anyway?” I ask, wanting to move the subject off myself. In the past few weeks I’ve hardly seen anything of David. He’s been holed up in his flat, rarely surfacing. Blaming workload, tiredness, anything he can. It took a lot of cajoling to get him out today, and I swear when he emerged from his flat and into the sunlight he was blinking hard, like a mole breaking the surface of the earth.
He shrugs, his eyes trained ahead as we push our way out of the market. “Fine.”
“What have you been doing? I’ve hardly seen you for weeks.”
“I’ve heard from my lawyer.”
Oh. I reach out to hold his arm, trying to slow him down. His muscles are taut, tense. Like iron against my palm. “What did he have to say?”
“Claire’s agreed to mediation.”
I can’t understand why he’s being so calm about it. Emotionless. “That’s good, isn’t it?” I want to sound more enthusiastic, but I’m not sure how he’ll take it.
We stop outside a house, leaning on the gable wall. “I have to fly back in two weeks.”
My stomach drops. “So soon?”
“They’ve offered us a slot at the end of the month. I need to fly back as soon as I can. I should be able to wrap things up within a couple of weeks.”
“You’re coming back, though?” I let my voice trail off. What a stupid question. If things go well then clearly he won’t be returning. And the alternative… I don’t think either of us want to contemplate that.
