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Pale face. Bed hair. Red-rimmed eyes. Puckered lips.
Ugh.
I haven’t grocery-shopped in days, but there’s a pack of soup sachets in my pantry. I check the date on them warily. Only two months past, and surely there’s enough sodium in these things to outlast a zombie apocalypse?
I tip the contents of one into a mug and stare at it while waiting for the kettle to boil.
It’s a proverb, I know, so it shouldn’t surprise me that it feels like I am waiting for ever, staring at the kettle, waiting for it to click off and signal that the water is hot enough. After several minutes I realise I haven’t turned it on at the wall.
I curse under my breath and rectify the oversight. The kettle immediately spurts to life. I drum my fingers as I wait some more and finally, when I can hear it’s near enough to boiling, I slosh a little water into the cup and whisk it noisily with a fork.
Halfway through the surprisingly not awful soup, I remember I told my mother I’d be available on email. I doubt she’s tried to contact me, but I feel honour-bound at least to take a peek. I open my laptop and wait for the emails to come in.
Jack’s I delete without reading.
Curiosity is burning in me, but I know he has nothing to say that will change what has happened. However he wants to make himself feel better, I won’t allow it. He did hurt me. He should be sorry. It’s not my job to assuage his guilt.
I force myself to concentrate on the other emails, to put Jack from my mind. There is one from Grandma and I smile weakly, imagining her typing it on the iPad I gave her for Christmas. It probably took her an hour.
Darling.
I’m worried. I can’t explain it in any way that makes sense—I’ve had the heaviest feeling in my heart for days.
I’m sure it’s connected with you.
Can you call me tomorrow?
Gma Xx
My heart squeezes with affection for her. And the sense that she and I are connected in some way floods through me.
Trust Grandma to just ‘know’ when things aren’t right in my world.
Everything’s fine. But I’ll call you tomorrow. Love.
I switch my computer off and finish the soup. I’m exhausted, but not sleepy. I’ve dozed all day, so I suppose that makes sense. I turn on the TV and stare at it for a few hours before going back to my nest.
I wake up with the sun, and only the thought of Jack coming again spurs me on to get out of bed. I doubt he’ll be content to bang on my door a second time, and I don’t particularly want to press charges for trespass.
I dress in running gear—for a quick getaway rather than any genuine interest in exercise—and pull the door open. The breeze slaps me in the face. I take care to step over the flowers, resolving to deal with them when I get back—really this time. I lock the door and begin to jog around the corner and up the narrow laneway that leads to several cafés.
Only I don’t plan to stay in Hampstead. It’s too close to Jack.
I catch a cab into Soho and lose myself in the throng of people and busyness. But as I kick out of Tottenham Court Road and get pulled into the riptide of shoppers on Oxford Street I have to stop walking and grip the brick wall beside me for support.
The pain is visceral and sharp.
The realisation that it’s over—whatever we were, whatever it was—is deep and sudden. It ruptures my chest like barbed wire pulled at high speed.
I no longer want to be around people.
I move towards the road, lifting my hand and flagging down a cab. It pulls over on a double yellow, blocking a bus that lets us know its displeasure by sounding its horn loudly. I wave in acknowledgement and hurl myself into the back, giving my address and collapsing against the seat.
I must doze off because the cab driver speaks loudly as we arrive home and I’m startled as if from a deep sleep.
‘Thank you.’
I tap my credit card and step out. It’s early afternoon and my tummy groans with hunger. The breakfast I planned on didn’t happen and I have only just realised. I step over the flowers once more, promising myself I’ll throw them out soon, and push the door shut behind myself.
