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‘Where the hell has this come from? You can’t just go from “Here, Charley, Happy Christmas” to “Oh, can you move out please?” in ten minutes flat.’
He sighs. ‘You’re right. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I’m evidently not making you happy, I haven’t been that happy either recently, and I just feel we need time apart to reflect on whether this is just a phase, or whether we’ve run our course.’
‘Is that really how you feel?’
‘It is, sorry.’
‘And you decide to drop this when we’re about to go and celebrate Christmas with my family? How is that supposed to work? What am I supposed to tell them?’
‘I think it would be better if I didn’t come to your parents today, don’t you? Tell them something came up. I’ll do the same tomorrow. I’m going to go for a walk now, give you a bit of space to calm down. You take whatever you need, and send my best to your mum and dad.’
This is all moving way too fast for me to keep up with. ‘And how long is this “break” going to be? Are we talking a couple of days, a couple of weeks, a couple ofmonths?’
‘I don’t know. As long as it takes, I guess. Let’s talk when we’re ready.’
He grabs some clothes and shuts himself in the bathroom. A few minutes later I hear him leave, closing the door quietly behind him. I can’t believe how calmly he’s just ripped the rug from under my feet. It may be his flat legally, but it’s my home just as much as it is his. And it’s so frustratingly typical of how he is these days; he didn’t even pause to check what I thought, just imposed his will and expected me to comply.
After Josh leaves, I sit motionless for a while, trying to process what has just happened. It felt like every other Christmas when I woke up this morning, but in no time at all everything has changed. What does this ‘break’ actually mean? Is he using it as a cowardly way of finishing with me without actually saying the words, or does he just need time to process what I’ve said and come to terms with it? Maybe he’s right, and some time apart will help us to get some perspective. This has all come completely out of the blue though, and I feel numb with shock.
Eventually, I force myself into action. The first problem is deciding how much to take. All the furniture and stuff in the flat belongs to Josh, naturally, but there are a few things we’ve added together over the years. If I take everything I want now, then it just makes it feel final. If I don’t take everything, and the separation drags on or we split up for good, then I might have to ask him if I can come and collect the rest, which will doubtless be another awkward conversation. As I stand under the shower, I decide that I’ll take all of my clothes, but leave everything else so he’s not totally rid of me.
The next issue is where on earth am I supposed to go? I’ve lived here for six years, and it’s not as if I have my own flat that I can just move into. I know I can stay at Mum and Dad’s tonight, but I have no idea where to go after that. I’m in a daze as I get dressed and start packing. We don’t own any suitcases, because suitcases are for normal people who go on nice holidays, so I’m forced to make do with whatever I can find. In the end I fill four bin bags with clothes and load them into my battered old Nissan Micra (‘Much better to keep this one running than buy a new car, Charley. Do you know how much energy it takes to build a car?’).
As I reach under the bed to start collecting my shoes, my hand lands on a piece of fabric. Our flat has never been particularly tidy, and there are all sorts of things under the bed I’m sure, but as I pull it into the light I can see that it’s a pair of knickers. They’re blue, thong-type things with lacy details on the front panel.
They aren’t mine.
I know this because my knickers are all bog-standard cotton bikinis that come in multipacks. Josh has always said that sexy underwear doesn’t do it for him and, on the very rare occasion I’ve worn anything like the knickers now in my hand, I’ve found them scratchy and uncomfortable. Also – I check the label – these are a size eight and I’m a size twelve.
So, if they’re not mine, whose are they and what are they doing under our bed?
A nasty suspicion begins to creep in. Josh has been talking about Scarlett a lot recently, about how passionate she is, and how much he admires her work. A couple of weeks ago I actually joked to him that perhaps he should marry her because they sounded perfect for each other. He got very defensive and said she was just a work colleague that he admired on a professional level. Now I can’t help wondering whether he’s been admiring her on a personal level too. I can’t leave until I know for sure. I put the knickers on the table in the kitchen and finish loading my stuff into the car. Once everything is packed and loaded, I sit down to wait for him.
When I hear his key in the lock, my resolve briefly begins to crumple, but I don’t have an escape route now, so I’ll have to go through with it. As Josh walks through to the kitchen and sees me sitting at the table with the knickers I see his eyes widen for a moment before his composure returns.
‘I thought you would have left by now. What are those?’
‘You tell me, Josh. I found them under our bed. Whose are they?’
‘Well, if they were under the bed, they must be yours. I’m not a secret cross-dresser if that’s what you think.’
‘Are you serious? When have you ever seen me in a pair of knickers like this? You need to do a lot better than that. I’ll ask you again: whose are they?’
He looks at me blankly for what seems like an age, and then his shoulders sag. ‘I can explain. I’m going to make a cup of tea. Do you want one?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll wait until I’m at Mum and Dad’s and have a proper cup of tea. The stuff you bring home tastes like wet sawdust.’ Now that I’ve started saying what I really think about the Earthkind products, I don’t seem to be able to stop.
He opens his mouth as if to protest, but clearly thinks better of it. Instead, he busies himself with boiling the kettle and faffing about with the teabag. Once he’s done, he sits down opposite me.
‘Well?’
He sighs, and I know what’s coming next. It hits me like a punch in the gut but, strangely, I don’t feel the urge to cry.
‘Are they Scarlett’s?’
His eyes widen as if I’ve slapped him. He stares at me for a good few seconds, obviously trying to decide whether to tell the truth or not, before answering.
‘Yes, I think they must be.’
