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My half-drunk glass of wine is still on the side, so I retrieve it and take a good mouthful, enjoying the heat from the alcohol as I start to plan my escape. I top up my glass and head upstairs, bringing the bottle with me. It takes me a couple of attempts to work out how to operate the loft ladder, as I’ve never had to go into the loft before, but I manage it and am just bringing down the last of my suitcases when the pounding on the front door starts and I hear James shouting my name. I sit on the bed and take another mouthful of wine while I decide what to do. If I sit here and ignore him, he’s bound to get the message eventually but, on the other hand, he’s making a hell of a din and I’m not sure I want everyone on the farm knowing our business. After a while, I get up and open the window.
‘Go away,’ I tell him.
‘Sophie, please. I can explain, just let me in, okay?’
‘I told you. I’m not letting you in. Go back to Becky’s and leave me alone.’
‘Look, I’ll do anything. Just give me one more chance. Please?’
‘You had your chance, don’t you remember?’ I close the window and draw the curtain.
I’m not sure how long he stands out there, banging on the door and calling my name, because I pop my ear buds in, select an upbeat playlist on my phone, and turn the volume up while I start packing my clothes into the suitcases. The wardrobe is full of what I would describe as ‘country clothes’: sturdy, practical garments like jeans, shirts and jumpers. I also have storage bags with some of the clothes from my old life under the bed. They’re the type that you fill up and then suck all the air out with a vacuum cleaner so, rather than unpacking them and reloading the contents into suitcases, I stack them by the front door as they are. I can sort out the contents when I get to the other end.
There’s only one place I can go immediately, and that’s back to my parents’ house in East Sussex. I’m not sure if they’ll be there, but they have a full-time housekeeper, so I know someone will be around to let me in. I don’t plan to stay for long, but it will give me the breathing space I need while I make more permanent plans.
The suitcases are all full, and I haven’t even started packing my shoes and boots yet. My wedding shoes and some of the other ‘nice’ pairs from before I was married are put away neatly in boxes with pictures on the front, so I know which pair is in which box. They don’t need packing, so I stack them with the vacuum bags by the front door. The ‘country shoes’, low-heeled and once again focused on practicality, get lobbed into a bin bag.
I feel oddly detached as I pack; I’m calm and methodical, and the physical activity is distracting. I’m completely certain that I’m doing the right thing. I warned James that I’d leave if he was unfaithful again, so he’s really left me with no option. I’m reminded of a mother I saw a few weeks ago in the Co-op. She’d only just started browsing the vegetables when her toddler son, sitting in the trolley, started kicking off about wanting sweeties. She had explained to him calmly that he would get sweeties at the end if he was a good boy. By aisle three, the sweeties were hanging by a knife edge and he was on his last warning. As I passed her by the washing powders, she was telling him that he would absolutely not get any sweeties if he kicked the trolley one more time and, by the time we got to the wines and spirits, he’d blown it and there would DEFINITELY not be any sweeties. My final glimpse of them was in the car park; she was loading her shopping into the car while he munched contentedly on some jelly sweets with a look of triumph on his face. I’d told James the story that evening, and we’d both agreed that a final warning would be a final warning if we were ever lucky enough to have children. The unintended outcome, for him, is that he’s reaping the consequences of that discussion tonight.
I top up my glass and check the clock. It’s half past ten already and I haven’t started on any of the other areas of the house yet. I pull the curtain back a little way to check, and I’m relieved to see that James has gone. I was worried that he might decide to camp outside in his truck overnight, but there’s nothing out there. I wonder briefly if he’s gone back to Becky’s. That would be an interesting conversation, rushing out of her house to chase me and then going back with his tail between his legs. If I were Becky, I think I’d be inclined to shut him out as well. I take a mouthful of wine and wander down to let the dogs out. While they’re outside doing their business and sniffing around, I cast my eyes around the downstairs of our cottage. There are lots of pictures of James and me together, and I finally shed a few tears at memories of happier times, before my husband turned out to be such a massive dickhead. There are also items dotted about that we were given as wedding presents, including the KitchenAid mixer, which is one of my favourite items in the kitchen.
The dogs are still faffing about outside, so I lift the mixer and put it by the front door, along with its various attachments. I then stick my head in each of the cupboards and come to the conclusion that all this stuff belongs here, in my past. Once I start my new life, whatever that looks like, I’ll get new stuff so I’m not constantly reminded of James. Part of me wonders whether I should leave the mixer too, but practicality wins out. It cost a fortune, James is never going to use it, and why should I lay out a hill of money on a new one when this one is perfectly good?
The dogs finally come back in, and I give them their bedtime treats before turning off the lights and heading up to bed. I change into my pyjamas and climb under the covers. Although it’s late, I’m not quite ready for sleep yet, and I still have half a glass of wine, so I might as well finish that before brushing my teeth and trying to get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.
* * *
When I wake, my head is groggy from the wine and my mouth feels all dry and scummy. I obviously fell asleep before I got around to brushing my teeth, a fact confirmed by the bedside light, which is still on. For a moment, I’m disorientated and start planning a normal day, before my brain kicks into some semblance of life and I remember what’s going on. Carefully, I creep out of bed and peer out of the window. There’s still no sign of James’ truck, which is a relief, so I go down and let the dogs out. They’re usually long gone with James by the time I wake in the morning, so it feels slightly unfamiliar to be fixing their breakfast on top of making my coffee. My suitcases, along with everything else, are stacked around the place; I’ll make a final pass through the cottage before I start loading everything into the Land Rover.
Something about the Land Rover is bothering me as I sip my coffee and watch the dogs devouring their breakfast. My brain is still a little wine-fogged, so it takes longer than it should to get to the issue. Whenever I’ve made the journey between here and my parents’ house in the past, we’ve taken a car capable of motorway speeds. The Land Rover wouldn’t last five minutes on a motorway, which means I’ll have to plot a route across country. I fish my phone out and fiddle with the settings on the navigation app. I know from past experience that the app will be useless until I get a decent mobile signal, but I can find my way as far as Exeter without it, and it should be fine from there. The cigarette lighter socket never worked, but Tony rigged up a USB charging point for me, so I can keep the phone topped up while I drive.
I decide to have a cooked breakfast, following Di’s advice about carbs and caffeine being the best way to get rid of a hangover. I don’t think I’m hungover as such, but I’m a long way from being at my best, and I have no idea whether I’ll be able to stop and eat anywhere. James may decide to cancel my debit card as soon as I’ve left, which will make things difficult. When we first got married, I was determined that I would keep my own bank account, but it quickly emptied once I no longer had the income from my job coming in, so in the end I closed it and we’ve just shared the joint account. I decide to call into the Post Office in the village and withdraw two hundred pounds in cash, hopefully before he can get on to the bank and get the card voided, just in case.
By the time I’ve eaten my breakfast, showered, and dressed, I’m feeling much more human. My mind has been so busy with planning every detail of my escape (and it does feel like an escape, for some reason), that I almost fail to register the knock at the door. The dogs pick it up, though, and start barking. I run upstairs and peer through the curtain to see who it is.
Oh, great. James is standing outside again, and this time he has Rosalind with him.
‘What do you want?’ I ask him as I open the door. I’d really hoped he would have the decency to let me go without another confrontation, but it seems not.
‘Why are there suitcases in the hall? You’re not actually planning to go through with this, are you?’ he asks, looking around me into the cottage. The dogs have bounded out of the house to greet him and seem confused about why he’s not making a fuss of them.
‘Did you think I was joking?’
‘Look, I understand why you’re upset, and I’m sorry—’
‘I’m not upset, James. Don’t talk to me like I’m some emotional basket-case. Was I or was I not very clear with you? I distinctly remember telling you that I’d leave you if you were ever unfaithful again. Do you remember that?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Yes, but nothing. I told you I would leave if you cheated again. You cheated again, so I’m leaving. What part of that don’t you get?’
‘Sophie, darling, I’m not sure you’ve thought this through,’ Rosalind pipes up.
‘I’m sorry? What exactly is there to think through, Rosalind?’ I snap at her.
She flinches, but holds her ground. ‘For a start, where will you go?’
‘Back to my parents to begin with, and then we’ll see. What’s it got to do with you?’
