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‘I couldn’t ever resent you!’
‘You say that now, Noah, and I know you mean it, but when we’re six months down the track, I’m still unemployed and you’re the one paying all the bills, it would be a different picture.’
‘I’d be happy, even if you were unemployed for two years.’
‘See it from my perspective then. How do you think I’d feel about being reliant on you for everything and not having my own income? Would that make me happy?’
‘I don’t see what difference it makes. What if you go home, and you don’t get a job?’
‘It is different, because they’re my family.’
‘So you’re saying that it’s OK to sponge off your parents, but not off the man who loves you?’
‘Please don’t say that, Noah. You’re just making this harder.’
‘But I do. I love you, Ella, and I’ll do whatever I can to make you happy. You love me, don’t you?’
This just makes the tears flow faster. ‘It’s not about whether I love you or not. It’s about—’ I dry up.
‘What? Tell me.’
‘We should never have done this,’ I tell him baldly. ‘I knew office romances were a bad idea, but I let myself fall for you anyway, and now look at the mess we’re in. I don’t belong here, Noah. I don’t belong on a building site and I don’t belong in Kent. I know you would do anything to keep me here, and I love you for it, but there’s no future for us if we’re not equals, and we can’t be equals if I’m relying on you for handouts. If you love me like you say you do, then you’ll do the right thing and let me go.’
* * *
I have no idea how I managed to get back to Mum and Dad’s without having an accident, because I cried. All the way. I was still crying when I got here, and I’m now sitting in my old room sobbing my heart out. All my stuff is still in the car, but walking away from the man I love, clearing out the caravan and the long drive have emptied me and I just have no more energy for anything. I should never have applied for the stupid job in the first place, as I’m much worse off in a lot of ways than before I started. I’m unemployed, again, but without the reserves I had when Orchestra made me redundant. I’ve got to go through the painful process of trying to find another job, again, with a broken heart to boot. Despite all that, I can’t regret meeting Noah. He’ll never know how much I wanted to accept his offer, but in the end, I promised him that we’d keep in touch and I’d apply for other jobs in the south so we could hopefully be together. It was enough to get him to step back and let me go, but I think we both know the chances of me moving back down to Kent are minimal.
I’m distracted by a ping from my phone. It’s a message from Noah and my heart breaks all over again. I don’t know if I can bear to read it. Eventually, I wipe away the tears so I can at least see what he’s written.
Did you get home safely?
I tap out a reply.
Yes, thank you. Are you OK?
I can see he’s typing. It’s after five, so he’ll be at home, sitting in the chair in his bedroom. I can see it so clearly, and I yearn to be there with him. His reply makes me feel like the worst human being in the world.
I’ve been better. You?
I consider how to reply for a long time, but in the end I decide to be honest.
I’ve been better too.
29
This was a bad idea, I’ve come to realise. Yes, Noah might have ended up resenting me, but being stuck at home with Mum and Dad’s platitudes is far worse. If I had a pound for every time they told me that I will get over him, there are plenty more fish in the sea, and variations on those themes, I’d be able to retire and move back south. Ava is also trying to help, and printouts of various job vacancies she thinks might suit me keep getting shoved through the front door. I can’t cope with any of it. Having said that the chances of moving south again were pretty much nil, I have secretly started scanning the vacancies in Ashford and applying for anything I think I have even the remotest chance of getting, including a vacancy for a shelf-stacker in one of the supermarkets. None of them have come to anything so far.
I haven’t heard any more from Noah. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read his messages, and I still cry every time I look at them. I spend hours each day thinking about him, what he’s doing and how the house is coming along. I miss him so much, I have a permanent ache in my gut, and my appetite has deserted me.
‘Try to eat a little more, love,’ my mother is urging as I push the lasagne we’re having for tea round my plate. ‘You’re looking awfully thin. You need your strength, now more than ever.’
She’s not wrong. I’ve lost over half a stone in the two weeks I’ve been home. If ever you need a sure-fire weight-loss programme, a broken heart is it. Unless you’re a comfort eater, I suppose.
I did have a very snotty email from Deborah a couple of days after I’d got home, detailing the hour and date my pay was stopped and asking where she should send my P45. She also couldn’t resist putting the boot in by writing,
I’m sure it doesn’t need to be said, but we will not be able to supply you with a reference.
I sent her my address by return, but there’s no sign of the P45 yet.
