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Either Finn had become an overnight Marie Kondo convert, or the truth staring me in the face had a far simpler explanation. Finn had moved out.
*
‘I don’t understand. How could he have done all that without you knowing?’ Hannah asked, hushing Milly, who I could hear in the background asking if she could speak to Auntie Gemma. ‘How long is it since you last visited his flat?’
‘Not for a couple of weeks or so. We’ve mainly been at mine.’ Was that at my suggestion, or his? It was a suddenly terribly important question that I simply couldn’t answer.
‘Do you want me to come over? I could meet you there.’
I made an inarticulate sound that Hannah managed to identify as ‘No’. ‘There’s no point. There’s nothing here to see. It’s all gone.’
There was a crack in my voice that threatened to split wide open. Finn had quite literally taken everything, leaving just one thing behind. Me.
*
I sat in his empty flat for a long time, watching the afternoon shadows move across the floor and finally disappear into the corner of the room as clouds darkened the sky. I made at least three abortive attempts to leave, only to get snagged by a memory that stilled my feet. There we were, dancing barefoot on the kitchen tiles to a late-night radio station, Finn’s arms around my waist while my head nestled comfortably on his shoulder. The music had been slow, soft and gentle, and so were his lips as we kissed by the light of the open fridge door.
We were there in the lounge too, pretzelled together on the settee, watching a film that always made me cry. It wasn’t his kind of movie, he’d said, and yet by the time the credits rolled he’d long abandoned whatever he’d been doing on his phone. ‘I hope someone loves me just like that, one day,’ I remember saying on a sigh. ‘They already do,’ Finn had said softly, pulling me closer against him. It was the first time either of us had mentioned the L-word. It was one of my best memories.
‘This place is an emotional minefield,’ I muttered into the bathroom mirror as I washed my hands at the basin while a flickering reflection of our naked, soap-slicked bodies was replayed in the shower cubicle behind me, re-enacting the night we broke the soap dish (which was bad) and ticked several fantasies off my bucket list (which was very, very good).
But not all the memories were so happy. The worst one came hurtling back as I reached into the kitchen cabinet for a drinking glass. My hand rested on the tumbler as I looked at the diminished stack of dinner plates; four instead of the six there should have been. That was all it took to transport me back to the disagreement I’d denied had ever happened.
It had been a perfectly ordinary, unremarkable evening. I’d been banished to the settee while Finn happily dirtied every pot and utensil in his kitchen making his ‘famous’ spaghetti bolognaise.One of only two dishes I know how to cook, he claimed, refusing to acknowledge that beans on toast didn’t count as the second.
Music was playing softly from his Alexa, which effectively masked the sound of his footsteps. I didn’t realise he’d left the kitchen and was standing directly behind me until it was too late. I rapidly clicked off the property page on my laptop, trying to convince myself that the lighting had been too dim, or the angle all wrong for him to have seen what was on the screen.
Finn was quiet, too quiet, I now realised as we ate. It was only when I got up to begin clearing the table that I knew that however fast I’d been, I hadn’t been fast enough.
His fingers gently circled my wrist, stopping me.
‘How often do you do that?’
Damn. So hehadseen. I considered lying or playing dumb, but that felt even worse than telling the truth.
‘Every now and then. I’m just surprised that he put it on the market after all.’ My words felt like arrows because he flinched when I said them. ‘But it doesn’tmeananything. I’m just curious, that’s all.’
My heart was thumping uncomfortably in my chest, so hard I could practically see it through the fabric of my T-shirt as I turned towards the dishwasher. He crossed the room silently and I jumped as he gently turned me around, his hands covering mine on the plates.
‘But you’re still thinking about it… and all that it represents?’
I shrugged, trying to look as though this wasn’t the most important conversation we’d had in a very long time.
‘I haven’t changed my mind, Gemma,’ he said gently.
My throat felt dry and tight, as though it was trying to stifle the words I was about to say. ‘I’ve never asked you to.’
His eyes flicked to my laptop on the kitchen counter. It felt as dangerous as an unexploded bomb. ‘Not in so many words, maybe.’
I shook my head so hard my ponytail slapped each cheek, as though it was trying to bring me to my senses. To stop me before I said anything else. But these words had been bottled up for a long time.
‘I know what we agreed last summer. But how can you be sosureyou’ll never change your mind? People do. Look at me. I once said the last thing I’d ever do was fall in love with a writer. That it was impossible to trust a man who told stories for a living. And just look at us now.’
It was supposed to be the comment that defused the situation, but it had the exact opposite effect.
‘Yes. Just look at us. I’m not being fair on you. We want totally different things.’
I was crying now. ‘We wanteach other,’ I insisted. ‘Please, Finn, let’s not do this again.’
