By the time the cab dropped me off at home, I’d replayed our conversation
over in my head so many times, it felt like something that had happened to
someone else, or that I’d seen on TV. The exact words used were hazy, each
gesture exaggerated or traded in for something that didn’t happen, but the
end result was always the same, no matter how many times I ran through it.
I’m not the one. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t want me.
It took me far too long to get my keys in the door, and when I finally
managed to force my way in, I flipped on the lights only to illuminate five
years of happy memories lining our hallway. Holiday snaps, concert tickets,
napkins from restaurants, postcards from holidays, everything we’d
collected over the duration of our relationship, mounted, framed, hung,
down to the receipt for the drinks on our first date. He’d kept that and given
it to me the day we’d moved in together. There was no way this was
actually happening.
Exhausted, I turned the light out and turned into the bedroom, kicking off
my shoes and scrambling out of my vest and jeans as I went. I’d made the
bed before I left, hoping to be falling into it with Simon and not tearstains
and a scraped knee. Despite the fact that I’d been sleeping on my own for a
few weeks, this was the first night since ‘the break’ that I’d felt lonely. This
was the first time I was alone. I swapped my uncomfortable underwear for
an old T-shirt of Simon’s that I kept hidden inside my pillowcase along with
a dodgy old pair of boxer shorts that had no elastic left. I lay on my back
and stared at the ceiling, Simon’s words buzzing through my brain as if I’d
left the TV on. Sleep wasn’t coming but the most ridiculous things kept
popping into my mind. My credit card payment was due. I still had two
episodes of Glee to watch on Sky Plus and it was running out of memory.
Tonight would be the first night I hadn’t washed my face in over four years.
This was why I had to write lists. Regardless of my relationship status, no
one wanted to work with a spotty make-up artist. I slid off the bed, hitching
up the baggy boxers as I went.
In the hallway, I reached out to touch my favourite photo of us, taken at
Emelie’s birthday the year before. Simon was laughing at something
Matthew had said and I had my arms linked around his neck, my face
leaning into his shoulder. He looked handsome, I didn’t look fat and we
were happy. The perfect picture. I could feel the sobs building in my chest
when I heard scuffling at the front door. Turning on the lights, I peered
through the glass. It was Simon. I waited a couple of seconds, my mind
completely empty, before I flipped the lock and swung the door open.
His left eye was already turning purple and, although someone had tried
to clean him up, his nose was bloody and his lip was bust. Between his
messed-up face and my seductive ensemble, this was so far removed from
the perfect picture, I could have smiled. Could have.
‘The lock needs some WD-40 or something,’ I muttered, one hand
holding up my shorts.
‘I’m sorry,’ Simon was still hovering outside the door.
‘Not your fault,’ I shrugged. ‘It’s been sticky for ages.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said again.
I moved away from the door to let him in, my back pressed against the
wall of photos. He paused right in front of me and opened his mouth to say
something before changing his mind.
‘Simon?’
He stopped, turned around and looked me up and down.
‘Is that my T-shirt?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ I pulled at the frayed hem. ‘It’s comfy to sleep in.’
‘I thought you’d thrown it out,’ he replied.
Feeling my bottom lip start to tremble, I shook my head. I squeezed my
toes and feigned a yawn so I could push back the tears.
‘Right,’ he said, his hands deep in his pockets.
I nodded. He just stood there, battered, bruised, miserable and staring at
the shoes I’d never seen before. I knew I had to say something and say it
now. By the morning, it would be over. Relationships like ours always died
quietly in the night; we weren’t ones for violent, bloody deaths played out
in public. Far too English for that. But my tongue was tied up with too
many questions and my heart was already playing dead. Swallowing hard, I
opened my mouth, no idea what was going to come out.
‘New shoes?’
For a moment, I really didn’t know what was happening, I was still
staring at Simon’s shoes as they came over and then his arms were around
me, his hot, damp face on mine. It wasn’t until I felt a picture frame digging
into my shoulder blade that I realized we were kissing, that his hands were
running up and down my back and then tangling themselves in my hair and
back down again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said into my hair. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Instinctively, my arms went up around his neck and my lips took his
kisses on autopilot, but the sharp corner of the photo was still cutting into
my back. It was only when he moved the kisses from my mouth down to
my throat that I realized my eyes were open and my mind was completely
quiet. What was wrong? This was the plan. Simon paused and looked up at
me with a new expression on his face, half confused and half desperate to
get his end away. I’d seen them both independently of each other enough
times over the last five years but this was a new combo.
‘Rach?’ he panted. His concern was reasonable: firstly, kissing my neck
was the surefire way to get into my pants, as he well knew; and secondly,
I’d wanted this so badly for so long, I ought to be responding at least.
Something was just off. ‘Rach, honest, I’m sorry.’
‘Stop. You can stop saying that,’ said a voice that sounded like mine. If
he apologized, that meant he had something to apologize for and I couldn’t
deal with that right now.
‘OK.’ He reached around my neck and scooped my hair over one
shoulder, a gesture so familiar my stomach dropped through the floor. ‘OK.’
I nodded and closed my eyes when he leaned in to kiss me again. I kissed
him back, trying not to hurt his split lip. But he didn’t care about his split
lip. For the first time in a month, he wanted me, so I let him turn me
towards the bedroom door, push me onto the bed and I felt the comfortable
weight of his body on top of me. I didn’t need to think, I didn’t need to act,
his hands started on their regular route around my body, lips making their
way across my collarbone, my left leg curling up around his waist. I’d
missed this so much. I’d missed him so much. My body should be
screaming for him, not just reacting. It was just weird because it had been
so long, that was all. And so I ignored the little voice in my head, intent on
chanting ‘not the one, not the one, not the one’ over and over and over.
Instead I closed my eyes and began playing my part. I had him back. And
that was what I wanted. He was what I wanted. And he was mine again.
The next morning came like any other, the sun streaming in through the toosheer
curtains on the bedroom window that I never bought blackout curtains
for, because Simon liked to wake up to natural light. And, as though he’d
never been away, there he was beside me, that natural light illuminating his
dark blond hair until it was almost golden. I lay on my side, a few inches
away from him, just watching him sleep. Last night had been strange, I
hadn’t been able to quite shake off the feeling that we should have talked
before Simon jumped back into my bed, but this morning everything felt
right. We were back on track. Whatever madness he’d been suffering, he
was over it.
I turned onto my back, trying not to wake him and smiled to myself while
I thought about my daily chores. Perhaps I could let myself off the list
today: the post could wait at the post office until Monday and I’d get
Matthew’s birthday card tomorrow. But I did need to go to the supermarket
– we were out of everything. I slid off the bed, not budging the mattress,
and grabbed last night’s jeans and tank top that were still lying in a sad
puddle on the floor. I got dressed in the hallway, grabbing my phone, cash
card, keys and a cardigan on my way out through the door, pausing just for
a second to straighten the frame we’d dislodged the night before. Nothing
was really aligned, but to see it there, cockeyed and nudging the next photo,
made me come over all OCD. I put it back where it had been before but it
still didn’t look right. Instead of fannying around and making too much
noise, I took it down and propped it against the wall, making a mental note
in my temporary to-do list to put it back up later on. After breakfast. After
whatever Simon wanted to do today. I’d rewrite the list for tomorrow. OCD
assuaged.
It was super-early for a Saturday and London was mostly still asleep, but
buses bustled by and weekend workers walked on, heads down, earphones
in. I dabbed on lip balm, tenderly touched my chafed chin and wrapped my
hair around itself into a relatively controlled knot on the back of my head as
I wandered down the street. I really had to get it cut; I really had far too
much hair for just one person. But Simon liked it long. And I was used to it.
Even if Dan did call me Cousin It whenever I wore it down on set.
I couldn’t believe Paul had punched Simon. It was the nicest thing he’d
ever done for me. Totally made up for the time he’d cut the hair of every
single one of my My Little Ponies. Well, maybe not all of them. I should
call him and let him know we’d worked things out, otherwise it was going
to be incredibly awkward at my dad’s wedding in a couple of weeks. Right
now, I needed to think about getting pastries, coffee and cream. And
probably some stain remover to try and get the blood out of Simon’s shirt.
And they say romance is dead.
The supermarket seemed strangely busy, full of people on their way to
work, buying tuna sandwiches for their lunch break, early risers doing their
shopping, and more than one creased-looking gentleman with a terribly
self-satisfied expression on his face.
‘All right?’ Something reeking of YSL Kouros nodded at me over the
croissants. ‘Heavy night?’
‘Something like that,’ I said, without eye contact. Didn’t he realize he
was in London? We didn’t talk to strangers. We didn’t even talk to our
neighbours for the first five years unless it was to complain about the noise
or errant pet shitting in our garden.
‘Yeah, trick is to get out before the ‘wake-up,’ he said, filling up a plastic
bag with cinnamon Danishes. ‘But I always leave a note. You’ve got to
leave a note. Just out of order not to.’
‘Right,’ I gave him a tight smile and backed away slowly towards the
queue for the till.
And he followed.
‘Always felt bad for girls,’ he went on. ‘You know, you see a bloke on
the walk of shame and everyone thinks, “Get in there, son!” but you see a
girl walking down the street at six a.m. on a Saturday in last night’s clothes
and everyone just thinks “slag”.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, flicking through the items in my basket for a moment
before I realized what he’d said. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Not me though,’ Kouros Man flung out his hands, spilling his already
opened can of Red Bull. ‘I do not judge. And it’s not like you’ve got your
skirt up your arse and tits hanging out like some of them, is it? Good outfit.’
Brilliant. Not only was this charmer still drunk, he thought we were onenight-
stand kindred spirits.
‘You should probably give me your number, you know, in case you ever
need company.’ The stale stench of whatever he’d been drinking/spilling
down himself last night combined with the overabundance of intense
aftershave came closer, making me gag.
‘I have a boyfriend,’ I said quickly, holding the basket between us. ‘So
no.’
‘Right, course you do,’ he replied, fingering a packet of Durex for a
moment before adding it to his booty. Double gag. I turned my back, hoping
he would just go away, but I could still smell him. I had a feeling it would
be a lingering odour. Thank god Simon had come to his senses. That was
the first man in five years to ask for my number and I really didn’t feel like
he was a keeper.
I paid for my breakfast bounty and vamoosed back out onto the street, so
enthralled by my iPhone that I couldn’t even hear Kouros Man muttering
loudly after me. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘bitch’.
No, he didn’t judge.
August never guaranteed good weather in London, but that morning was
beautiful. Bright, cool sunshine and a clear blue sky. I bounced back along
Upper Street, scanning text messages from Matthew and Em. They
wouldn’t appreciate a blow-by-blow phone call pre-seven a.m., so I tapped
out an ‘everything’s fine’ text, deleted the torrent of abuse aimed at Simon,
and kept the effusive messages of love. Never hurt to have them around.
I locked my phone and slipped it into my back pocket. I wasn’t
particularly good at expressing emotion and I had never been particularly
free and easy with the ‘L’ word. I loved my parents, I loved my brother, I
loved Matthew, Emelie, Simon, Galaxy chocolate, Alexander Skarsgard and
Topshop Baxter Jeans. And I really, really loved my flat. I’d lived in a wild
assortment of shitty bedsits and tolerable house-shares since university but
this, our beautiful two-bedroom first-floor flat, snagged for a song in the
middle of the recession, was my home. The last eighteen months had been
spent feathering our nest. Mostly with piles of clothes I never got around to
ironing, but still. Home. I climbed the five steps up to the royal blue door
and paused for a moment. I was nervous. What if Simon was awake?
Maybe I should have attempted to make myself look half decent before I
left. What was I going to say to him? Maybe we could just pretend last
night never happened.
‘At least he won’t be wearing Kouros,’ I said to myself, and sort of to a
passing dog walker, as I stuck my keys in the lock.
The flat was still quiet when I passed through the door and I slipped off
my shoes so as not to wake Simon. OK, I would brush my teeth, make
coffee and then whatever would happen, would happen. Setting breakfast
down on the kitchen countertop, I made a beeline for the bathroom.
Whatever would happen would happen. And so what? I thought as I
splashed my face with cold water. One awkward conversation and then
back on the road to marriage, babies and bliss. Everyone had bumps in the
road; everyone had their little moments of madness. What relationship was
perfect? I grabbed my toothbrush and reminded myself that the happilyever-
after myth was just that. A myth. Hmm, no toothpaste. Automatically,
I reached into the cabinet beside the sink for a new tube. Real relationships
were difficult and required work. They needed understanding and
compromise. You couldn’t just run away when things got tough, you had to
…
The toothpaste.
There wasn’t a new tube of toothpaste in the cabinet beside the sink
because I’d started a new tube of toothpaste the day before. But it wasn’t in
its holder. And neither was Simon’s toothbrush. And his razor was gone.
Still clutching my toothbrush, I padded back through to the hallway and
stopped outside the bedroom door. Even though I already knew what I was
going to find, I just couldn’t open it. I felt sick. And angry. And stupid. I
pushed the door open with my big toe and peered inside. At the empty bed.
I stepped backwards and felt something hard and cold under my foot,
followed by something sharp, stinging and hot. The photo from Emelie’s
birthday. Simon must have knocked it over on his way out. In his rush.
Toothbrush in one hand, phone in the other, I slid down the wall,
knocking every other photo onto the floor on my way down, and watching
my blood trickle out onto the laminate flooring Simon had so lovingly laid,
the day after last year’s FA Cup final. Simon always said there was no DIY
during football season.
I slid the lock off my phone and pressed the last call button.
‘Matthew?’ I said quietly, trying not to flex my toes. ‘He took my
toothpaste.’
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