I stare blankly for a moment through the gap in the curtains, at the star-strewn night sky.
‘I think everyone thinks...’ Rachel begins, then stops herself.
The seconds stretch.
Eventually, she says, ‘That Lawrence has a temper, or something. But he doesn’t. Not like that, anyway.’
‘Okay,’ I say slowly. ‘So what kind of temper does he have?’
‘Please don’t,’ she mutters. ‘You’re worse than Polly.’
We lapse into a strained silence. I look down at my hands, my wrist, the watch she gave me that I wear every day.
‘You’d tell me,’ I say eventually.
I hear her hesitate. ‘Hardly fair to make you my relationship counsellor, Josh.’
‘Oh, fuck that.’
‘Yes,’ she concedes. ‘I would tell you.’
I take a second to picture her as we talk, sitting in a flat I have never set foot in. I imagine somewhere stylish and calm, brightened now by baby things. Is she wearing his T-shirt? Perfume, or jewellery, he has given her? How long is her hair now? My desperation for detail is at once compulsive and depressing. Not dissimilar to drinking too many pints at the pub, then needing to chuck it all up in a hedge on the way home.
‘Are you still sketching?’ The question feels important, somehow. Like resting two fingers against her wrist, gently taking her pulse.
‘When I have time.’ I hear her swallow. ‘I do miss you, Josh. I wish we could talk more.’
I feel sadness whorl through me as she says this. Sparks of anguish, just spinning, with nowhere to go. ‘Can’t really help you there,’ I say softly.
She lets out a breath. ‘I know. Sorry. That was... I’d better go.’
‘Rachel?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Promise me something.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll always be here for you.’
A few moments pass, and I realise I’ve misworded it.
‘I mean, just... pick up the phone. If you ever need to. It doesn’t matter if it’s three o’clock in the morning. I’m here, okay?’
She doesn’t say anything else, just gently ends the call. But I can tell from the way she is breathing that she is trying not to cry.
43.
Rachel
September 2004
Today is Tuesday, I think. Lawrence stayed over last night, but ended up vanishing into the spare bedroom in the early hours. I felt him ease out of bed, tiptoe to the door. But I was already awake, lost in the darkened room as if it was outer space. Floating, alone, connected to nothing.
We have sat mostly in silence on the sofa since he got up, while he’s replied to emails and downed a couple of espressos. He installed a posh coffee machine here a few weeks back. It takes up as much space as a small car on the worktop in my kitchen.
He gets to his feet now, moves over to the sink. ‘For God’s sake,’ he mutters, trying to squeeze his cup in among the mound of dirty dishes. ‘This flat looks like a fucking squat.’
