She’s moved on, I realise. Because of course she bloody has.
I came over to Rachel’s place at the speed of light, the moment I received her text. I’ve composed and junked so many of my own to her in the months since we spoke on the phone. But it’s never felt like a good time, or that I have any of the right words. I didn’t want to get in the way of her and Lawrence, much as I can’t stand the guy. But, since I heard they broke up, the urge to contact her has been stronger than ever.
Darren warned me off. ‘You don’t want people to think you’re swooping in.’
‘In what way would I be swooping in?’
He extended one arm into a kind of Superman pose. ‘You know.’
I gave him a bemused thumbs-up. ‘Right. Thanks. That helps.’
‘You get what I’m saying. Just give her some time.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe wait until she calls you.’
Now, in the living room, Rachel pours some wine, and we sit down together on the sofa.
She has told our friends before now that she feels permanently haggard since having Emma. But to me, tonight, she looks utterly the opposite. Skin mellow in the lamplight, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, caramel eyes gleaming. She is wrapped up in a giant sweatshirt, joggers and big socks, because it is still so cold outside.
Her flat is nice, in the sense that everything works, and nothing leaks or creaks. But I wonder if she ever thinks about our old home. Its character features and wonky floors, battered walls, rambling garden.
Probably not. My mind rewinds to the two-up, two-down new build she was so taken with, just before we offered on the flat. Perhaps, in fact, this is the life her heart wanted all along, before I persuaded her it was a better idea for us to buy a place where you wake up every morning wondering what new bit of it has fallen off overnight.
Cautiously, I ask what happened with Lawrence. I’ve heard the story second-hand, of course. But I’m curious for her version.
She swigs from her glass, shakes her head. It’s hard, I guess, to distil the end of what you shared with another person into a sentence or two.
‘I was expecting it to be stressful, at times, with a newborn. But we were fighting constantly. For literally no reason.’
I am tempted to suggest that maybe the reason was Lawrence, a man who seems to spreads ill-feeling like it’s an STI.
‘Am I allowed to tell you what I really think of him yet?’
She nudges me with her foot. ‘I already know what you really think.’
‘Ah, go on. Please let me.’
‘No. I’m rising above it.’
I decide to save calling her ex out on his behavioural gonorrhoea for another day. Because, really, I know it is not my place.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, out of nowhere. ‘I’m so sorry I fucked everything up, Rachel.’
She doesn’t reply. But I see her eyes spring swiftly with tears.
For a moment, neither of us can speak. Then she clears her throat, gets up to fetch us both a refill.
‘How are things with you?’ she asks, returning after several minutes with more wine and having just checked on Emma. ‘Still no sign of Wilf?’
I shake my head. Not long after theTo Letsign went up outside Wilf’s flat, I drove past again to see the board gone and all the lights on. I emergency-braked, jumped out of the car, then hammered on the door. The slightly bemused and bespectacled man inside had no idea where his new landlord was, though he did say he’d got a European ringtone when he tried to call him about the boiler.
It’s been nearly two years since Wilf and I last spoke. And I miss him, deeply. I realise now I took him for granted, in the same way you do the birds in the sky. He was always just there. I feel his absence as I would if birdsong were to vanish from the earth forever.
Rachel asks if I’m writing at the moment. I tell herkind of, though the truth is, since my fifth novel came out to precisely no acclaim last year I’ve been experiencing the worst creative block of my life. No ideas for a new one will stick. So I’ve taken to just doodling nonsense long into the night, drinking whisky from the bottle I keep in the filing cabinet. Watching videos ofcats falling into buckets on the internet. Wondering if I should ditch Friends Reunited in favour of Facebook. Repeatedly typingWilfred Merryfieldinto Google.co.uk.
How long it takes for my thoughts to stray to the choice I made nearly five years ago usually depends on how much whisky I’ve drunk. But invariably I go there, torturing myself with fantasies of how different things might be, if I’d never taken that pill. Whether Rachel and I would have kids of our own by now. Might we have moved house, found a lovely old wreck in the countryside, perhaps? Got a dog, a couple of cats? Maybe my happiness, in this parallel fantasy life, would even have inspired me to write a book that would sell in its millions.
‘You’re not going to give up, are you? I read your book, just before I had her.’
Rachel’s forehead is so deeply furrowed when she says this, I almost reach for her hand.
