By midday, I was feeling seasick.
Eventually, the nervous thrum under my skin got to be too much.
I pushed up from my desk, startling my coworker opposite me, and told my editor that I was going to work from home for the rest of the day. She barely looked up from her laptop and waved me off.
My new flat wasn’t far from the office, but I opted to take a meandering route to give myself the time to think.
London in early October was a different city from the one we got in the summer. The air that breezed over the Thames was cool, clearing out the left over pockets of heat from the warmer months. While London exploded in green during summer, in autumn it seemed to shroud itself in browns and golds. It felt like the exhale after a breath you’ve been holding.
Of course, in a couple of weeks, all those aesthetic piles of crunchy, brown leaves that seemed so charming now, would be squished into a wet, messy pulp by the end of the month. The whole city would be damp, the rain would be sideways, and Spring would seem like a lifetime away.
But, for now, I was free to enjoy the way the mid-afternoon sun shone through the burnished gold of the last leaves desperately clinging to the branches of the trees lining the Embankment.
I sat on one of the benches and was content to people watch for a time as I collected my thoughts – or more accurately, my feelings.
My head was a jumble of contradictions. I kept arguing with myself in some sort of vain attempt to rationalise whatever the fuck was happening with my nervous system.
Was I anxious at the thought of seeing him?
No! Because not only was I bloody over him, but I was a proper, bloody professional!
But then, surely it was normal, and okay to still feel however I felt about going?
No, it bloody wasn’t, get a grip!
He had dumped me!
Yes, but I never got closure.
He’s ignored my existence for nearly three years!
Yes, but I did change my number, and what about that song he put up on his social media, and that photo of Halloween?
He had dated Hyejin!
I had dated Patrick!
I went back and forth for so long that I started muttering under my breath, until finally I threw up my arms, startling some nearby pigeons and the young woman who’d been photographing them.
“Sorry,” I said, sheepishly.
Getting up from the bench, I took myself home, where I could mutter and flail about in peace.
Needing to hear a voice of reason, I called Becka as soon as I got in. I was making a coffee when the call connected.
“Hi!” I trilled, only slightly hysterically, “hang on, I just need to attach you to–ah, that’ll do.”
With possibly more force than was necessary, I slapped my phone onto the cupboard door where I kept the plates.
“Babes, that was a bit violent.”
I grunted. “You have to be quite firm with it, or the suckers won’t stick.”
“Is your definition of ‘firm’ slamming your cellphone against your cabinet so hard I heard the dishes rattle?”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t have any spare counter space to put my phone down while I talk to you. Moving on from hands-freephone accessories,” I said hurriedly, seeing Becka gearing up for another comment.
“And back to your ongoing crisis about your famous ex-boyfriend,” she interrupted, steepling her hands on her desk, like we were discussing world-domination plans, and not my travel plans for November. I’d already filled her in on the events from the meeting, sending increasingly more frantic WhatsApp messages until she’d eventually replied, telling me to stop blowing up her phone because she was trying to sleep. I’d forgotten about the time difference.
