I didn’t dare take the bus again after the hag incident, so I trudged home, past a lollipop lady for some youth club who looked like she moonlighted as a bailiff, and just to crown the already shitty day, I watched a pigeon swoop down to the pavement for a grotty crust of bread, only to be blindsided by a reversing delivery van. Blink and you’d have missed it. Unfortunately, the pigeon did not.
As I walked home, passing the Saturday night revellers, I decided that loneliness must be our default as humans. We heap on distractions in an attempt to blunt its sharpness: we ring friends on the commute, share flats we could afford to rent alone, and leave the TV or radio on so the silence feels less existential. I mean, come on, there’s a reason body pillows exist. And Fleshlights. But two years ago, I learned that even in my small circle, people don’t much fancy the company of someone perpetually sad with a life in pieces; apparently, that’s a bit of a killjoy. And yet, although I’ve felt more alone these past two years than ever before, today I realised I felt lonelier still.
I was being kicked out of my ex-husband’s house, I had alienated all my friends, Chlo still hadn’t called me but that may be because I still hadn’t had the guts to send the apology text. My colleagues either tolerated or hated me, even the detective I once saw as something of aconfidante now viewed me as the prime suspect in a crime I had actually done. Mum and Dad were still practically off the grid on their grand diplomatic tour and I couldn’t even land a one-night stand, let alone a second date because I talked too much about serial killers. The only consistent form of contact I had in my life was some sweaty virgin called CerealKillerCornflakes who liked to say, ‘I told you so.’
There was only one car in the driveway, I noticed, when I finally made it back to the house. I whispered a few short ‘pleases’ under my breath and as I got closer, squinting my eyes to try and make out whose car it was, I felt the smallest flicker of happiness in my chest when I recognised the shape as Ben’s. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with Bill tonight, I didn’t think I had the strength to endure that. He was out again, maybehewas having an affair? Now, that would be ironic, but strangely that thought just made me feel quite sad for Ben.
‘Hello? Anyone home?’ I called out as I opened the front door, but there was no response. I was just about to head out to the shed to retire for the night when I heard the loud groaning creak of floorboards above me, followed by the appearance of Ben, wrapped snugly in his dressing gown. It was only 5.30 p.m., yet somehow, he was already in his cosies. That was weird.
‘Hiya, Ruth,’ he said, offering a smile that seemed almost to pain him a little.
‘Hiya, love,’ I replied, not even bothering to correct myself this time. ‘How was your day?’
He cocked his head to the side and gave a little wince which transitioned into something of a grimace.
‘I’ve had better days. How was yours?’
I mimicked him, tilting my head and contorting my face into something equally pained. He laughed, then hopped off the bottom step of the stairs and headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
‘Bill’s working late again, so I was thinking of ordering something in that we could discreetly dispose of later without him noticing,something chock-full of preservatives and MSG. What are you in the mood for? I could kill for a tikka masala,’ he said, his tone lined with a mischievous tenor.
‘Go on then,’ I replied, realising I was actually quite hungry. ‘You know what, I’d love a bhuna.’
The food arrived only half an hour later. I hate to admit it, but this place was better than the Indian food we used to get when we were married. Ben worked in private equity, which meant he came home late a lot, so takeaways had often been the easiest option for us both.
I was expecting to head out to the shed to eat by myself, but Ben told me to stop being silly and began setting the table. This was unusual, considering that I’d often spot him and Bill from the shed window watching something on the telly while they ate their dinner from their laps. But instead, Ben and I sat at the dining room table and talked about things almost like we were still a normal couple. It was surreal, but a nice temporary distraction from the failure of the operation: Hearts and Crafts. I filled him in on general updates, who was annoying me at work, with a small splash of politics and local affairs for good measure. I didn’t mention Justin, but I did tell him about Uncle Phil’s offer.
‘That’s… great?’ he said, trying to mask his clear uneasiness.
‘You hesitated,’ I snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at him. ‘That was a trademark Ben pregnant pause, right there.’
‘I didn’t hesitate, I was just swallowing the rice, that’s all.’
‘Why did you hesitate, Ben?’ I interrogated.
‘Look, Ruth, we both know your destiny is not to be the managing director of a funeral home. For some people, yes, that is their calling. But not for you.’
‘So, what is my destiny?’ I asked Ben, one part jokingly, one part sincerely. ‘Please, tell me what my destiny is because I, frankly, don’t have the foggiest. Other than being a miserable wet old fart. Sometimes we don’t all get our dreams and our callings, sometimes we’ve got to settle for the least-worst option and maybethat’s being the boss of a funeral directors. So, please tell me, O wise one, what my destiny actually is?’
‘I can’t tell you your own destiny, only you can do that,’ Ben said with a glint in his eyes like he was quoting some saccharine Disney film I hadn’t seen.
That was an annoying response, I really wanted someone to tell me my destiny at this point.
‘Ben, can I ask you a question?’ I said after a minute.
‘You just did,’ he replied. We’d had that exact exchange so often when we were married, and I always fell for it.
‘Why did you ask me to move in? I don’t think I ever really asked at the time with everything going on. You know, my meltdown and everything.’
Ben groaned in a strangely thoughtful way and dragged out a breath as he bought some time to answer by wiping any orange tikka stains off his chops with the edges of a crisp white napkin.
‘I think it was a few reasons. First, I was worried about you. Second… I’ll always love you, though it’s a different kind of love now I suppose. And third, well, maybe, kind of a bit of guilt.’
It was funny, hearing him say that. I’d often wondered if guilt ever gnawed away at him, if that was why he’d let me stay in the shed. Clearly, it had, and apparently guilt comes with heavily reduced rental accommodation.
‘I just wish the humping flesh-eating tortoise hadn’t come with you.’
We cleaned up after talking for another hour while reminiscing about memories from our marriage, not in a way that ignored the awkward pretence of now being divorced, but as if they were genuinely happy memories we could look back on without all the grief of me smashing glasses and photo frames as well as the endless hours in lawyers’ offices negotiating the various assets that we had collected throughout marriage. Ben had been a little more distant with me over the past week or so, not uncharacteristically so, but enough that I’d felt it. Now, though, I felt closer to him again. It was nice. As he said, it was a differentkind of love we had for each other now. Not the sort where I could confess what I’d done to two dead bodies; I loved him enough that I wouldn’t put him in that position.
