‘Where has he gone this time?’
‘Dublin. I do miss him when he’s away.’
‘I’m sure.’ I don’t know what else to say. Future me knows that some of Connor’s ‘work trips’ were less about hard graft and more about playing away. He’s in sales for a luxury brand, so he always seems to be travelling. ‘Do you speak much while he’s away?’
‘Not as much as I’d like. You know how it is. He’s got meetings, client dinners … Sometimes it’s hard to find a moment when we’re both free. We text, though.’
Very convenient. I’m sure it would be much harder to FaceTime Hannah from his hotel bedroom if he had company. I can’t tell her what’s on my mind, but maybe I can point her in the right direction, help her see the red flags that are waving wildly. ‘Do you ever … you know, worry about him while he’s away?’
‘Not really. He’s a seasoned traveller and knows how to handle himself.’
‘That’s not quite what I meant. I meant … You know the kind of people he mixes with. And some of the women … They’re very glamorous.’
‘Oh.’
Yes, oh.
‘You mean about him being faithful?’
I swallow. ‘Yes,’ I say carefully. I just realized I have no idea how I’m going to handle this if she says she has suspicions. What hole have I dug for myself now?
Hannah is silent for a few seconds. ‘No,’ she eventually says, sounding very certain. My heart sinks. It was such a blindside when she found out. I’d do anything to save her from even just a bit of that pain. ‘He loves me. I’m sure of that.’
‘I know.’ I’m sure of it too. Connor does love Han in his own way. But that doesn’t mean he’s able to keep it in his trousers. He’s all about the ambition, the upward motion. I don’t think one woman will ever be enough for him, because there will always be lush green grass on the other side of the fence. Younger, prettier, richer – take your pick.
There’s not much else I can say. I don’t want to sour my friendship with Hannah on unfounded accusations. Connor hasn’t actually done anything yet – that I know about.
‘Anyway,’ I say, changing the subject, ‘where do you want to go on Wednesday? How about that new wine bar in Langley Park? It’s not far from the physio practice I’m at that day, so I shouldn’t delay the first tequila shot by too much.’
Hannah laughs. ‘You know me so well. I’ll see you then at, say, seven?’
‘Better make it seven-thirty,’ I reply. ‘Rashid is a bit of a talker, and I hardly ever get out of his appointments on time.’
After speaking to Hannah, I check my journal for any other useful information. I’ve left myself the morning clear, but I have a few physio clients this afternoon. I flick back through the previous weeks and months, trying to glean details about my life since our Venice trip.
To my surprise, there are quite a few entries concerning Elena. I can see from the notes of events and to-do lists that I’ve been much more involved in her life than I was in the past. Luke and I have visited her multiple times. I’ve even run a few errands for her. When I pick up my phone and scroll through it, I see a friendly message thread between us, where I’m wishing her well and she’s thanking me for my support. When I put my phone back down, I’m actually feeling quite proud of myself. Ifind it hard to open up to people, especially people that I feel might be secretly judging me or looking down on me. I think I always expected Elena to be doing that, not because of anything she said or did, but just because she is who she is and I am who I am. That was a bit immature, really.
I lean back in the office chair in front of the desk and stare at the wall. Did all of this with Elena – her illness, Luke supporting her – happen exactly the same way last time? At first, I want to believe this is something new, but as I think back over the years I already lived, I realize tiny clues are littered throughout my memories. I suspect she was ill last time, and I’m pretty sure Luke would have been a good friend to her; I just wasn’t aware of it.
But why wasn’t I?
On the night Luke walked out on me, he said I was oblivious. I was offended at the time, but now I’m starting to wonder if he was right.
I continue flicking through the journal, going right back to the front, and then also checking the back page, where I often scribble random things to myself or slapping a sticky note with a scrawled reminder that I will later add into my to-do list proper. There’s a little paper pouch at the back of the book, and I notice a pale-blue piece of paper sticking out from it. I don’t know what it is, but it must be important if I saved it there.
With a sense of foreboding, I pull the corner of the paper and release it from its hiding place. My stomach drops as I unfold it and see that it is not one sheet of paper but several, and all of them are covered with my mother’s handwriting.
Dear Jess,
I know you probably don’t want to read this letter. I probably wouldn’t if I were you. I would have phoned or sent a message over social media, but I think you’ve blocked me on absolutely everything. I don’t blame you for that, either. So this was the only way I could think of contacting you. Maybe I shouldn’t have done, but when did I ever do the sensible thing?
Anyway, I wanted to tell you that you refusing to acknowledge me in any way was incredibly painful.
I bristle. Of course she would make it all about her. Of course she would talk about her pain first. Does she honestly not understand the concept of no-contact? I want to rip the letter up without reading the rest, but my curiosity – and maybe my hope – is insatiable.
But that was a good thing. At first, I was angry with you. So angry that I thought, ‘I’ll show her! If she thinks I’m an alcoholic, then I’ll behave like an alcoholic!’, so I went out and bought a large bottle of vodka and proved you right … all the way into a hospital bed, thanks to alcohol poisoning. I didn’t kill myself, but I made a good start. Keep doing that on a regular basis and one day my body might not recover.
That scared me. I had no one to blame but myself.
