The mattress depressed suddenly beside my feet, and I looked down at Fletcher, who seemed to realise that the ‘not allowed on the bed’ rule might possibly be waived today. I patted the empty half of the queen-sized mattress and Adam’s dog – my dog now – wriggled up the divan like a canine commando to settle himself beside me.
It was hard to say what had been worse: waking for months in the middle of the night to find my hand searching for Adam across the cold sheets, or the day when my subconscious finally acknowledged he was never going to be found there.
But hewasstill all around me, even twelve months after his death, and never more so than today, on the anniversary of the day I’d lost him.
‘The first year will be the worst,’people had told me at the funeral. I think their words were meant to comfort me, to let me know that life would eventually get better, but at the time it felt like being kicked when you were already down.
Those initial three hundred and sixty-five days had been an assault course of firsts. Some stabbed like knife wounds, others had been paper cuts of grief, unexpectedly sharp and painful. You’d expect the first Christmas, first birthday and first anniversary to hurt – and they did. But even worse are the ones that blindside you. The first time a stranger innocently asks, ‘Are you married?’ and you have no idea how to reply, because in your heart you still are, and always will be.
Fletcher must have decided it was a day to push the boundaries, for he’d wriggled even higher up the bed to lay his head on the smooth undented pillow beside mine.
‘Nice try, dog, but you’re not sleeping on the bed.’
A smile flitted across my lips, as I realised that if Adam had been the one left alone, the dog would already have claimed my vacant half of the divan.
It had taken almost six months before I’d summoned up the courage to wash Adam’s pillowcase. Each night I’d drag his pillow towards me, inhaling the lingering smell of him like an addict, until there was nothing left. It was a big milestone when I finally bundled it up and placed it in the washing machine. I still remember how I clawed at the glass, changing my mind too late, as the machine whirred into action and flooded the drum with sudsy water. When the linen came out, I’d buried my face in the wet material but all I could smell was fabric conditioner. The product name was wildly misleading because it had given me no comfort at all.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I headed to the bathroom. The shelves there no longer held Adam’s toiletries, but his toothbrush still sat beside mine in the glass by the sink. My hand hovered towards it, but I jerked it back, unsure if my intention had been to throw it away or use it. I couldn’t decide which option was worse.
Fletcher had abandoned the bed and was waiting patiently beside the worktop when I entered the kitchen. Two bites intoa slice of toast and marmalade and I threw the remains into his bowl. It was no wonder my waistline had grown thinner over the last year, while Fletcher’s had expanded. I could almost hear Adam chastising me, so I pulled on a thick padded jacket and prepared to take Fletcher on a longer walk than usual to compensate.
‘Look after my dog,’Adam had said to me, before solemnly turning to the hound and saying just as earnestly,‘And you, look after my wife.’
We were trying, Fletcher and me, but some days just putting one foot in front of the other felt like a challenge. I learnt that you can’t outrun grief because it always knows where to find you, but youcankeep yourself so busy that it can only squeeze into the gaps of your life, instead of burying you under an avalanche of sadness.
As a result, my cake decorating business had never been busier or more profitable. Raegan, who I’d initially employed to help me out for just two days a week, was now with me full-time. I was working harder and longer than I’d ever done before, and the results were there in black and white on the spreadsheets. Adam would have been so very proud of me. He’d always believed in me and my dreams, had listened to my plans, and supported me when I decided it was time to take a leap of faith and move my operation out of the tiny, cramped kitchen in my old flat and into proper premises. It was a decision I’d never regretted, unlike some I’d made.
The thought stirred a memory that refused to be silenced. As usual, the guilt of my broken promise felt like a hundred needles pricking at my conscience. Thankfully Fletcher provided a timely distraction by bounding up with a stick he’d just found. I threw it for him until my arm ached and evenhegrew bored of the game.
Back at the flat I started at least half a dozen chores, only to abandon them all. They weren’t the distraction I needed and I couldn’t settle. Normally, the feeling that Adam was still with me inthe home we’d made together was a huge comfort. I could find him in the vibrant geometric wallpaper he’d picked for the hallway – the paper he’d told me I’d come to love ... except I never did. And he was there in the ridiculously impractical cream-coloured sofa he’d chosen, thatdidshow every single mark, as I’d predicted, and would be totally useless when we eventually had children. I jerked back from that thought as though I’d ventured too close to a flame. The mugs in the cupboard, the paintings on our walls, everything we’d owned came with its own unique history of us. It was a hidden provenance that made it seem as though Adam still walked beside me in the empty apartment.
But today I sensed something else. Not for the first time, I felt that Adam might be disappointed in me.
I pummelled the cream sofa cushions into shape as though they’d personally offended me. I didn’t like thinking about Adam’s final hours, because that wasn’t how he’d want me to remember him. But the memory of the promise he’d extracted from me – the one promise Istillhadn’t kept – refused to be silenced.
I collapsed on to the cushions and Fletcher immediately jumped up to lay his head on my lap, looking at me with reproachful eyes.
‘Not you too,’ I murmured, scratching his head.
I’d done everything Adam had asked of me. The mechanics at my local garage all knew me by name, and I’d even rescheduled our proposed trip to Australia. But – and it was a big but – I hadn’t reached out to Josh like I said I would.
‘I wouldn’t even know how to,’ I told my disinterested dog. ‘I’ve no idea where he’s living or how to get in touch with him.’
Which was exactly what Josh had wanted.
‘You won’t hear from me again, Lily. I think it’s best for everyone if we agree to cut all contact.’
Had I really believed him when he’d said that? Or did I think in time the hurtful words we’d flung like knives would be forgotten, and we’d find our way back to being friends again? But Josh had been deadly serious. He’d deleted his social media accounts and even changed his phone number. I had no idea where he lived or worked anymore. And if I was being truthful, that’s how I’d like things to stay. Our argument had opened up a sinkhole that had swallowed our friendship whole, as though it had never existed.
Overnight Josh had gone from one of the most important people in my life tosomeone I used to know. And that’s how it had remained for the past six years. And it would have stayed that way if my husband hadn’t made me promise to find him again.
The walls of the flat felt like they were slowly closing in on me and I jumped impulsively to my feet, almost knocking a startled Fletcher to the ground. I’d had many offers of company for today from both friends and family. I’d even had an invitation from Andie – my best friend from uni – to visit her in New York, but I’d turned them all down. I was beginning to wonder if that had been a mistake.
‘How are you planning on spending this Saturday, Lily?’
The question had come two days ago from the other side of a mountain of choux buns and spun sugar. I’d stepped back to admire the finished croquembouche that Raegan and I had spent most of the day constructing, before replying with surprising honesty.
‘Eating chocolate, listening to sad songs and looking through old photo albums.’
