Game over, isn’t it?
I still held her until she slept. Held her for me.
And then I left, the sad fuck that I am. Left with my tail between my legs.
Then this morning, I lay alone in my bed, and not even Elvis had sought my company. I thought how unfair it is that the dawn is supposed to bring a new day, a fresh start, when instead it was bringing the inevitable fading of things.
Maudlin fucker.
And then I look at Elvis, scratching his ear with his back paw. Stretching out his long body in one of those bone cracking deals. His tail wags and his ears perk up when he looks at me.He bounds for the door as if to say get up, you lazy fucker! I have shit to do—literally—lamp posts to pee on and dog food to eat.
We don’t speak the same language, yet we know what the other one needs, although he wasn’t up for spooning my miserable arse this morning, which says our is a very one-sided deal. But that’s a thought for another time. We don’t speak the same language, but we seem to know the score intrinsically. Heather, on the other hand, has a fuck tonne of problem decoding. And I’ve left this in her hands. Told myself that she has to be the one to leap. That she has to realise I’ll catch her no matter what from now on.
I may as well have written it in Chinese.
I’m out of bed in a flash, heading for the shower, stopped only by Elvis’s wine. Some things won’t wait, I suppose. But cluing in Heather? She won’t have to wait too long.
* * *
I’m late to work and cursing the doggy day-care woman. It should be called dodgy day-care. What kind of business owner sleeps in?
I drop my stuff in my office and head straight for hers, unable to shake off this sick feeling finding she’s not there.
I’m still sick to my stomach at eleven o’clock because there’s still no sign of her.
Not seeing her through the day isn’t unusual. We’re both often busy and our schedules sometimes clash. But that’s not what’s going on today.
Is she avoiding me? Hiding somewhere?
She’s in the building, apparently. At least, according to her assistant, Emika, who I’ve asked already twice. The third time, she looks around to make sure no one is listening before she answers.
‘She’s on the executive floor. She has been all morning.’
The executive floor. What the fuck could she doing up there—and for this long?
She could be handing her notice in, I suppose. She seemed really set on running her cousin’s company. And why wouldn’t she? Family means everything to some people.
Also known as the lucky ones.
She could be upstairs complaining about Haydn, I suppose.
About me?
Neither of those are likely.
Lunchtime rolls around and she’s still not about. Tension coils so tight in my gut that I feel like I could puke.
I have so much I want to say.
So much she needs to hear.
So where the fuck is she so I can verbally vomit all these things?
I force myself out of the building, grabbing a takeaway coffee from Pret to drink while I walk some of this feeling off. The ache in my shoulders and the way my eyes smart like I’ve been staring at the computer too long.
I find my feet heading to Postman’s Park wishing my coffee was something a little stronger when a girl in a blue duffle coat catches my attention. My heart stops, my feet too, everything slowing down for a moment before coming back again, twice as quick.Heart beating fast enough to burst. Feet shuffling, not able to move fast enough.My fingers like wooden sticks as I try to open the latch on the gate.
She’s sitting on the far side, on a bench, in a patch of sunshine. Daffodils sway in the grass behind her, tiny birds hopping around excitedly, happy recipients of bits of her sandwich.
