Whatever. His skin doesn’t deserve to be moist. I hope it’s dry as a fucking bone.
Where’s my Aesop hand cream? It’s gone. He wouldn’t dare.He wouldn’t dare.
I am going tolose my shi—
Oh wait. It’s here. Phew! Crisis averted.
And last, but not least, I’ve only just noticed he’s seen fit to take the weighted owl doorstop his uncle got him that we used for the bedroom door. Wow.
Well, good riddance. It didn’t even look like an owl. It looked like a knitted brown blob with googly eyes.
And I tripped over it like a hundred times a day.
So long, stupid googly-eyed blob. I shall not miss thee.
I’ve wandered into the bedroom again with my glass of Staeburn scotch—one of the brands I work on, a deliciously smooth and fairly gentle single malt with a hint of vanilla—and opened the drawer of his bedside table, to check if he missed anything. I wasn’t expecting to find anything, considering he bothered to take the lamp on top of the table. It’s unlikely he’d leave the contents of the drawer.
It’s completely empty, except for the engagement ring box.
I stare at it. I didn’t realize he’d kept it. I remember telling him to keep the box just in case I ever needed to take the ring off for washing up or something and wanted to place it somewhere safe. But considering I never bother to take my ring off, I’d forgotten about it.
As if when he came to clear out his stuff from the flat, he emptied this drawer and made the decision to leave this one thing.
I can’t work out if it’s deliberately cruel.
Slowly sitting down on the bed, I hold up my left hand. I haven’t taken the ring off yet. Dad told me that Matthew was sorting returning our wedding rings, and as I hadn’t had the chance to wear mine yet anyway, it didn’t feel overly crushing. There were other things to worry about.
But the engagement ring is different. I’ve worn it every day for a year. I’ve got used to it. Like it belongs there. My hand would feel naked and weird without it.
Taking it off would make everything feel… real.
I close my eyes for a moment, and allow myself to think aboutthe day that now feels like a lifetime ago, when Matthew and I went to a shop in Hatton Garden to pick out the ring. He (correctly) thought I’d want to choose the ring myself, so he proposed with a tasteful Astley Clarke milky moonstone placeholder ring with a thin gold band, which I wore for a couple of weeks until we were able to book an appointment with a jeweler. I honestly didn’t know what I wanted until I saw this one. A solitaire diamond on a white gold ring. Classic, timeless, elegant. That’s how it was described by the well-groomed man taking my finger measurement.
“This is beautiful,” I said, admiring it as I slid it on and held my hand up to the light. “What do you think, Matthew?”
“If you like it, I like it,” he confirmed.
We left the shop hand in hand. I beamed up at him, bursting with excitement. He laughed at my expression and kissed the top of my head.
I clench my jaw at the stabbing pain in my chest. Then, steeling myself, I open my eyes determinedly, down the rest of my whiskey, and twist the ring up off my finger. Opening the box, I carefully push it into its slot between the black velvet cushions.
I know I will wear this ring again.
I gaze one last time at the perfect diamond, brutally sparkling in the light.
I snap the box shut.
CHAPTER FOUR
I’ve taken up a new hobby.
Everything I’ve read about surviving breakups says this is what you should do. Apparently, this is the perfect time for me to create positive experiences for myself and try new things.
I’ve come to realize that, apart from my morning jogs, which I’mverygradually beginning to work back into my routine, I currently have no hobbies, so literally anything will be new and exciting to me.
I’ve been lucky to have company during this time of major life adjustment, thanks to Ruby, Leo, Simone, and Cali. I’ve barely had a night on my own ever since I returned to London a few weeks ago, and I know they’ve been working their arses off to keep me busy. We’ve had cozy movie nights, boozy dinners, and weekends jam-packed with activities. Simone even took advantage of my vulnerable state and dragged me along to an interactive theater performance with her, which is, quite honestly, my worst nightmare, but I didn’t have the energy to protest.
It was a terrible experience, but I suppose it was better than spending the evening crying into a gin while watching psychological thrillers, a scenario I’ve found myself in more than once recently when I’ve been left to my own devices.
