“N-nothing.”
Just seeing his name on my screen. My ears are ringing, my heart thumping against my chest, my throat constricting, my stomach knotting. I feel sick, my mouth suddenly dry, and, at the same time, have an overwhelming and hopeless yearning to open this message and find him telling me he loves me.
Forgetting everything else, I open the message.
Hi Freya. Mum told me you called her.
I think it would be a good idea if you don’t
do that again, as it puts her in an uncomfortable
position. Hope you’re well.
“You okay?” Jamie asks, watching me. “You don’t look so good.”
“I… I… don’t…”
I trail off, feeling as though I’ve been slapped round the face. How can he message me so coldly? This guy I’ve shared my life with all these years. The man I was going to marry. Now he concludes messages to me with “Hope you’re well,” the same language I use in work emails to strangers.
I remember once I was listening to a podcast in which a journalist was interviewed about the power of words. She spoke about how the careful structure of just one sentence can make all the difference and do remarkable things, like tip the scales of a crucial debate, uplift the spirit of a nation, and pierce the heart.
Hope you’re well.
“Seriously, are you all right? You look as though you might be sick. You want me to get you some water?” Jamie asks, leaning forward in concern.
“S-sorry. I’m fine. Although water… yeah. Water would be good.”
Waved over by Jamie, Neil gets me a glass of tap water, and I take several gulps.
Jamie watches, his forehead furrowed. “Better?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” I place my phone on the bar, shell-shocked. “A message from… this guy.”
“The one who had a problem with you having your shit together?”
I nod. “See how wrong he was about me?”
Jamie offers me a comforting smile. “I once got a call from my ex-girlfriend when I was in a kayak and I was trying so hard to get to the phone before it rang out that I capsized and ruined my phone anyway.”
“Why were you in a kayak?” I ask, grateful for the distraction, forcing myself to be interested, even though Matthew’s message reverberates in his voice around my head.
“I was trying out new things.”
The band in the ballroom strikes up a well-known song and we can hear the wedding crowd go wild from here. I pick up my phone and put it in my clutch. I’ll reply to him later.
“We should go back,” I say, slipping off the barstool. “That was fun, though.”
“Easy for you to say.” He sighs as I lead the way out of the bar. “You won.”
I force a smile, and when we get back to the ballroom, I find Niamh and Freddie still at our table, waving me over. I listen to conversations; I sit and watch everyone dancing; I enjoy a slice of wedding cake; I accept one of the espresso martinis Jamie carriesover; and I hug Isabelle and Ryan goodbye, telling them I love them and to enjoy their honeymoon.
But a feeling of dread hangs over me all night, that message there on my phone, waiting to torture me over and over again.
Hope you’re well.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I arrive at the meeting spot in King’s Cross station ten minutes early.
