I lean my head against his shoulder. ‘Your baby’s not a baby any more.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
He pulls away, turning to me. ‘You going to be OK?’
I plaster on a bright smile. ‘Yep. Lots to do.’
‘I can come back later if you…’
‘Nah, I’m sure Georgia will want some down time, and Josie’s coming over later. Thanks, though… I think I need a bit of time to adjust. It’s been a while since I’ve had my own place.’
He pushes his glasses up his nose and puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘You can do this, Al.’
I swallow down the lump in my throat. ‘I know. I just didn’t expect to be starting over again at the age of thirty, you know? I thought I had it all sorted – the job, the man, the house…’
He squeezes my shoulders. ‘Listen. Life’s too short to spend it worrying about what you’ve lost. Look right in front of you. You’ve got a blank slate. Time to live the life you want.’ He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head just as Georgia leans over and parps the horn. ‘I’m coming!’ he shouts to her, releasing me. ‘I’ll call you later?’ He pulls away and jogs down the steps.
I close the door behind him.
‘Coffee,’ I say to the empty room and walk with purpose into the kitchen with a sigh. The kitchen in our old place was large, open plan, with blue shaker-style cupboards, an Aga, beech-wood island in the middle. There were copper pans hanging above. I loved the wide patio doors that swung open into the wooded garden. We had paid a small fortune for a large woodentable where Ryan and I would write our column, festoon lights would click on as twilight hit, and we’d call it a day and open a bottle of wine while laughing and arguing at our opposing opinions. I look at the small kitchen in my new home. No built-in wine rack here filled with bottles of Sancerre or Chablis that we brought back from our holidays and research trips.
All that stands before me is a tiny galley: white doors, a fridge freezer that still has the energy rating sticker on the outside, and one double-glazed window that looks out on to a small rectangular lawn.
Right. Coffee.
I rip the tape off the box, pull out a few cups, and rummage around until I find my stove-top Italian espresso machine and a fresh bag of coffee.
I add the water and spoon in the coffee, spending a few minutes trying to work out how to turn on the hob.
It’s so quiet.
I never used to notice it, but when you’ve lived with the hum of a city for three years, this kind of quiet feels too… loud. I shake my head. That doesn’t even make sense. Maybe the reviews that followed Ryan leaving were right; without him, maybe I can’t even string a sentence together?
Coffee in hand, I go back into the lounge. I lift the box Georgia had carried in and dig out my radio. It’s fifties in style. I’d kept it in the small summer house at the bottom of our garden. There was no Wi-Fi down there, no electricity. It’s where I would go to escape distractions while I wrote. I reach for the comforting feel of the old dials, twisting it away from my old neighbourhood, my old life, until it snags on a signal, and Radio Shropshire plays into the room, muzzling the silence. I fold myself onto the floor, gripping my mug, my finger tapping against the outside of the porcelain out of habit. I stop. Look down at my hand. There is no clink of my engagement ringagainst the surface. All that remains is a small indentation where it used to sit.
I rip open another box. Things I didn’t want to leave in Ryan’s or the removal firm’s care. There’s a photo of me and my siblings Kyle and Jules on the beach on a family holiday. Kyle is only about five in this photo; I’m eight and that makes Jules ten. I smile and place it next to me. I pull out a plastic wallet with my passport and documents in, my old teddy that I bought when Mum had taken me shopping. I remember it because it was a rare treat, to be out with Mum on my own. I bring it closer, the purple fur tickling my nose. It was the day after I’d got my head girl badge for getting the top scores in the year.
I’d held my success in my chest as I’d rushed into the kitchen. Kyle was crying over a grazed knee, Mum cooing over him. Dad was deep in conversation with Jules about some project or other. I couldn’t wait to tell them, but it wasn’t the right time. ‘Dish up, would you love?’ Mum had asked, all attention on my siblings. I’d spooned the shepherd’s pie onto plates, placed the dishes on the table and we’d sat down. I remember feeling so invisible in that moment, as I often did. Middle child syndrome, I guess; Kyle was the baby, Jules was the eldest and most demanding, and I was the reliable one.
As the conversation and attention on my brother and sister continued, the words had shot out of me. ‘I’ve got the top scores out of the year.’ The room had quietened, all focus now on me. ‘And they’ve made me head girl.’ Mum quickly slapped a plaster on Kyle’s knee, Dad left my sister’s side, and they were all smiling, clapping and pulling me into hugs over the cooling dinner. That night, Mum had come up to my room, stroking my hair in the way she did when I was younger. ‘Let’s go shopping tomorrow, eh? Just you and me. It’ll be our little treat. Just us.’
I sit the teddy next to the photo, then pull out the first award me and Ryan had received for our column. I can hear our shriekswhen we were told we’d won, how we’d fallen into each other’s arms, popped champagne, spent the afternoon in bed, swigging from the bottle and eating cheese, olives and, later, ice-cream from the tub. It had been so decadent, so very us at the time. We were a successful couple at the beginning of our very promising careers. We had just moved into a beautiful new home, and had tentative, playful plans for a wedding abroad. Baby names had been thrown about in a post-coital haze… hypothetical children that would be born far off in the future but who would be brilliant and funny, like their father, who would have my thick, dark hair and ambition. Children that would now never be born.
It was by accident that I’d started writing for the column. I’d actually gone for a job as research assistant at the newspaper. Ryan was already a junior journalist and was there to apply for columnist. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he had the kind of confidence and smile that made everyone like him. He was clever and funny, opinionated but not in a closed way. That’s how I ended up working with him. While we were waiting to see the editor, he’d commented on the cover of a magazine with a book on the front, which I’d picked up from the coffee table while we waited. ‘Have you read it?’ he’d asked. I’d looked up, startled.
‘Yes. I loved it.’
‘You did?’ he’d challenged, but his mouth had lifted into a smile. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘Because it’s about the human experience, it’s about love conquering all.’
‘You think love conquers all?’
‘Don’t you?’ I’d replied.
‘No, I think it destroys rather than conquers.’
‘Oof. Been dumped recently?’ He’d laughed then, and moved to the seat next to me.
