Chapter Twenty-Five
NOW
I’m back at Brook Cottage and this time I’m even more nervous. Because now I’m here to break up with Seth.
It’s a warm evening and the cottage is looking at its best with bees and butterflies lazily circling the lupins, hollyhocks and roses in the front garden. The trees are whispering beneath a powder-blue sky, and there’s a blackbird perched on the stone chimney pot singing its heart out.
It’s strange to think that this was supposed to have been our home together. So many times, I’ve pictured our lives playing out inside these four walls – love, hopes, dreams, socialising, family, children, maybe a dog and a couple of cats. And now that dream has been popped as easily as a rainbow soap bubble.
The door opens and Seth stands there in a white shirt and jeans. His cologne wafts towards me, mingling with the scent of summer flowers, and I’m hit with a flash of familiarity that leaves me reeling for a moment. But the feeling vanishes before I’m able to acknowledge it properly.
‘Alice, are you okay?’ Seth’s forehead creases.
I’m standing here with my mouth hanging slightly open. I clamp it shut before replying. ‘Uh, yes, sorry. I was miles away.’ Idon’t want to admit the truth – that I just had a weird déjà vu-type memory of him.
‘Come in,’ he says. ‘I made us some food. Your favourite, actually – my cashew stir-fry with noodles.’
I realise thatismy favourite, but it’s also tied up with these sudden complicated feelings that I can’t explain. ‘You didn’t need to do that,’ I say. ‘It might not be a good idea for us to sit and have a meal together.’
‘Why not?’ He shrugs. ‘It’s prepared now. All I need to do is throw the ingredients into a wok. Five minutes and we can eat. I’m hungry, I don’t know about you.’
I’m aware that I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime, six hours ago, although that’s not the point. The point is, that if we sit down to eat, Seth might get the wrong idea about why I’m here. I pause. ‘Okay, thank you,’ I say, unable to think of an excuse why I can’t stay for dinner without blurting that I’m here to end things, which would be far too harsh and abrupt.
I follow him through to the pretty country kitchen, acknowledging to myself that this will probably be the last time I set foot inside his beautiful home. That realisation gives me a complicated sense of relief and sadness.
Freshly sliced vegetables are already laid out in a colourful array on the wooden chopping board. Seth nods to an opened bottle of white on the side. ‘Help yourself,’ he says, turning on the centre gas-ring of the range that dominates the tiny kitchen. He drizzles olive oil into the huge black wok and reaches into the cupboard for a bottle of sweet chilli sauce.
I’ve come here to break up with this man, so it doesn’t feel right to be drinking wine and watching him cook like everything is hunky-dory. ‘No, that’s okay,’ I reply. ‘I’ll just have a glass of water.’
‘Half a glass of wine won’t kill you,’ he says, splashing a generous half into both glasses.
I hear the subtle slur in his voice and am suddenly and sharply aware that Seth is drunk. I think I might need to get to the point of my visit before he knocks back any more alcohol.
He hands me a glass and clinks his against mine. ‘Here’s to us sorting things out,’ he says loudly.
I’m unable to echo his toast.
‘Alice?’ he pushes. ‘To sorting things out, right?’
‘The thing is ...’ I begin, putting my wine glass back on the counter.
‘No,’ he declares, cutting me off. ‘None of that. We’ll eat first, talk later. Nothing good comes of talking on an empty stomach.’
I now sincerely wish I hadn’t come here this evening. I should have met him earlier in the day in a neutral place like a café or a park. Somewhere without alcohol and without memories.
Seth tips the sliced onion into the wok, where it hisses and spits in the oil. Then he adds the cashews, and finally slides the rest of the veggies in. He’s uncoordinated, and around 10 per cent of the ingredients miss the wok and end up either on the hob or the flagstone floor.
‘Shit.’ Seth flails, trying to save the flying vegetables, but ends up dropping the chopping board on to the floor with a dull clatter. I bend to pick it up, but he waves me away. ‘It’s fine, it’s fine, I’ve got it.’
I take a step back and inhale, wondering if I should just go home immediately and attempt to initiate our break-up another time. But the thought of leaving our relationship open-ended is worse than the thought of having this difficult conversation right now.
I decide to power through and just do it.
‘Seth ...’
‘Hang on, the onions are burning, I need to turn the hob down.’
The kitchen is already too warm from the heat of the range, and the vegetables are sizzling so loudly I can barely hear myself think. ‘Seth, can you turn it off, I need to talk to you.’
