I pick it up, sit on the side of the bed before I fall. I’m weak with it, unmanned with dread.
Rory, it says, her handwriting messier than normal:
I’m really sorry but I have to leave. This has all been too much, too fast. I think we both lost ourselves in it, lost sight of reality. Got caught up in the romance. We’re grown-ups now and we both have a lot to think about. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to hurt you, but I can’t stay. I think we need some time apart, or at least I do. My head is a mess, and I have to try and un-mess it. I can’t do that when I’m near you. Forgive me, please, and take care of yourself
– Jane xxx
I’m crying as I read, and I don’t care. Why the fuck wouldn’t I cry? I’m sad and angry and broken. I’m raw and hurt and pained. Mainly, I’m a kid again – I’m that lost boy slumped outside a train station, refusing to give up hope. Choosing to still believe inher, in us, even as the evidence of betrayal mounted. Even as the hours ticked by and she didn’t show up.
I know logically that this is different. I know now that night wasn’t real, that it was down to the misguided actions of our parents. I know that all of the bitterness I felt towards her wasn’t fair. But now, with this? Now she’s put me right back in that place.
Since she’s been here I’ve started to realise how empty my life has been without her in it. And now, just like that, she’s gone again? After everything we said to each other last night? It doesn’t add up. I get that it’s been fast, and a sensible person would agree that we maybe should slow down, take more time. But I’m not a sensible person. I’m a man in love, and it just doesn’t make any bloody sense…
The only thing I can come up with that explains it is if she saw Catrina somehow. What if she looked out the window, saw her? What if she put two and two together, and came up with a not at all unreasonable five – just like I did? That could be it, I decide. But that still leaves me sad and angry. If that’s what happened, why didn’t she say so? Why didn’t she give me the chance to explain, for us to work stuff out? Why didn’t she care enough to find out for sure?
I’m screwing the note up in my fists, and the anger is building. Was I wrong to give this a second chance? Was I a fool to believe that we could repair this much damage? And perhaps more importantly, what the hell should I do next?
TWENTY-FOUR
JANE
It has taken me nine hours to make it back to Watford. Nine hours of driving, of crying, of frantic stops at service stations. Nine hours of hell. Of ignoring my phone, of running scared, like the wounded creature I am.
Now I’m almost home, and predictably enough, stuck in traffic three miles from our house. I swipe the tears from my eyes, and take a deep breath. I am bumper to bumper, trapped, stuck in a familiar prison of metal and car fumes and beeping horns.
It is a million miles away from Bonnie Bay, and I am a million miles away from being the happy woman I was when I woke up this morning. Can it really have been the same day? Can I really be the same person?
I feel bad for running, for just leaving a note – it was so wrong of me. But by the time I realised that, I was already hours away, and starting to think that although the way I’d left was unfair, the actual leaving was necessary. At least if I was going to stay sane. I’d done the only thing that I felt I could at the time. The only thing that made any sense after seeing that Catrina, the woman he has been sleeping with, is pregnant. The baby could be his. Probably is.
But even if it isn’t… even if it isn’t, the shock of seeing her was enough. It was like it broke a spell, shattered the dream. Ruined the stupid fairy tale I’d let myself to fall into. I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of a final goodbye, to him or to the bookshop. I knew that if I gave in to that, I might never have the strength to go – and I needed to go. To get some distance between us.
It had all been too much of a rollercoaster, it had all been too fast. A whirlwind of emotion that left me unsure of who I was, or what I wanted from life. One minute I was happy, ecstatic even, planning a fantasy future with Rory Callaghan – and the next I was looking out of that window, watching him open the car door for Catrina.
My mind had immediately gone into full ‘worst case scenario’ mode, as it so often does. As life has taught it to do. I couldn’t stay there and play make believe with Rory once I’d seen that. It hurt too much, imagining him with her – imagining that baby being his.
Imagining what we’d lost, or never even had. What could have been but was never meant to be. I should have talked to him about it, told him everything, but it was too late.
I needed to escape, and running was the only thing I was capable of doing. The note was cowardly, but better than nothing.
I have Beth, but Rory has no children. Has he wanted them, over the years? Has he wanted to be a father, to hold his own baby in his arms? I remember how tenderly he cares for little Alice, and a fresh wave of misery engulfs me. Of course he should have had his own babies. We should have had them together.
Someone presses their car horn. The traffic suddenly shifts in the mysterious way of traffic, a bottleneck somewhere in the distance clearing. Within minutes I am home, parked in the driveway. I climb out of the car, let myself into a cold, darkhouse. I climb into my bed, pull the blankets around me, and let the world fade away.
* * *
I am back at work, sitting in my brand new office. It’s a good office, but truthfully, I wish I was sitting in a beautiful little bookshop by the coast instead. I wish I was at the edge of the world, surrounded by its stories, lulled by the song of the sea, snug and safe and…
‘Jane!’ bellows my boss. His office is across the corridor, but he likes to communicate via the medium of yelling whenever possible. I walk towards his lair.
Vivian gives me a sympathetic look as I pass, and whispers: ‘I bet he has a tiny willy. He’s got to be compensating for something!’
I choke back a laugh, and go to deal with John’s latest crisis. He’s been asked by the chairman of his golf club to sponsor a charity event, and wants celebrities to take part in a tournament. ‘Try that Carol Vorderman, would you?’ he pipes up. ‘Fine-looking woman!’
‘She is, yes – but also super intelligent and socially aware. I’ll ask, but don’t count on a yes.’
He looks as though he wants to argue, but I give him The Face. It’s one I’ve perfected in the last three days, since I’ve been back here. I took a bit of time at home to cry and feel sorry for myself, then accepted my new job and returned to the daily grind. It was for the best, I knew. But there are only so many compromises a woman can make, and not accepting all of John’s bullshit is one of them – hence, The Face.
‘Righty-ho,’ he says, going back to his phone. ‘Well, I trust you’ll do your best, Jane, as ever.’
