Then there’s the anger and hurt still lingering right below the surface of my skin. How could he let things happen whilst hiding something the whole time? Where is his conscience? Such a prick! Honestly. How could I be so stupid to fall for him?
I look at Mum. “Turns out he was a lying prick.”
She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t they all.”
And just like that we’re back to Mum’s world of dating men in their fifties. It’s a horror show, and quite frankly not something I want to listen to. I finish my tea and excuse myself to get settled in the guest room.
“What do you fancy for dinner?” Mum calls as I walk up the stairs, Doris on my heels,click-clack-clickingagainst the varnished wood.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“I’ll pop to Morrisons. You’ll eat me out of the house if I don’t.”
“I’ll chip in for groceries!” I call.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says as she walks to the front door, reusable bags in hand.
*
My bedroom, or I should say the guest bedroom I regularly assume as my own, is light and airy with a window that twinkles thanks to the damp leaves shimmering outside. I place my bags down as Doris makes herself comfortable on the end of the bed. She tends to hang out with the guests whenever there’s a visitor. Drives Mum potty.
I take a deep shuddering breath as my body wilts into the bee-embroidered pillows, my head resting against the headboard. The pastel-pink walls have a surprisingly calming effect. One by one, I feel my muscles softening, my heart and lungs slowing. I’m finally alone. Except for Doris that is, but she won’t judge me. I’m safe where I can feel all the feelings that have been trying to swamp me these past few hours. For some reason my cheeks are getting damp, as if I’m uncontrollably crying.
And when I reach up to touch them, I realise I am. A sob escapes too. My chest feels tight, the pressure expanding across my abdomen, my arms and up to my throat.
It’s a familiar feeling, the feeling you get when you’ve done something wrong. The only issue is I can’t pinpoint what, exactly. It’s not the job, I’m happy with my decision. I can do all the things I loved there somewhere else, somewhere willing to pay me what I’m owed, somewhere I have a sense of work-life balance.
Maybe I’m just overwhelmed? This time last week I was packing for a team-building trip to Scotland. It’s all been so much. So very much. And in such a short space of time. It’s the image of James that’s welling me up. I keep picturing him sitting in the stream the morning after the tent incident. The way his hair had gone all flat and messy. How his smile was warm, yet tired. How he’d gone out of his way on so many occasions to keep me cosy, safe and even patched up when needed.
Was any of it real? Because a lot of it felt real. Am I really so incapable of reading people, I somehow got it all wrong? The truth is that I’m angry with James. There’s no way he didn’t know about the director role. It was probably discussed on their way over. I suck in a breath. He was looking for the note after I read it out loud right at the start and he didn’t say anything. He could’ve told me then. But he chose not to.
And yet, the unmistakeable heat between us. It spurs on the urge for me to call him and fight it out.
I push the heels of my hands into my eyes. Even if he hadn’t withheld that information, it was never going to work. We were suffering severely from last-two-people-at-the-end-of-the-world disease. Even he admitted it, too. He agreed. He’s probably going to go back to his serial dating again.
What if he already has?
Doris’s wet nose nudges into my chin where she’s crept up alongside my body. I roll over to cuddle her as more tears wet my pillow.
I can’t actually be missing him, can I?
This is a trauma response, surely. Why would I be crying overmissingGloatman? Is that really what I’m doing? Something painful rips through the core of me. I feel myself coming undone. I’m no longer Fliss Rainer, Head of Marketing, and I’m no longer James’ Felicity. It’s all vanished in a matter of days.
I gasp air like I’m going to run out of the stuff.
It will fade, I tell myself. It has to fade.
I’m about to close my eyes, let myself fall into a tearful slumber for a while when my phone vibrates. I take it out my pocket and squint as I unlock the screen. A text has come through.
Where did you go? Can we talk?James has written.
Biting my lip, I ponder on how to respond or whether to respond at all. He’s gotten everything I always wanted. He knew he was going to get it but didn’t tell me. I’m so mad with him I don’t even know what to say back. I’m hurt. Deceived. And yet, not entirely surprised.
Would I have told him if the tables were turned? I decide to reply but only to get him to leave me alone.
I left.
When you back?he types back instantly.
