My pulse quickens, I can feel it hard in my throat when I swallow. I writeneverbut then delete it. I put my phone on silent, close my eyes and wallow into my pillow. No good will come of speaking to him right now. He’ll ask too many questions, questions I don’t have the answers to.
Chapter Twenty-Five
That evening Mum and I take a sofa each, beaching out in front of the TV, alternating between episodes ofFriendsandNew Girl, eating pizza and crisps with dips, and drinking tiny tinned cocktails. The one I sip on now is Malibu and tropical juice. A collective dose of sugar and alcohol, slowly seeping into my bloodstream. It’s comforting. But I get a little spike of adrenaline as I check my phone to see if he’s messaged again.
I can see he’s been online almost consistently since the last one. Probably speaking to other women.Oh gawd. I’m not doing that. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing. I groan as I realise this is when he’d tell me he can hear my brain rattling away. Or he’d ask me kindly toplease stop freaking out.
Such an irritating man. Honestly, why am I grieving the loss of his company? He’s my least favourite person, isn’t he?
I refuse to check my phone again. Several hours later I go to bed, tipsy enough that my body sends me right off to sleep.
*
The next morning I’m up early.
“Mum,” I call out after taking a very indulgent hot shower. “I’m going to take Doris out down the beach.”
I can hear her rattling around downstairs with the dishwasher. It’s her day off, so I’m sort of hoping she doesn’t offer to join me. Being alone with the sea air and this wonderful, furry bed warmer is my plan. When Mum says she needs to do some more de-weeding out the back, I seize the opportunity, whizzing out the front door in one of her raincoats. I clip Doris onto her lead and stride down the street towards the beach.
Seaford’s beach isn’t exactly California, with its choppy, murky waves biting at the sand, cold wind whipping off the water and slicing across my cheeks. In fact, it couldn’t feel any further from it. Despite this, I find myself standing at the edge of the water, my trainers getting damp where the tips of the waves reach them before bubbling then drifting back out to sea.
If I stand facing this way, I could almost imagine I’m back in Scotland. Back in the town where we found the phone in the church and called for the rescue truck. Thankfully though, there isn’t the heavy whiff of rotting seaweed down here. And although it’s gusty, the winds in Sussex are no match for the Scottish coast. The gulls cry overhead as Doris trots around me, sniffing and dipping her paws into the retreating waves.
My life plan is warped. I haven’t felt so motionless in years. I can’t remember when I last found myself without a clear, set five-year plan. It’s both disorientating and freeing.
If I’m not travelling in a direction, what am I even doing?
It won’t last long. I know that. Within days I’ll be bored senseless and will have found myself on a new path, whether that’s a somewhat travelled one or something entirely new, I’m not sure.
I could do anything within reason. I could totally change careers. I could go into something where I might free up my weekends.
Maybe I could retrain. But the sharp pang of anxiety says,no, you’re a marketer. And I am. I love talking all things image, social media, digital designs. I love having control over what colour palette a company uses. Or where and how they get their name out there. It’s an art as well as a job.
My feet take me down the beach towards the rock pools. I find a bench up on the main walk and perch, Doris clipped back on her lead, sat sensibly at my feet. She’s such a good girl. My cheeks are damp again, but I’m pretty sure it’s because of the sea air and the wind making my eyes water. I dry them with my sweater tucked under my raincoat sleeves.
I take my phone out to snap a picture of the view. It’s grey everywhere, the sea, the sky, even the sand seems to have gone a miserable colour but it’s still beautiful. The way nature moves without human involvement. Totally at its own whim.
When I open the screen, however, I gawp. I’ve missed fifteen phone calls from James, or Gloatman (that’s how he’s saved in my phone). And there are messages too. I open them, intrigued, and then I’m instantly annoyed with myself because he’ll know I’ve read them.
YOU QUIT!?
Where are you? We NEED to talk!
Felicity
Call me
Fine. Ignore me.
Michael told me why you quit. He asked me if I really thought you’d sue him. Brilliant.
Damn it, where are you?
Felicity?
Will youpleaseanswer?
I almost jump when the screen alerts me to another incoming call. I drop it into my lap. Doris gives me a look as if to say,what is wrong with you?With care, I reject the call, turn my phone off and stuff it into my pocket.
