Thirty-One
I was much better prepared for the flight home and arrived at Bergen airport with plenty of time to indulge myself in the business lounge. Starting with a massage and a mini-mani, then half a bottle of champagne and a smoked salmon platter. As much as I’d grown to love the stripped-back experience at Firefly, it was nice to indulge a little before I returned home. Never had smoked salmon tasted so good – with prawns and fresh crab and crusty bread and butter. It turned out I wasn’t vegan after all. It was time to start prioritising pleasure again, and cheese was top of my list. Top of myfoodpleasure list at least. I was going to thoroughly enjoyallthe little things on this business class flight. It would be the last one for a while without a legal case weighing on my mind. I’d soon be back to panic-working between panic-eating and panic-sleeping.
‘Welcome back, Ms Pearson.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I said, smiling.
Which reminded me. I needed to change my passport back to my maiden name. I didn’t want to be a Pearson anymore.
Lil’ Will was sat next to me on the table, and Henrik had even organised an official phytosanitary certificate to make sure it sailed smoothly through security. I wouldn’t have thought twice about popping it in my handbag, but apparently it’s not that easy to smuggle plants in from other countries. His thoughtfulness levels were something else. I’d have likely been arrested for attempting to poison the ecosystem without the paperwork.
*
I opened the door to my flat and it felt cold and unwelcoming. The smell of paint was strong and noxious, and I felt my sense of Firefly freedom deflating almost immediately. At least the painting had been done, and the flat was clean and decorated. I whacked the thermostat up and opened all the windows so the air could circulate; I needed to take a fresh breath.
Me: Hey Abs, thanks for overseeing everything with Jimbo. Was he OK?
Abi: Yes, all fine. Do you like it?
I walked from room to room, turning on the lights. Did I like it? He’d done exactly what I’d asked him to do. He’d used the greys and the blues; the exact same shades Mark and I had in the house on the King’s Road. Colours I’d loved. We’d loved. Back then. I ran in and out of all the rooms and tried to imagine new beds and a sofa, but I could only think of our old furniture. Our love seat from John Lewis, our Heals dining table. The thought of it made my stomach turn. It was all wrong. The colours and shades were all wrong. I didn’t want my flat to be a smaller, shitter version of my old home. A daily reminder that I didn’t have the big Chelsea house anymore, or the big swinging-dick husband. That the future we’d planned together had all been a fantasy. I wanted my place to represent the me I was now. To be a vibe. Abi had said it was all transitory anyway. That it was only paint and we could change it anytime. So that’s what we’d do.
Me: Not 100% sure. Can you come over tomorrow?
Abi: Of course. Desperate to hear all about it. Shall I bring my paints?
Me: Please!
Abi: Shall I bring Jimbo?
Me: Lol. You know me too well.
*
Sunday 11th October
HIIT me upGroup Chat
Kat: Are you back?
Abi: She sure is – I’m heading there now with Jimbo.
Me: Got back last night! Come too and bring your roller.
Kat: Erm, OK… sounds fun.
At least I’d have the girls to distract me from my pining. Bad joke. The last few days had completely thrown me. My mind was so full of Henrik, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Everything about him had felt so different and real. The gifts, the looks, the breakfast. The rescue missions. His never-ending patience. How could anyone else I dated compare to He-Man Henrik?
I unpacked my suitcases into three piles. Dry cleaning, washing, bin. This time there were also things that could go straight back in the wardrobe. I lay all my Norwegian trinkets out on the bed and breathed in the scent of the crocheted blanket, slowly unfolding it to appreciate its full size and all the effort Greta had put in. The double-dyed colours, the alpaca wool, the luminous thread she’d used for the fireflies. It didn’t feel right using it as a blanket; it needed framing and hanging in a gallery. I washed my labradorite rocks and placed them on the windowsill in descending order to air-dry. Lil’ Will had survived the journey home in a carrier bag, but the central heating was abridge too far. I popped him in the sink to freshen up, gave him a long drink then put him next to my bed, so he’d be the first thing I saw every morning. It would take years for a tiny seedling like that to get to huggable status, so I’d have to settle for stroking his leaves for now.
The London traffic droned loudly outside my window as the pollution tried to cough its way in. The stars were hidden behind a fug of fumes and the rain smattered against the skylight, quickly turning into a downpour and hammering the windowsill with water. London in October was the worst.
The intercom buzzed. The cavalry had arrived.
‘Hello?’
‘Hellooooo!!!’ Kat, Abi and Jimbo collectively cooed. Hurrah!
I buzzed them all up and threw on some clothes to give the illusion my day had begun. It wasn’t like me to still be in my pyjamas, positioning plants at 11a.m.
