‘You can come back if you like.’
‘Yes alright,’ smiled Henry. He leaned towards her and Rita’s heart began to pound in her chest.
‘Goodbye,’ said Henry. His warm lips touched her cheek and Rita marvelled at the dryness of them.
Rita gazed longingly at him as an overwhelming sense of loss enveloped her. There was tightness in her throat, a lump that signalled the onset of tears. The longing in her for Henry to stay was so intense that it caused her physical pain. Her chest ached and it was all she could do to keep her voice normal. It had been so nice having his company.
‘The dinner was lovely,’ said Henry.
He was sad to leave. The bedsit was small and cramped but it was also cosy and now that the electric heater had been on a while, it was also very warm.
‘Take care,’ said Rita, a choke in her voice.
She opened the door, and Henry walked out onto the bluebell-fragranced landing.
‘Do you want to borrow my umbrella?’ Rita said when they reached the front door.
‘I think it has stopped.’
She watched him walk away and then closed the door. With her back pressed tightly against it, Rita began to cry. She suddenly realised how lonely she was.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Henry strolled to the bus stop. He was feeling quite confident that the whole business had most certainly been sorted. He only hoped Imogen wouldn’t be too angry about the ruined dinner. He thought of Rita and felt a little tingle of pleasure. He must thank her for all her help today. Perhaps he would buy her a bottle of perfume. He was certain she would like that. He’d certainly enjoyed spending the time with her in that little bedsit. It had smelt of bluebells. That’s how it felt being with Rita, thought Henry, like being in a field of bluebells with a warm spring sun on your face. It made him happy and content. Things were uncomplicated with Rita. His face darkened as he thought about her landlord. Surely Rita wasn’t involved with him? He’d sounded a bit of a lout, coming to her room without being invited. The thought of his lovely bluebell-smelling Rita with some common lout made Henry shudder. Seeing his bus approaching, Henry pushed Rita from his mind and hurried to the bus stop. He was slightly disconcerted when the bus driver didn’t acknowledge him but was relieved to see he didn’t acknowledge the person behind either. Henry went to check the time and then remembered his watch had stopped.
‘Do you have the time?’ he asked the man seated beside him.
But the man continued reading his book. Henry felt a small pang of panic. Perhaps the man was slightly deaf, but Henry decided not to ask again. He got off the bus and walked slowly towards Mayberry Terrace. His heart was pounding, and he’d begun to perspire again. Usually, the house was welcoming. A warm glow would be seen through the windows, maybe the flickering light of a candle if Imogen had found time to light one. But tonight there were no comforting lights. His stomach rumbled and a sharp pain shot through the middle of his chest. He needed to take some of his antacid pills.
‘Calm down,’ he told himself firmly. ‘Imogen is probably in the kitchen trying to salvage the dinner.’
Somehow though he knew the house was empty. He pushed his key into the lock, opened the door and called out.
‘Imogen, I’m home.’
He turned to close the door but saw it was already shut and that the key was still in his pocket.
‘Crazy,’ he mumbled.
No one responded to his greeting.
‘Imogen love. Sorry I’m late,’ he called again. His leg hurt. He rubbed at it and groaned.
‘What now?’ he muttered.
There was no comforting smell of cooking sausages. He dropped his briefcase onto the hard-backed hall chair and waited for Imogen to come and greet him like usual. But the house was silent. It was cold too. He walked apprehensively to the kitchen. It was tidy. He ran his hand over the smooth varnished pine table. His pills were no longer there. He opened the dishwasher. It was empty. Where were his breakfast dishes? Where was the newspaper he’d been reading that morning? Nothing was out of place. The desk calendar still said the 18thSeptember and the Isle of Wight’s sun-drenched beaches were still on the fridge door. He opened the cupboard and took two indigestion pills from it.
‘Imogen,’ he called walking back into the hall.
His eyes wandered to the open living room door almost expecting to see it as it was fifteen years ago. Perhaps he’d lost years not just days. But everything was the same. The carpet was fine. Not a urine stain to be seen. Then he saw them, lined up on their pine dresser. Condolence cards, lots of them. Henry stared, his mind struggling to accept their presence. He was sweating profusely now. He could feel the dampness under his armpits and then just as suddenly as he had grown hot, he shivered as though chilled. What was happening? What on earth was going on? He walked as though in a trance towards the cards that were strategically placed so each one could be seen clearly. He picked one up and opened it.
‘Dearest Imogen, we are so very sorry for your loss. Best wishes Trevor and Lorraine.’
He placed it back on the dresser and licked his lips. His mind whirled. This business should have been sorted, he thought crossly. He forced his eyes to the photograph that sat at an angle at the side of the cards. It usually sat in the middle of the dresser. It had now been renegaded to the corner. It had been taken on their wedding day. The photographer had yelled ‘Say cheese’ and everyone had. Henry’s parents were grinning like Persian cats and Imogen was looking at Henry with love and pride in her eyes.
The sound of a key turning in the lock startled him. He took a deep breath and rushed to the front door to see Imogen walk in with her mother close behind. She was carrying the small holdall they used when they travelled to the Isle of Wight.
‘Oh, Imogen, thank goodness. What’s going on?’ he cried, clutching at his stomach. The pain was quite unbearable.
