Page 17 of You Were Always the One

‘You don’t want anything?’ Emma looks hurt.

‘Not really.’ There isn’t anything that will make a difference to me. And everything important is in my heart – or in my study.

But to Emma, it’s a red flag. ‘Didn’t our marriage mean anything to you?’ She looks at me disbelievingly.

I can’t win. ‘Of course it did.’ I sigh. ‘Emma. Our marriage was never about all this paraphernalia. It was about us.’ Seeing a tear roll down her cheek, I rest a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’ll be OK,’ I say gently.

‘I know it will.’ When she turns to look at me, her eyes are filled with sadness. ‘I know this is the right thing, but it’s just so final, isn’t it?’

As I gaze at her, there’s an ember of what used to exist between us. She clearly feels it too and our faces move closer, then suddenly, we’re kissing. Not goodbye-kissing, but something far more frantic. Primordial, even. I don’t remember going upstairs, just that somehow we’re naked on the bed. I have a fleeting thought that this really isn’t a good idea, but then I stop thinking altogether.

Afterwards, Emma says soberly, ‘That wasn’t a good idea.’ She pulls on her clothes.

‘Sorry,’ I say, pulling on my jeans.

‘It’s not your fault.’ Emma sounds annoyed. ‘I could have said no.’

It isn’t exactly as I thought it would end as I help her carry her stuff out to her car. Then when the last of it is packed inside, we stand there looking at each other.

‘See you around,’ I say. After all, we’re bound to run into each other at some point.

‘Do you think so?’ She seems to falter. ‘To be honest, it’s probably best not to see each other. For a while, at least.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Especially given what’s just happened.

She gets in her car, and I stand there watching as she drives away. A sense of finality settles over me as I go back in, that it really is over. Emma isn’t coming back.

I get drunk that night. Given it’s how I met Emma, it seems a fitting way to see my marriage out. I contemplate that maybe she’s right and I live in a made-up bubble. But what does she expect? That’s what books are. The contents of someone’s imagination typed onto a keyboard, reduced to eighty or so thousand words about themes that hopefully resonate with a considerable enough number of other people. And I’m moderately successful. My books sell – if not in their millions, in respectable enough numbers.

But the bottom line is, it’s not enough to live off. There are our savings, which were destined for a deposit on a house. My half will top up my income for the next year or so. But they won’t last much longer than that.

I think about the dream I used to have of writing a bestseller. An incredible blockbuster of a novel about the many forms of love and heartbreak. Pouring myself another drink, a sense of resolve takes me over. Forget this book I’m currently trying to write. I’m starting again. Only this time, I’m writing something I feel passionate about.

Like pubs, I imagine Emma saying, sarkily.

But she’d be wrong. Sitting there, something clicks into place inside my brain. I’m going to write about something beautiful – not that pubs aren’t. I’m talking about the all-consuming love between Holly and me. The highs and lows and twists of fate.

The story of us.

It may have been conceived while I was drunk, but it’s still a cracking good idea, I tell myself the next morning. But without the haze of alcohol, I see the pitfalls. For one thing, it isn’t just my story. It’s Holly’s, too. Fictionalise it, you twat, I tell myself. It’s not like you’re writing an autobiography.

And so I begin, googling names for our alter egos, before eventually settling down to write. And after a stilted first sentence I rewrite a dozen times, joy of joys, the words flow. Unstoppably, from my fingers into the keyboard in a way they never have before.

Maybe it’s because Emma and I have called time on us. But it’s as though the story is already formed, as though I’m reaching into my memory for long-forgotten pieces of me and Holly. The magic of us, before it all went wrong; wanting my readers to feel everything I felt.

At one point, I pause as a thought strikes me. It’s one thing writing about the past. But what will happen when I get to where we are now? How do I write the future of us? I sit there for a moment as the solution comes to me, shock hitting me. What if I create a future version of us?

I know I’m onto something when my head feels like it’s exploding. Going to the fridge and finding it empty, I force myself out to go shopping. But my thoughts are constantly evolving and in the supermarket, as I wander aimlessly down the aisles, ideas keep coming at me, insistent enough that I have to keep stopping to write them down.

In between scribbling notes to myself, somehow I gather a hotchpotch of ingredients for lunch and for a curry later on – well, enough for my interpretation of one, with a readymade sauce.

I’m used to Emma being away, but now that she’s moved out, the house feels oddly empty. After making some toast, I take it back to my study and sit down at my laptop. As I reread what I’ve written so far, it’s like my characters have come to life. But they were alive, I remind myself. Still are – very much so, just as the most unexpected course of events is unfolding in my life.

I make a conscious decision not to message Holly. For whatever reason, I’m starting to think she was right. Us seeing each other again wasn’t about rekindling the past, I tell myself. It was about closure. This is about getting my life back on track, and doing it alone.

I’m not looking for Holly, I tell myself. But fate has other plans, and a week later, I bump into her. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in her uniform and as she walks towards me, I wolf-whistle.

‘Fuck off, Riggs,’ she says amiably.