2
The evenings are bright at this time of year, so my walk home from the subway station to my apartment on the Upper West Side is bathed in soft dusk light. I usually love this part of my commute: everyone always seems to be out and about, on their way somewhere. The city feels quietly alive.
But with today’s events, it doesn’t have its usual effect.
By the time I reach my building, I’m covered in sweat and absolutely exhausted. I unlock the door and wait for a beat, half-expecting to hear Sara’s voice greeting me, then remember for the hundredth time that she doesn’t live here anymore.
The silence settles as I shut the door behind me, and I allow myself to feel her absence for exactly thirty seconds before throwing my bag on the sofa and watering all of my plants to distract myself. Andrew the ficas, Shirley the monstera, Sharon the cactus, Peter the succulent. Sara and I named them together when she first moved here – her arrival in New York, a year after mine, brought so much colour to the grey life I’d been struggling to build on my own. But now, three years later, they are mine. A few weeks ago, Sara moved into a new flat with her lovely investment banker boyfriend James, leaving me in our fifth-floor walk-up, alone. A part of me was delighted for her, but a larger part of me sometimes sits for hours in her old room because I miss her so much. Before I become too sad, I pull out my phone and call her.
‘Big A, my babe!’ Her voice is like a warm bath after the day I’ve had. I sink into it. ‘How are you? How was your first day? Tell me everything!’
Relief washes over me at the question. The emotions I’ve been managing to keep in check all day flow out of me, drawn out by Sara’s warmth and her total lack of connection to my job. ‘On a scale of one to ten, I’m going to give it a three. And that might be generous.’
I hear rustling and footsteps – as if she’s moving somewhere more private so she can give me her full attention. ‘Oh Andie, I’m so sorry. Is your boss horrible?’
‘No, she’s delightful.’
‘Were your colleagues mean?’
‘Nope, they seem great.’
She pauses, groping for other reasons for my low rating. ‘The office?’
‘Marvellous. Beautiful.’
‘Then what is it?’ she says, finally defeated after we’ve covered the commute, the local lunch spots, the free office coffee, the view from my desk. All great.
‘Jack Carlson is one of my authors.’
I hear her sharply exhale and wish she were here so I could see the expression on her face. She gets it. She’s the only one who really does, the only one who knows what happened. The warmth of shared understanding is like a soft jumper.
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘I know.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ.’
‘Yep.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘What do I do?’ I ask, and it’s a genuine question. Sara and I have been inseparable since she threw a drink over a guy who wouldn’t leave me alone in a bar in freshers’ week: since then, she’s always been my go-to person. So brave, so wise, so uncaring about the opinions of others. I could really use her help right now.
‘I don’t know, babe. It’s really tough.’ I feel momentarily panicked by the idea that even Sara, my problem-solver, can’t figure this one out, but then she carries on. ‘I think you’ve got to stick it out, honestly. You’ve made it this far.’ Resolve enters her voice, and I feel the comfort of it wash over me. ‘We’re not in Edinburgh anymore. Don’t let him ruin this for you.’
‘OK,’ I say, my voice smaller than I’d like it to be. At this moment, at my most honest and vulnerable, the thought of seeing him again is almost inconceivable. But Sara’s voice reminds me of my own strength, and I lean into it. ‘I won’t.’
‘Dinner this week as usual?’
‘Always.’
‘See you then. You can do this.’ I savour the last of her voice before she hangs up, and I’m left once again with an empty apartment. I really need to get on with finding a new roommate – Sara, despite my protests that she didn’t need to, has covered her rent for the next three months until the end of our lease. After that, if I don’t find either a new apartment or a new roommate I’ll be in some trouble, even with my new salary. Yet another spiral I don’t need to go down today. I pour myself a glass of wine and turn to Andrew the ficas.
‘I can do this,’ I say. If plants could hear, he might be able to detect the fear in my voice. He might even tell me I was kidding myself. But his leaves hang silent, and I sip my wine in peace.