14
As soon as I catch my breath, I sit on the bed and call Sara.
‘Hi, babe,’ she says, and relief floods through me at the sound of her voice.
‘What’s up, buttercup?’ she says, and I almost start crying immediately at the warmth in her tone. I miss her so much. I take a breath, and everything that’s happened in the last few days spills out at once. The book club, Nigel, Berlin. This evening, and the mixed feelings it’s set off inside me.
‘That’s … a lot,’ she says, when I’ve finished.
‘It is,’ I say, feeling some of the heaviness lift. Talking to Sara, as always, is like a soothing bath. I bask in it, tension seeping out of me.
‘Are you doing OK?’ she asks, and now the tears start to come.
‘Sort of,’ I say, my throat thick. I’m grateful I don’t have to hold it together around her. ‘I miss you.’
‘Oh A,’ she says. ‘I wish I could give you a hug.’
‘Quit your job and fly to Paris?’ I ask, only half joking.
‘You’ll be back in New York so soon, babe. And you’re doing so well, by the sounds of it. You can do this.’ I hold her words to my chest, willing myself to take heart from them. She pauses for a second, and I pull the phone away from my face to check I still have a signal. ‘Can I give you some advice, though?’
‘Please,’ I say, emboldened by her words.
‘It might be worth thinking about clearing the air with Jack, again,’ she continues, and my stomach drops. ‘You know – you’re talking about all this confusion, all these weird feelings towards him. I think if you had a conversation about what happened, it might help you to sort through them. Then once that’s sorted, you’ll have some space to really sort through your other feelings – about Nigel, about your dad.’
‘I can’t do that, S,’ I say, trying to keep my tone neutral even as my chest grows tight, panic spreading through me.
‘I think you can. You’re stronger than you—’
‘Please, Sara,’ I say, cutting her off, my tone sharp and pleading as the fear builds, lighting up my senses. Some part of me deep down can hear her logic, can see where she’s coming from. But I don’t want to open the box I’ve been keeping so tightly closed. ‘I just – I can’t.’
‘OK,’ she says quickly, her tone gentle, and the fear starts to abate, some tension releasing in my chest. ‘It was just an idea.’ My heart rate slows, my breath coming more steadily.
‘I know,’ I say.
There’s a pause for a moment, and I feel that awkwardness again, the sense of something being off between us, the silence slightly strained. She suddenly feels very far away.
‘I miss you,’ I say, aching to be with her. And I mean it: I feel it in my gut, the pain of being apart – like there’s some invisible thread between us that’s being stretched to its limits. ‘Miss you too, babe,’ she says, her voice warm, and I wonder if it’s in my mind.
‘Listen, S—’ I start, trying to keep my voice steady through the tangle of fear that’s reappeared, contracting in my chest. I want to communicate all this to her, somehow. But before I can say anything else, I hear the sound of the door opening behind her, of James’s voice. I tense up, anticipating the goodbye before it comes.
‘I have to go, A,’ she says, her words landing like a lead weight in my stomach. ‘I’ll speak to you really soon, OK?’
‘OK,’ I say, trying to keep back the tears that are suddenly threatening. But my voice sounds hollow.
I open my contacts and – on impulse – scroll down to my mum’s name. I wish I could talk to her, right now – could tell her what’s going on. I hover over it for a few seconds with my thumb, willing myself to press it. But in this moment, I can’t bring myself to call her. I miss her like hell, but I don’t know where to even begin. So much has gone unsaid between us, and the miles feel too numerous to close in this moment. I check the time – it’s 10 p.m. in the UK, anyway: she’ll be in bed by now, with her phone on do not disturb. Since I showed her that feature, she uses it every night.
I text her instead: Miss you xxx then throw my phone on the bed and flop backwards next to it, pressing my palms to my eyes. The loneliness that I’ve been staving off for the last few days hovers around me, ready to close in. The distance between me and the people I love most feels greater than ever, right now. As if I’m adrift, moving further and further away from them. At sea, alone, and powerless to stop it. I miss my mum, but she’s moving on with her life and I don’t know how to talk to her about it without falling apart. I miss Sara, but I can feel her pulling away from me. I miss my dad , I think, the thought surprising me, and the tears fall faster, blurring my vision, a knife twisting between my ribs.
I take a few deep breaths, and as my mind begins to clear an unexpected image floats to the top of it: the chess-playing café down the street. The memory it evoked of my dad is like a balm to the fire in my chest. In the next moment, almost as if my limbs are acting without thought from me, I find myself getting up and making my way out of the hotel room, down the stairs and through reception, then heading down the alleyway towards the café.
The chairs are all there, still: the café staff are slowly winding down, but there are a few people still playing in the soft street light. I sit at the nearest unoccupied table and stare down at the board. The image is still there, still clear: I can feel the carpet under my knees, see him kneeling opposite.
‘Pawns first,’ he says, his voice ringing out in my mind.
I reach to move the pawn in front of the queen, and my fingers are the same fingers that touched the pieces with him all those years ago. I make his move for him: the same, opposing pawn. Next, the queen. I close my hand around the piece.
‘The queen can do anything she wants,’ he says, and he winks at me, my hand moving with his in diagonal motion across the board. I focus in on the tone of his voice, so familiar and yet so far gone it’s like an ache in my chest, and let his instructions guide me until pieces are scattered across the whole board. But after a few more moments, my memory falters. I pause, letting my hand fall, unwilling to put the pieces back just yet. I want to stay here, where the game with my father is still happening.
I drop my hand to my side and sit back, my gaze turning to the other people playing: old men, mostly, and a younger couple in the corner, visibly on either a first or second date. Two boys, messing around, about ten years old. I wonder if their fathers taught them to play. My breath comes slow and steady, and the cool night air brushes across my skin. I sit, unmoving in the street light, until the last table has been cleared. Eventually, the café owner makes her way over to my table, gives me an apologetic look and says she is locking up. I nod, hesitant to leave the safety of this memory. But the world is calling – the world without my dad. I can’t stay here forever, no matter how much I want to.
I carefully pick up each piece to put the board back as it was when I sat down, my hand lingering over the queen on what would have been my father’s side of the board. I miss you, I think, willing it to reach him. Then I take my hand off the piece, give her a final smile, pick up my bag and make my way slowly back to the hotel.