18
As soon as the door shuts behind him, I deflate, the weight of everything pressing against my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I take a deep, shuddering breath and call Sara. It rings a few times, but she doesn’t answer.
I send a text: SOS. Can we talk? And receive a response a few moments later: Sorry, A. With J. My stomach sinks, and a sense of dread moves through me, my throat growing suddenly thick. SOS has always been a drop-anything-and-answer-right-now text, a code Sara and I have relied on in the last nine years of our friendship. She always joked that if she ever didn’t answer, it would be because she was missing a limb.
Later? I text, the panic that has been simmering through me now reaching a peak – how am I supposed to figure this all out without her? Her reply comes through fast, again. I’ll let you know.
Something about the formal tone, the lack of ceremony or personality to her texts, sets off a million alarm bells in my head – this doesn’t sound like Sara at all. My gut twists. There is clearly something more going on. With James, as I’ve suspected on the last few calls. Maybe the fights got worse after I left. Maybe something is horribly wrong. A deep, visceral sadness hits me suddenly that whatever’s been going on, she hasn’t felt able to tell me about it.
All ok? I text, chewing my bottom lip, worry moving through me.
All fine. Just busy. Love you x
This last text flashes up on the screen and I stare at it for a few seconds, worry giving way to shock as her tone sets off the same deep instinct in me that has been building every time we’ve spoken for the last two weeks – she’s lying, I can feel it. Something is definitely, seriously wrong. And I don’t know how to reach her in this moment. My chest grows tight, panic building inside me. I think of how she avoided my question about James the last time I spoke to her, her noncommittal text saying he was ‘fine’. I can no longer feel the thread that’s been pulled taut between us since I’ve been on this trip – as if we’re not just further away than we’ve ever been, but totally separate. In this second, the distance between us feels totally crushing.
Ok, I text back, tears streaming down my face. Love you, too. Always here if you need. X
I watch the read receipt change from delivered to seen and wait a beat, hoping she’ll change her mind and text me, asking for a call, asking if she can talk to me about something. Reaching out and needing me, again, like I need her so desperately in this moment. Leaning on each other, like we used to at university, like we’ve always been able to since. But nothing comes, and her status on Whatsapp moves from active to last active three minutes ago. The lump in my throat grows so large I can barely breathe. But I have to accept the truth, settling over me suddenly and turning me cold: whatever Sara is going through, whatever I might be going through in this moment, we can’t help each other, right now. And at any rate, she doesn’t want my help. Which means I’m also going to have to deal with this without her sage advice, her understanding of the right path. The compass she’s become in my life, that I hadn’t realised I was so reliant on until exactly this moment, when it wasn’t there, anymore.
I take a long, slow breath that sticks in my chest, then click the lock button and watch the screen fade to black. Whatever is about to happen, I’m on my own.
The next morning, I pack in a daze. The room is visibly empty of Jack’s belongings: after Sara’s texts yesterday, I went for a walk to clear my head. When I came back everything except my suitcase was gone. I have no idea where he slept last night. Apart from the professional consideration that I’ve managed to lose my author on tour, I can’t find it in myself to care.
Jack is waiting, emotionless, in the hotel lobby. He nods briefly to acknowledge my arrival, and gestures to the door. We walk outside to find the car waiting for us, and spend an uncomfortable journey silently staring out of separate windows. Jonathon doesn’t seem to notice any tension and provides a low-level hum of monologue, telling us how much he’s enjoyed being our driver for this trip, and how the story of the tyre and the pothole is already his go-to pub anecdote. I flinch at the memory of that evening, just two nights ago though it feels like two years, and glance towards Jack. His expression is still carefully calm, but his Adam’s apple bobs, his throat giving away his tension. He’s thinking about it, too. With a rush, a different memory floods my brain: of yesterday, of how it felt to press my body against his, to kiss him. A shiver moves up my spine, but I shove the feeling and the memory away, turning my gaze back to the passing streets of Dublin.
We move through the airport in silence: baggage control, passport control. At the check-in desk, Jack quietly and firmly requests a seat change, and he is moved to a seat at the back of the plane, as far as possible from where I’m sitting. Good , I think, but the nausea in the pit of my stomach isn’t entirely convinced. I have a sudden, stupid urge to reach out to him as he moves past me to continue up the aisle, to tell him to stay, but I don’t know why I would even want that. What the fuck is wrong with you, Andie?
I find my seat, and Jack’s seat next to me remains empty: evidence of his anger. I feel viscerally uncomfortable, like I want to climb out of my skin again. I haven’t felt this way since London: a huge storm cloud hovering over me, darkening everything in my path. It’s unbearable.
When we’ve taken off, I take some herbal remedy to try and help me sleep through this flight. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. It works, and an hour and a half later I’m awoken to the juddering sound of wheels hitting tarmac – we’ve arrived. Oh, fuck.
Every cell of my body is on fire as I exit the plane, waiting awkwardly for Jack alongside the gangway. He spots me, but walks right past without acknowledgement. I weave through the airport behind him, quickening my pace to catch up – he’s really punishing me now, and I hate it. The power balance has reversed, and it’s searingly uncomfortable.
While we’re waiting for the car, I pull out my personal phone to distract myself, momentarily, and immediately regret it: a few texts from my mum have come through, asking if I saw her email, if that’s all OK with me. I type out a quick reply, on autopilot, careful to keep up the facade that I already knew – I don’t need to hurt her by explaining my shock:
Congratulations again! So sorry I haven’t texted you yet. I had a bit of a tour crisis. On my way to resolving it now. That date should be fine. So thrilled for you, Mum xxx
The lump that’s been steadily growing in my throat now feels so large I almost choke on it as I put my phone back in my pocket. I take a long, shaky breath, willing myself to keep it together in front of Jack – right now, I have to focus on getting to the hotel without throwing up. Our driver collects us and I practically leap into the front seat, desperate not to sit next to Jack. It’s not set up for someone to sit there, so I have to awkwardly remove his jacket from the seat before I sit down, and slide the seat back to fit. I try to take subtle deep breaths as the car weaves through the streets of the city I used to know so well, keeping my gaze fixed on the dashboard as we drive past the campus, the library. When we pass the student union I squeeze my eyes shut, terrified of even catching a glimpse of the asphalt outside, where it all went so horribly wrong. I open them and involuntarily catch sight of Jack in the rearview mirror, looking right at me, his expression soft and concerned, but when I catch his eye he immediately looks away, his face restored to stony indifference.
We have the first day here off, so once we arrive at the hotel – another beautiful place, but at this point I could not care less what it looks like – I go straight up to my room and switch into work-mode to get through it, closing the curtains and scrolling through my inbox, which has become more and more unwieldy in the last two weeks. There are a few excited emails from Jessica confirming the schedule for tomorrow, which I file away until I have the strength to look at them, focussing my energy instead on upcoming campaigns, due to kick off when I return. I just have to get through the next few days, then Jack’s campaign will mostly be over, and I’ll be working with other authors. Ones I haven’t slept with, who don’t serve as a reminder of the most painful time in my life. The thought is just about enough to get me through the afternoon, and by 8 p.m. I’ve cleared most of my inbox. I shut my laptop, feeling ever so slightly lighter than I did when I arrived. It’s not hope, exactly – but it’s something. A tether out of this darkness I’ve found myself in. And it gets me to the bathroom for a long, hot shower, and then back into bed. I take what’s probably more than the recommended dose of my herbal sleep remedy and rest my head on the pillow, trying to still my thoughts. Tomorrow, I’ll have to leave the protection of this dark, safe hotel room. And it’s going to be awful. But for now, at least, I can pretend these four walls are all there is. I close my eyes and fall into a fitful sleep.