Date with Destiny

Chapter Four

All the lights are off when I arrive home and, as I pass through the hallway, I wonder for a moment if there might be some kind of surprise party waiting for me in the living room.

Surely Daniel knows me better than that? Hosting a party is in the area of worst nightmares for me. I shudder at the thought. Obviously the theory is to have fun, but I can’t get away from all that horrible fear of no one turning up; the pressure of ensuring everyone is having a good time; the stress of potentially running out of drinks or food; the neighbours complaining; everyone leaving early and bitching about how crappy your house is, or how ugly your sofas are. I can’t see the appeal whatsoever. Even attending parties means I need a lie down for three days afterwards. I was OK with planning a tiny wedding as a one-off, but since it has become this monstrosity of an event, I’ve been surviving by telling myself it’s Celeste’s party, not mine. And it kind of is.

Myfanwy describes me as a sociable introvert. Because the weird thing is that I do enjoy meeting people and talking to them – and especially getting drunk with them. But afterwards I need a lot of recuperation and recharge time.

Thankfully, there is no surprise party in the living room, only more dimness, and I fumble for the overhead light.

‘Dan?’ I call out to an echoey flat, nervousness in my voice. Daniel works from home as a freelance copywriter, so he’s almost always here when I get back. Has he been kidnapped? Murdered? Taken up jogging? I don’t know which one would be worse.

I check my phone. No message from Daniel, only one from Myfanwy asking if I want to be involved in her and Sonali’s summer solstice ceremony this weekend – followed by another message, sternly telling me to stop rolling my eyes.

I shoot Dan a text asking where he is, and then set about checking each room for killers, turning on lights everywhere I go and ignoring the stabs of guilt about the unaffordable electricity bill.

The flat secured, I pause, unsure what to do next. Usually I’d get into my pyjamas the moment I’m home, but what if Daniel has got something planned? Maybe I should be putting on more make-up, not taking it off.

I try ringing him but it goes to voicemail and I feel a strange gnawing in my stomach. Where is he? What if he’s not OK?

He didn’t mention anything about plans tonight when we said goodbye this morning. But I was in a rush and fielding lots of lovely WhatsApp messages wishing me a happy birthday. Maybe I missed something.

Oh god, what if he told me to meet him somewhere and I was too distracted shooting off amusing gifs to friends?

I message him again and then retrace my steps around the flat, checking for a note on the fridge or by the door. Something jangles in my head as I pass through the hallway – I’m missing something. The hallway is missing something.

The bags! That’s it. Daniel’s suitcase for Amsterdam. The stuff he’d prematurely packed for his stag do. They’re gone. I quickstep through to our bedroom to check and they’re not there either.

Did I get the plan wrong? Surely I’d remember if his stag do in Amsterdam started midweek, on a Wednesday. On my birthday.

No, we talked about it enough – he was definitely going on Friday afternoon.

The gnawing in my stomach is starting to get more intense. If he was injured or there was an emergency, he wouldn’t have taken his suitcase. And he would’ve messaged me. The last WhatsApp he sent me was yesterday and it just asked me to please bring home bread.

Slowly, my hands shaking, I make my way over to his side of the wardrobe and when I open it, I find… nothing. Just empty hangers, dead moths and dust. His clothes are all gone. His shoes are gone. His cologne, deodorant, shaving equipment, his stuff is all gone.

I try to ring him again because this can’t be what it looks like – it isn’t what it looks like. There’s no way, no chance. He wouldn’t do this. There was no warning, no signs. We’re getting married and we have an amazing, lovely life together.

There is still no answer and this time I leave a strangled message that sounds nothing like me.

‘Why are all your clothes gone, Daniel? Where are you? I’m really confused, can you ring me back, please? Please, Dan.’

Then I change into my pyjamas, get into bed and stare blankly at the blackness of the turned-off TV for hours, waiting for my phone to light up.

It is almost midnight before he finally messages me back.

Ginny, I’m sorry. I can’t go through with the wedding. I just need some time, a bit of space to think. You were right, it is all too much. I can’t do it. Dx

I drop my phone back on the bed as my hands go numb. I look around at the flat – at our flat – and feel its barrenness reverberate back at me. I glance down at his bedside table, empty of its usual mess. There are no used cups with its standard coffee line around the rim. No empty Twirl wrappers, no little pots of vitamins, no half-read biography about some sports star. The tiny things that make this flat our shared space are all gone. And so is Daniel.

The numbness travels through me as one thought loops around my brain again and again.

Happy birthday, Ginny.