Chapter 19
The more I think about it, the better I feel about going to Cyprus. At the very least, five days away will give me breathing space from Rich.
We didn’t bump into each other at all yesterday, and I was hoping it would be the same today. But this morning, I saw him making coffee in the kitchen when I went to put my lunch in the fridge.
‘How are you?’ he asked, just as one of the phlebotomists walked in. She didn’t say anything, but what’s more damning than asking someone you supposedly live with how they are?
I’d hurried to my office, and that’s where I’ve been ever since. But it’s half past one now, and I’d really like to eat my sandwich. My next patients are at two, and if I don’t eat now, I won’t have another break until four.
The prospect of two hours of embarrassing stomach gurgles is enough to prompt me out of my office. But once I’m in the corridor I hear Rich’s voice and freeze. He’s chatting to someone young and female who evidently finds what he’s saying very funny.
I sigh at the unfairness of it all. He’s putting up this perfect front and going about his day as usual, while I’m the one skulking around like a criminal.
Well, sod him. If he’s in the kitchen so bloody what. He’s not going to keep me from my halloumi and cucumber sandwich.
I’m almost disappointed not to find him in the kitchen, which means he’s probably in reception, talking to whichever bombshell is on shift today. Feeling grumpy, I grab my lunch and retreat to my office.
I’m not supposed to have favourite patients, but some I look forward to seeing more than others.
Hugh and Fernando are in their sixties and have been together for thirty years.
They lived through Aids, Section 28, and grew up in a time where bigoted teachers didn’t see anything wrong with calling a child a homophobic slur.
Fernando is mixed race, which would have made his experience so much worse.
They first came to me about three months ago because Hugh had slept with someone else. It didn’t take much digging to work out he’d done it as a cry for help. He was a Category 5 cheater – he’d strayed to grab his partner’s attention.
Fernando lost his mother six months ago, and going back to Cuba to wrap up her affairs is what put a strain on the relationship. I’m not saying Hugh was right to stray because he felt neglected, but big life events often make us behave in ways that are profoundly out of character.
It’s not a walk in the park to forgive a Category 5, but however counter-intuitive it might feel, it comes from a place of love. And if a couple can work through it, they often come out the other side much stronger.
When they’re gone, I can’t help wondering about whether Rich is a Category 5, too. I was convinced he’d done it because he could – that he wrongly assumed I would forgive him – but what if he’d strayed to get my attention?
All my energy had been taken up by my PhD, worrying about my book proposal, plus all the other demands of daily life. He’d pushed for a holiday back in May when his sister had invited us to go with her and her boyfriend to Miami. But I’d dismissed the idea because I was so busy.
Would things have been different if we’d gone? Would time away from our stale routine have restrengthened our bond, just when we needed it?
I know I’m not to blame for what Rich did, but retracing the steps that led to his betrayal feels essential. I need to identify the factors that contributed to his fatal lapse of judgement.
Because if I don’t, how will I ever trust anyone again?
I’m back at the flat for the first time in five days. Or rather, I’m dawdling outside, waiting for Yan to arrive.
I’ve come to pick up my passport and some proper summer clothes for Cyprus.
After Hugh and Fernando left, I spotted Rich leaving the clinic in his workout gear.
Wednesday is his running club night, which means I’ve got a comfortable couple of hours to zip in and out of the flat before he comes home.
I’m hanging back, a good ten metres from number 23, when I see Yan slide into a parking space by the front door.
He gets out of the car when he sees me and walks round to the boot.
‘I brought a suitcase,’ he says. ‘It’ll make life easier.’
I nod, grateful for his thoughtfulness.
I peer through the living room windows. It doesn’t look like Rich is home, but I ring the bell, just in case.
‘Come on, Nell,’ says Yan, after a couple of moments when it’s obvious no one is in. ‘Fifteen minutes in and out.’
I twist the key in the lock and open the door.
It was always going to be difficult coming back, but I’m unprepared for how alien it feels. Even the most familiar things feel off. Our matching trench coats hanging on a peg, ones we never wear, but can never throw out.
‘Nella?’ comes Yan’s gentle voice. ‘It’s getting chilly on the doorstep.’
I shuffle forwards to make room for him.
He notices me staring at the coats. ‘Shall I find a kitchen knife so you can start slashing? We can pretend there was a break-in. Or we can come back with some prawns and sew them into the lining of his jackets. I can get a good price wholesale.’
I manage a weak smile. ‘Not sure he’d believe that was a burglar.’
We walk into the living room, and I’m amazed by how messy the place is – dirty plates and glasses, empty pizza boxes, and ring marks on the coffee table.
Yan notices, too.
‘You’ve been gone five days, and he’s forgotten he’s got a sink and washing-up liquid? Were you constantly clearing up after him?’
I avoid his eye. ‘The odd mug, maybe.’
‘I bet it was more than that,’ mutters Yan. ‘Still, at least now he’ll realise how much you were doing.’
Rich’s family always had a cleaner, so his parents never cared if he left a mess, whereas my parents would rather burn their eyebrows off than let anyone see their house if it wasn’t spick and span.
Until I started living with Rich, I never thought I was particularly tidy, probably because of how pernickety my parents were. Dad was cleaning the washing-machine detergent-drawer last night. Who does that?
I bend to pick a coffee cup, and Yan tuts.
‘Don’t you dare.’
I stop myself, not because of Yan’s disapproval but because I don’t want Rich to know I’ve been here. Not that he’d notice there are only three mugs lying around when there were four when he left this morning.
‘Let’s just get what we came for and leave,’ says Yan. ‘I’m worried as soon as I turn my back, you’ll whip out the vacuum and start tidying. And that bastard does not deserve a free maid service.’
Twenty minutes later, with a suitcase packed full of all my skimpiest summer clothes – Yan’s criteria, not mine – we’re back in his car.
‘I got guanciale the other day,’ he says.
I suck in a breath. ‘Do you need to get to a doctor? Charles will see you at short notice.’
‘Ha ha,’ he says.
I know very well that guanciale is the cut of pork you need to make authentic carbonara, which happens to be one of my favourite dishes.
‘If you’re offering to cook for me tonight, that would be lovely.’
‘Might even have a bottle of Lambrusco Bianco kicking around.’
‘How very Joan Collins of you.’
‘That’s Cinzano Bianco, darling. A little respect for Dame Joan, please.’
We’re almost back in Ealing when I remember Yan’s unwanted houseguest. ‘I can’t go back to yours because I don’t want to bump into Mark.’
Yan looks over at me. ‘He’s at Theo’s tonight, but you’re going to have to see him sooner or later.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Tig beat you to it. He was part of our cosy foursome at dinner the other night.’
‘And it was fine, wasn’t it?’
He’s so sure he’s right I don’t have the energy to correct him. And I’m in no mood to dwell on Mark.
Instead, I put on the radio and we listen to Heart 2000s all the way home.