Fourteen
I spend the rest of the weekend attempting to pack up my things for my Monday morning departure for Sir John Fenton’s house. In reality, most of it is spent picking up objects, looking at them, and distractedly putting them back down again, all while humming Disney theme songs. Predictably, Adam walks into my room just as I’m singing “So This is Love” from Cinderella at the top of my voice.
“Have you been at the breakfast Baileys again?” he interrupts, destroying my rhythm.
“Whenever you get all Disney, it’s usually that or some fantasy about Chris coming back and proposing on a starlit beach accompanied by a choir of small sea turtles or some such nonsense. Chris is an idiot. He’s not even worth daydreaming about.”
I deliberately haven’t told Adam about my date with Ryan. I know even he wouldn’t approve of me going on a date with him and would yell at me for not just briskly moving on to the next letter. He thinks I ‘over-involve’ myself in things that have nothing to do with me and then inadvertently make them worse. I have no idea what he means by that.
The alternative is even worse, however – that he would approve, and therefore lead me to question everything about my judgement.
“Nope, no Chris fantasies,” I answer.
“Who then?” he asks suspiciously. Honestly. Allowing Adam to sense that there is gossip afoot is like feeding a gremlin after midnight. He turns from a relatively benign being into a crazed and bloodthirsty monster.
“I’m just happy,” I answer, knowing that there’s little chance of the gremlin believing me.
He doesn’t.
“Rubbish. Last night, when I came home with Josie, you were being morose with a tub of ice cream about the idea of no longer living with me. Thanks for that, by the way. It somewhat ruined the mood. Anyway… What’s with the Cinderella song?”
After a shared childhood and three years living together, Adam is well-versed in the Disney princess repertoire.
“I’ve decided to take a more positive view of this next step in my life. I’m going to become a published author, a leading – the leading – political biographer of British… political biographies!”
“I see.” He looks unconvinced. “Does the UK leading political biographer of British political biographies still need four wheels to get her to her new des res? Or does she travel by her own hot air?”
“She requires the wheels.”
“In that case, I’m off to pick it up now, so I hope you’re packed and ready. I’ve only got the rental for a few hours.”
Ever the sentimentalist, he strides out, and I hear the door shut moments later. Definitely crying beneath the strong man facade, I told myself. This day was always going to come eventually, I tell myself. It’s been a great three years with Adam, and who knows, I might be back in a few months, but I need to try and see this as progress. It is amazing that I’ve found a job – a writing job – that gives me a free place to live. Many people would kill to be paid to write but instead work in a café during the day and write in the early hours. The fact that I’m able to make any sort of living doing this is an achievement. I think a lot of this self-recrimination comes from Chris being so critical of my progress compared to his. But it’s not all about Chris. Not anymore.
With a sigh, I pull myself off the sofa and go to finish* packing.
*start