Chapter 12 #2
Sorry it’s been a few months. How’s it going?
How’s work? How’s Jason? Just a quickie to ask whether you’re free any time mid-December.
My contract in Dubai is finally at an end and I return to the UK for good around then.
I’m dying to see you again. Can I take you out for a meal and catch up on all your news?
Let me know a date that suits you around all the office Christmas parties etc.
All the best
Andy xx
Hmm. No mention of Kelly or impending fatherhood. Phew.
Hi Andy
Good to hear from you. Great news about your return to the UK.
Is Kelly coming back too? No work Christmas parties for me – I’ve left work!
But I’ve also left London. I’m living back home and have taken over Auntie Kay’s shop.
I’m re-opening at the end of November and I’m expecting December to fly by in a blur.
I’m afraid there’s no chance of me coming to London, but if you ever fancy a trip to North Yorkshire…
Sarah xx
From Andy:
Here was me thinking I was about to go through a major upheaval leaving Dubai after three years but I think you’ve just trumped me! Kelly’s staying in Dubai. Has Jason moved with you?
To Andy:
Jason and I have split up
From Andy:
Sorry to hear that. Hope you’re not too upset. Good luck with the shop opening. I’ll get in touch when I’m back and we’ll find a way to catch up properly. Take care x
I smiled as I logged off my laptop. I always felt warm and fuzzy with nostalgia after hearing from Andy, even if it was only a brief email exchange.
I reached behind the dressing table to draw the curtains, pausing to stare for a moment into the inky blackness.
The wind had picked up and the sounds of the approaching storm echoed round my bedroom: a garden gate crashing, a dog barking, trees creaking.
I shivered. Storms weren’t my friend. They transported me immediately back to Uncle Alan’s flat and the flash of lightning that revealed his decomposing body.
Another storm had raged on the night of his funeral.
I could vividly remember backing myself into a corner of my room after he was cremated, clutching onto Mr Pink, and sobbing for Uncle Alan’s lonely soul.
Why had Mum and Dad gone out tonight of all nights? I didn’t want to be alone. I leapt as a burst of rain pelted the window. Yanking the curtains shut, I dived under the duvet fully dressed, curled up in a foetus position, and hugged Mr Pink tightly, willing the storm to end.
Think nice thoughts. Think about Andy and the good times we had. But a storm had also raged the night that our relationship ended and, as my bedroom lit up with lightning and the thunder crashed, I felt the pain of goodbye all over again.
Andy was my first in every sense of the word and I really believed I’d found The One.
Our three years together at university were so happy and after graduation we jetted off for a week’s holiday in Rhodes.
It was an incredibly romantic week, but also an emotional one as we prepared to face our toughest challenge yet: embarking on our new careers two hundred miles apart.
I’d secured a job in Manchester but Andy’s job was in London.
We knew it wouldn’t be easy but we’d already experienced the challenges of a distance relationship each university holiday when we both returned home to our families.
Having survived that greater distance, we were confident that London to Manchester wouldn’t tear us apart.
The first few weeks were fine. We’d already decided we wouldn’t meet up as we had new homes and jobs to settle into and new friends to make. We spoke regularly on the phone and talked about how much we loved and missed each other.
Then things changed. Andy began sounding irritated each time I phoned. He only managed the occasional one-sentence email in reply to the reams I’d write to him, saying he was too busy with work to write more. We made arrangements to meet on three occasions and, each time, he cancelled.
I started to wonder if he’d met someone else.
Once the idea popped into my head, I couldn’t shake it.
After the third cancelled weekend, I caught the train to London anyway.
I phoned Andy from outside his office, desperately hoping he was there and not out with my replacement.
It was half eight on a Friday evening but he was still at the office.
Feeling relieved – but scared as he didn’t sound at all pleased to hear that I was outside – I asked him to come down for ten minutes.
The cold look he gave me as he burst through the revolving doors was a far cry from the emotional reunion I’d imagined on the train down.
I’d naively thought that, if I could just see him, everything would slot into place.
I asked if we could go for a meal and talk. He refused. ‘I told you I was busy, so I don’t know what you’re playing at by coming here and making a scene.’
‘I’m not making a scene,’ I protested. ‘I was worried about you.’ I reached out to take his hand but he took a step back.
I saw his eyes flick to the overnight bag beside me on the step.
He sighed then reached in his pocket, pulled out his keys and dangled them in front of me.
‘I hope you’ve got a good book in there because you’re going to have to entertain yourself all weekend.
I told you I was busy. I’m working. We’re at a critical stage in this project. It’s more important than…’
It would have killed me to hear the end of the sentence.
I remember staring at the keys then at the face of the man I’d thought I’d be with forever.
As he stared back at me, dark eyes flashing with what seemed to be contempt, I couldn’t see anything of the Andy I loved.
I gently pushed the keys away, shook my head then said, ‘And here was me thinking I was the most important thing in your life.’
‘My career’s important,’ he snarled. ‘I told you not to come. Why didn’t you listen?’
‘I did listen. But I stupidly thought you might be missing me as much as I was missing you.’ I swallowed on the lump in my throat as I willed him to take me in his arms and say, ‘Of course I miss you. I’m glad you came really.
’ Instead, he just put his keys back in his pocket, looked at his watch and tutted. The sound pierced through my heart.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I won’t waste more of your precious work time.
If you haven’t got the time to see me or speak to me, what’s the point in being together anymore?
’ I paused, hoping he’d say something to convince me there was still hope for us but he just stared back, frowning.
I picked up my bag. ‘I’ll be off, then. I hope you and your career will be very happy together.
’ It was a stupid line but it was the only thing I could think of at the time.
‘Goodbye, Andy.’ I paused again, my eyes pleading with him to recover this.
Silence. With shaky legs, I walked back towards the underground, head held high, tears streaming.
My resolve crumbled within about ten paces.
I stopped and turned around, half expecting to see Andy slumped on the steps, crumpling with regret, or – even better – chasing after me and begging me to take him back.
Instead, he’d gone inside, presumably back to his ‘important’ work.
The knife twisted deeper. In a daze, I caught the tube to King’s Cross and boarded the next train to York, anxious to be surrounded by people who really did care about me.
I was too late for a connection to Whitsborough Bay, but my parents drove to York to collect me.
Mum sat in the back and cuddled me like a child while I sobbed all the way home.
It had taken two years before I felt strong enough to compose an email to Andy.
At a loose end one weekend, I’d decided to sort through a box of photos and put them in albums. I came across the one of Andy and me in Rhodes that I used to have stuck on the fridge.
Tanned and radiating with happiness, I’d thought it was only a matter of time before he proposed.
I’d never have predicted that we’d split up by the end of the following November.
Looking at the photo, I realised I didn’t feel angry or hurt anymore.
Instead, I felt happy with nostalgia so I sent a quick ‘hi-how-are-you?’ email.
Andy replied immediately saying it was good to hear from me.
The emails got longer and more regular and the friendship was gradually restored, our messages even becoming quite flirty.
I was convinced that we’d get back together one day, when the timing was right.
It was a year before we broached the subject of meeting up for a drink, but by the time we finally co-ordinated our diaries, I’d met someone else and he’d been offered a short secondment overseas – the first of many. And so began the pattern of it never being the right time to try again.
‘And now he’s finally coming back to the UK for good and I’m single,’ I whispered into Mr Pink’s fur, ‘but I don’t know if he’s single or still with Kelly. Or someone else. And anyway, I’m not exactly local. It would never work.’
Even if he was single, was it too late to try again after all these years? Eight years was a hell of a lot of water under the bridge.
I reached out and switched off my bedside lamp. ‘Location isn’t the only problem,’ I whispered to Mr Pink. ‘He isn’t called Steven.’