Chapter 26 One Missing Jacket
The week after is midterm exam period, but I go into school on one of the days to run drop-in sessions for students who need some extra help. Only three turn up, but it’s better than nothing.
Karim has been decorating his apartment, and I have been helping him. I have been swimming again with Margie, and I have spoken to my mother on the phone to keep the lines of communication open between us. Erin and Katie have gone to Middlesex to visit relatives, and I am calling in to water their plants.
I have, in short, been concentrating on the glass being half full.
Karim has shown me more pictures from the party, pointing out his sisters and his dad and his ex, Zara, with her own kids. She is sleek and beautiful and has a smile that could power the whole of Liverpool. I had a flicker of jealousy when he showed me and obviously didn’t hide it well enough—he pounced on it, delighted and gleeful at my reaction.
“You don’t need to worry, babe,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. “I only have eyes for you!”
It was a strange and new emotion, jealousy, and I’m not sure I like it. I do, however, like the fact that it made him so happy. Relationships are mysteries to me. We have even arranged for me to go and meet everyone in Birmingham when we break for the Christmas holidays—which seem far enough away for me to handle the idea calmly.
Again, despite my uneasiness, it made him so happy that I’d agreed to it. Perhaps this is the key to at least one of those mysteries—shelving your own qualms for the sake of someone else. Compromising because you care how they feel. Maybe I’ve been alone for so long not because I’m broken but because I’m just selfish—and Karim is teaching me the joys of giving. He is so decent, so kind, so thoroughly good that it feels impossible not to respond in kind.
We went to the pub quiz the night before and he stayed over at mine, as usual. It is now one of those rare days when neither of us has a lot to do, and we have luxuriated in bed for way longer than normal.
“I feel like I could stay in bed forever today,” he says. “Decorating is harder work than it looks.”
“Yeah, you really should work on your fitness levels,” I reply, grinning already. Karim is the very picture of fitness, and even though he knows I am winding him up on purpose, I still get a poke in the ribs for it.
“I’m a godlike creature and you know it. You can’t get enough of me, woman.”
I laugh, and he wraps the covers around us a bit tighter, creating a cocoon of warmth.
“This is nice,” I say, “cozy. I feel all snuggly and happy.”
He kisses the top of my head and replies, “It is nice. I love waking up with you. And going to sleep with you. And the things we do before we go to sleep. And pretty much everything in between. Maybe one day we might even be grown-up enough to move in together . . .”
I tense slightly as he says this and then immediately work hard to relax my muscles. Karim is finely attuned to my body and its responses, as well as my mind.
“Maybe,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. I have never lived with another person as an adult, and I am not sure how I would cope. I value my privacy, my territory, my own little kingdom, so much more than other people do—because I didn’t have any as a child. I was always jittery, never safe, and then when I was in foster care, I always had to share. It’s made me fiercely protective of my living space.
“Wow, don’t overwhelm me with your enthusiasm! It was just an idea, for the future—don’t stress about it.”
I wriggle around so I am looking up at him, so I can make eye contact while I talk. He is smiling and does not seem offended, and that is a good start.
“Karim, if I was ever going to move in with anyone, it would be you. I can’t promise it, and I’d be lying if I said the idea didn’t freak me out a bit, but you know all the reasons for that. You know what I’m like, and why. I hope you also know that I’m committed to this. That I’m trying really hard to be less . . . me.”
He strokes my face, and pulls me closer, and tugs the duvet over our heads so we are in a little cave.
“I know. And I don’t ever want you to be less—I just think that perhaps together we might be more. It’s okay. I get it. I’m happy the way things are, happy to let it all play out the way it needs to. Happy with you.”
“Good,” I say firmly, pulling the duvet away. “Now I think you should go and have a shower. Somehow you still smell of paint!”
He sniffs his own skin and wrinkles up his nose before climbing out of the covers. He tucks me in and walks naked and proud toward the bathroom. I lie still and content, telling myself that it will all be fine, that I just need to relax and let life happen. Even as I think it, though, I am staring at my duvet cover, counting up how many times the fleur-de-lis pattern is repeated in different colors.
After a few minutes, Karim walks back into the room. He has a towel tied around his waist, his body damp and glistening. It is a pretty picture, and one I enjoy a great deal.
He raises his eyebrows at me and gives me a half smile, and I know that he knows what I am thinking.
“You’re thinking Damn, what a hot bod; aren’t I a lucky woman? Aren’t you?” he says, posing in the doorway, flexing his biceps and grinning.
“No,” I lie. “I’m thinking, I wonder if that strange wet man in the pink towel would mind making me a coffee? to be honest.”
“Fibber! I’d say your pants would be on fire, but I’m pretty sure you’re not wearing any . . . So, coffee, or world-beating sex? Your choice!”
I am pretending to debate the two in my mind when the landline rings. Karim pulls a face, and I know he would prefer if I ignored it. So would I, truth be told, but it might be Margie—she is the only person who usually uses that number, and I don’t want to be that woman who abandons her pals as soon as a man is on the scene, no matter how hot he is.
“Could you get that on your way to the coffee machine?” I ask pleadingly. “It’ll probably be Margie. I’d answer it myself but I’m way too comfortable and warm to move.”
He rolls his eyes but walks through to the living room. I hear him pick up the phone and say hello, and then piece together a brief conversation from only his half of it. No, he says, she’s not available. Yes, he can take a message. There’s a pause, then I hear the phone being put back in place.
I writhe around under the covers, enjoying the sensation, looking forward to our day together. I decide that the coffee can wait, and that I will invite him to come back to bed before he puts his clothes on. Seems like a waste of a naked man not to. Seems like I am very lucky, and I should never allow myself to forget that.
When he doesn’t return straightaway, I start to wonder why, and who was on the phone. Not Margie, from the sounds of it, but also nothing important, I assume, as he didn’t come and get me. Probably a reminder that my car is due for its servicing or something equally bland.
“Karim?” I shout. “You okay out there? Forget the coffee, come back to bed!”
I am greeted by silence, apart from the vague sound of him moving around in the next room. I frown and climb unwillingly from my cavern of covers. I throw on a robe and walk into the lounge.
He is standing before me fully dressed, a look on his face that I have never seen before—anger. He is avoiding my eyes as he fastens his shirt, but his expression tells me clearly that he is very, very pissed off.
“What is it?” I say, clutching my robe with both hands. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”
“I’m going home,” he says simply, grabbing the coat he usually leaves at mine for beach walks from the back of the door.
I stride over to him, hold his arm. He feels tense beneath my touch. “Karim, what’s going on?”
“I have no idea, Gemma. I thought things were going well. I thought we were happy, building something together. I believed you when you said you were committed, that you were trying. I thought I understood. But it seems like I was wrong.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about—who was on the phone?” He stares at me, and I see that beneath the anger there is something else—pain. He is hurting, and somehow, I am responsible for it.
“It was the deputy head at a school in Norwich. She was calling to arrange a preliminary interview for the job you’ve recently applied for. The job in bloody Norwich!”
For a moment I am confused, befuddled, completely baffled by what is happening. And then I remember. I remember the recruitment agency. I remember the details of the head of history post they sent through to me. I remember that it came on the day my daughter turned eighteen. I remember that I was low, looking for a boost, trying to fill my mind with anything other than waiting for an email that would probably never land.
I agreed for my details to be passed on for that job, but I honestly have not even given it a second thought since. I have been working so hard to fight all my instincts to run, to escape, to evade the web of commitment that is beginning to surround me—but not hard enough, it seems. Even thinking about running, apparently, has its consequences.
The timing of this simply couldn’t be worse—coming straight after our conversation about moving in together.
“Karim, it’s nothing—it’s just a misunderstanding. I didn’t really apply for a job in Norwich, honestly!”
“Really?” he says, slamming his jacket on angrily. “Because there’s a Becky Baker in Norwich who seems to think you did! In fact, she seemed very keen to talk to you about it!”
“Please, Karim, calm down and let me explain!” I sound desperate, and I feel desperate, and I do not like it. I tell myself that I have done nothing wrong, for once. Not intentionally at least.
He pauses, one hand on the door, and I see him make an effort to compose himself. To be fair. To give me a chance.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Go on, then. Explain.”
I meet his eyes, and my words rise up and choke me, dying in my throat as they try to escape. How do I explain? How do I get across how hard this all is for me? Anything I say feels like it might make things worse. I take a deep breath and try.
“You know how I am, Karim,” I say. “You know I’m . . . not quite right. I was always honest about that. We were literally just talking about it. All of this—us, the job, being here for so long—is harder than it looks for me. That’s not your fault, none of it, and I am happy! We are building something together! This is hard to put into words, but . . . there’s part of me, might always be part of me, that needs to feel free. Needs to keep my options open, even if I never plan to use them.”
He is silent as he looks at me, then shakes his head sadly.
“I know how you are, Gemma, and I’ve always accepted it—or at least I thought I had. But hearing you say that hurts. It worries me that this means more to me than it does to you. It worries me that, maybe, I’m just another one of your options.”
He gently moves my hand from his arm and opens the door.
“Look, I’m going to go. I need to cool down and think. Maybe I need to consider my options too. I’ll speak to you later.”
He leaves and closes the door behind him. It slams, even though he probably didn’t intend it to—his anger and frustration have spilled over.
I stand there, staring dumbly at the empty peg he has left behind. He has gone, and he has taken his jacket, and that is the jacket that never goes anywhere. It is the jacket that says he is part of my life.
I realize that I am crying. That my cheeks are damp and my bare feet are cold and I feel numb. Not even sad or in pain—just numb.
He has left me, and even though I know I shouldn’t overreact, that it isn’t final, I can’t help but wonder if I will see him again. Apart from at work. Maybe we will become distant acquaintances, avoiding each other in meetings, nodding coldly across corridors, sitting at opposite ends of the staff room. I wonder if it is all over before we even got the chance to see what it would become.
I wonder if I could bear that—to stay here and be near him, but not be with him. I wonder how much of myself I have accidentally given to him. I wonder how this has happened, the good and the bad, so very quickly—the stealthy way it has all snuck up on me.
I go into my bedroom and deal with at least one of the problems I am facing. I put on some fluffy bed socks. The bed socks warm my toes and set me onto autopilot. I head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, knock his toothbrush to one side, and wash away my tears. I make a coffee with the machine. I walk over to the phone, and the notepad beside it.
I see Karim’s handwriting, the scrawl of numbers, the place where he has stabbed the notepad with the tip of the pen when he realized what this message he was so innocently taking actually meant. I run my fingers across it, ashamed of the way I have made this good man feel. Ashamed but not surprised.
Maybe it was inevitable. My last boyfriend accused me of being an emotional cripple, and despite my best efforts, perhaps he was right. Perhaps some wounds are impossible to heal. Perhaps I am simply spreading around the pain, and Karim would be better off without me. If I wasn’t so selfish, maybe I’d end it right now and give him an escape route.
My phone pings and I glance at it quickly, disappointed when it is Margie.
“You okay?” she says when I answer. “I heard more noise than usual, and a slamming door, and . . . well, I’m nosy. And worried about you.”
I feel a sharp sting in my eyes and screw my lids tight to stop myself from crying again. I don’t like this new habit.
“I’m all right, Margie. We just . . . we . . . well . . .”
“Had a fight?”
“Yeah. Which makes it sound simple. I know couples have fights, but this feels bigger than that. It feels like it could . . . end things, I think.”
“And is that what you want, love?” she replies, and I picture her so clearly, glasses perched on her head, a frown on her face, Bill at her feet.
“No. I don’t think so. But I’m also not sure I can do this, Margie. This whole relationship thing. I’m not sure it’s fair to him. I feel like I’m going to hurt him and hold him back, and like I should just let him go.”
“Oh do shut up, Gem! He’s a big boy, and he can make his own choices—sounds to me like you’re just being a bit of a wuss, love! Finding excuses to not even fight for it.”
I am silent, and taken aback, and hurt, and a tiny bit concerned that she is right. I am so used to Margie supporting me that this new tone is a surprise—even if perhaps I need to hear it. I don’t know; I’m a mess.
“Don’t go all mysterious on me now—you know I love you, Gemma. But sometimes loving someone means you have to tell them something they don’t want to hear.”
“I know,” I say quickly, not wanting to inflict my mess on one more single person. It is my mess, and I am fed up of splattering everyone else with it, like Karim and his paint.
“Thanks, Margie. Look, I’ve got to go now. I’ll see you later, okay?”
I end the call before she can answer, incapable of becoming embroiled in a longer conversation. I stare again at the message from Norwich and see that its simple line of letters and numbers represents something far more complex.
I chew the end of the pen I am still holding, then sling it viciously across the room. I am so bloody tired of being me. Of never quite being good enough, for myself or for anyone else. It’s exhausting.
I pick up the phone, and I dial the number in Norwich.