Three #2
The little kitchen table was set for two.
The empty place where Ru had sat yesterday morning, his long legs pressed up against hers, reminded her poignantly of her loss.
The space where twenty-four hours earlier he had served a perfect souffl é omelette now held a pat of butter still wearing the foil wrapping and a jar of branded marmalade.
Ivy added mugs of tea and Fiona sat, trying to derive energy from the warmth of the mug.
She peered at the marmalade, an image of Ru shredding Seville oranges in their London flat forming in her mind.
Fiona hadn’t eaten shop-bought marmalade for three years – she’d better get used to the taste.
‘I spoke to Rose this morning.’ said Ivy.
‘Rose?’
‘Rose and George run the Smuggler’s Inn.
She’s front of house, he’s the head chef.
He’s not Ruben, but the food is very good.
Rose would be happy to take you on as a waitress.
I mentioned you’re staying at mine for a few weeks and that you’ve recently split up with your boyfriend, so if you’re a bit teary she’ll understand. ’
Relief flooded through her, and she told herself she would get through this. ‘Thanks, Ivy. Should I give her a call?’
‘No need,’ said Ivy, as she smiled and turned back to the counter. ‘Rose said for you to turn up at noon tomorrow.’
Fiona smelled toast. A rack appeared in front of her, each slice perfectly symmetrical. She added ‘getting used to supermarket bread’ to the list of adjustments she would be making.
On days when the restaurant was closed, Ru always made brunch, filling the flat with tantalizing smells, including her favourite cinnamon bread.
Sometimes she selected a boutique Champagne to chill, and they would eat together, cross-legged on the bed.
Eventually, their eyes would meet, and they would forget their plates and glasses, and focus on each other.
Fiona snapped out of her memories, drawn to the choir’s swaying figures as their voices soared.
‘ Let sense be dumb ... ’ Those words reverberated and she winced.
Had she been too rash yesterday? No, she told herself firmly.
Couples couldn’t just return to their relationship and pretend something as momentous as this hadn’t happened.
It was like trying to patch a cracked mirror; no matter how careful the mend, the fracture was still there, splintering every reflection.
The music surged, the choir reaching a powerful crescendo.
‘ Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire ... ’ The words coursed through Fiona like a jolt of energy, stirring something restless inside her.
But then the music softened, the voices lingering over the line: ‘ O still small voice of calm ’.
That last phrase pierced through the noise in her mind, cutting through her doubts. She must be strong. For a moment, a quiet settled within her. The tension she’d been holding onto since her decision eased a little, and she let herself breathe.
Fiona plonked a slice of toast onto her plate and pulled the pack of butter towards her. Ru wouldn’t find it difficult to replace her. Someone else would soon enjoy his musky smell. She must succeed too, by passing her exam and forging a new, financially independent life.
After breakfast, Ivy left for church and Fiona cleared up, made herself a pot of coffee, then dragged herself back upstairs.
It wasn’t her childhood bedroom in the rectory, but as she sprawled across the patchwork quilt she’d known all her life, she felt at home, staring as intently at her wine atlas as she suspected Aunt Ivy would be gazing at an altar.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the space, yet even after her second mug, her mind felt cluttered.
She was missing her simple flashcards on wine regions, grape varieties and tasting notes.
She focused on the page in front of her.
She must study – that qualification would enable her to repay her debts – which would balloon once Ivy lent her the money for the next exam.
Just as she had immersed herself in the subtle differences between Bordeaux wines and the New World Bordeaux blends, her phone buzzed.
Ru. Again.
His name taunted her. Every missive was a reminder of the emotional baggage she was trying to shed. Her eyes flitted to the screen, glimpsing his latest message.
Can we please talk? I need to understand.
It was the fifth message today. All with Ru’s trademark sign-off for his messages to her – a beating heart emoji.
Just as Ru’s emoji pulsed with a rhythmic, almost desperate vitality, guilt pulsed within Fiona – a persistent, haunting beat that refused to be silenced.
She ignored all the messages – responding would only pull her into a spiral of conversations she wasn’t ready for.
She turned the phone facedown, hoping the distractions would stop, but the soft hum of incoming texts made it impossible to concentrate on tannins, terroir and tasting techniques.
Every ping was a tug-of-war between her future life and her past.
She sat up and gulped her coffee. Catching sight of one of his socks under the bed, she pushed herself upright, the mattress creaking as if in disapproval.
Fiona kicked the sock closer to the wall, picked up her phone, scrolled through her contacts and brought up Ruben Nkosi.
A thick sensation filled her throat, as if something was lodged there.
To allow them both to move on, and for him to soar without her holding him back, she had to do this.
Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, opened them and quickly blocked his number. It was over.