Chapter 42
The following week is a nightmare and there’s no distraction to be found in any of the things that usually work.
I can’t concentrate. I can’t sleep. And I can’t believe that after so long of being steady I’m back to this state of mind.
After days of being concerned, Eric asks if I could be pregnant and it’s the first time I laugh in ages.
On Friday morning, every second train to London is cancelled, and by the time I get to Clapham Junction, my boss has called me three times to express her deep disappointment in my timekeeping, even though I usually get to work half an hour before everyone else.
The prospect of doing this job, and this commute, for anything longer than another day makes me feel tired to the point of exhaustion.
Instead of rushing to continue my journey, I pause and sink down to a platform bench. Beside me a small woman eats a large baguette, dropping crumbs all over her green skirt then absently flicking them my way.
Indifferent, that’s it. Not happy or sad, I don’t particularly care too much about anything. I’m the very definition of plodding along.
My mind sifts through all the well-being advice I used to get pelted with.
Talking, walking, medicine. Baths, facemasks, gratitude.
Connections, community, cooking. Colouring in pictures of penises flagrantly flapping around in woodland.
If I had the energy, I would laugh; instead I call Nicole, who answers on the first ring.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.
‘Why do you think something’s wrong?’
‘Because you’re calling me. Should I be worried? Are you standing on a bridge right now?’
‘No. I’m calling with a confession.’
‘I’m at work.’
‘Why are you pretending you do anything other than drink coffee and gossip before ten on a Friday morning.’
She snorts. ‘One sec, let me go into the stairwell.’
The memory of the Chat stairwells makes me soft with nostalgia, despite it being where I used to sit when I needed to put my head between my knees and regulate my breathing.
‘I’ve been looking at jobs,’ I say. ‘In Singapore.’
The echo of her shoes against steps stops.
‘Nicole?’
‘Yes,’ she replies, dragging the word.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ she says again, this time robotically.
‘I’ve been looking at jobs in Singapore.
For a while. For ages. Like, a really long time.
’ A mixture of embarrassment and relief floods my body as I say it.
‘Sometimes I fill out the form or get my CV ready. I spend hours preparing covering letters. Then, I—’ My voice breaks and my eyes sting. ‘I panic and don’t hit send.’
‘This is tragic.’
‘Seeing him again has messed with my head. Feeling like there was something there, that maybe he still wanted me, still felt the same way. I don’t know.
Please tell me to stop. Please tell me he’s madly in love with some perfect Singaporean woman who can deadlift and ice skate, and no, actually, don’t tell me that. ’
Nicole makes a mewling sound.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘What was that?’
She sighs. ‘I deserve a trophy for how long I’ve stayed out of this.’
‘Do you know something?’ I swallow. Please let her know something.
‘He asked me about you.’
Time stops.
‘When I saw him at Soy Much Fun, he asked me a hundred questions about you.’ Her voice softens as if she herself is confessing longing. ‘He misses you.’
It’s like hope being poured down my throat. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘Because I wanted to stay out of it this time. I’ve always felt awful about how my half-arsed meddling messed with you both.
I didn’t want to do the same thing again.
I’ve been in agony since I saw you together.
The tension was –’ she makes a gagging noise – ‘actually, no, it was hot. I was jealous, but you live on opposite sides of the world.’
‘Surely he’s seeing someone.’
She swallows then says, ‘He’s not.’
‘I don’t know if he still wants me. After all this time. So much time. Does he?’
Nicole grumbles. ‘You can’t pump me for information like this. Call him.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can. It’s very easy. You simply find him in your contacts and hit call.’
‘I deleted his number to stop myself from doing exactly that. I deleted all our messages too. I think,’ I begin, ‘that things will be better next week, because then he’ll be gone. He’ll be so far out of reach, and I’ll know I can’t have him.’
‘You’ll still want him though.’
‘It’s Cian,’ I agree. ‘I can’t imagine a day I won’t want him.’
The truth of this statement is crushing. How can it be that, all this time later, I want him more than I did before?
‘Listen,’ Nicole says, her tone slightly sharp, ‘I need to get to my meeting. I can’t tell you what to do. I can only remind you he leaves on Tuesday.’
After Nicole hangs up, I call my boss and tell her I passed out on the concourse of Clapham Junction station. I then get the train back home, where I sit in the garden watching a line of ants carry a small curl of red apple peel across the paving stones for at least an hour.
He asked about me. He misses me. He’s not seeing anyone. But also, he leaves on Tuesday. Seeking a thorough distraction, I call my mum, who gives a live commentary on her TK Maxx shop.
‘Found a lovely blouse. Got your name on. It’ll look fab with some chunky jewellery.’
‘I don’t own chunky jewellery.’
‘A nice statement necklace,’ she continues. ‘Perfect for after-work drinks.’
In the period I’ve worked at Top Slice there have been no after-work drinks. There was once a company hot pot, at Christmas an afternoon tea, and when the chairman retired, someone brought one bottle of champagne to be shared between thirteen people.
‘Don’t mind me a minute,’ Mum says. ‘I’m in the fitting room. Bloody bra.’
‘Do you want to call me back?’
‘Zoe, I think I’m finally ageing out of wearing leggings.’
‘That’s good to know, Mum.’
‘I’m not saying it to worry you, but the women in our family do tend to spread a bit in the thigh area come middle age.’ The ants make a detour for custard cream crumbs while I listen to Mum detail her changing body shape. When a gap presents itself, I say, ‘I’m thinking of going to Singapore.’
‘Singapore. Lovely. Though it wouldn’t be top of the list with my hair. Remember when we went to Kew Gardens? That humidity was horrendous.’
‘I don’t mean for a holiday. I’m thinking of moving there, to stay and live.’
‘Well, you know my views on exploring the world. And you’ve been bored for ages.’
Why did I think Mum would be the right person to talk me out of this?
‘It’s a terrible idea, isn’t it? I’ve got a good job here and a strong chance of owning twenty-five per cent of a new flat with fob access, a gym and concierge service.’
‘No, it’s a great idea, my only issue would be . . . Hold on a sec, I’m sweating buckets here.’
‘Mum, what’s your issue?’ Please, give me some reasons to not do this.
‘Why not move somewhere a bit cheaper? Thailand would be gorgeous. Plus, pad thai. Need I say more?’ There’s some shuffling and swearing. ‘I’m in a one-woman war with my undies here. Is Cian still in Singapore?’
‘I think so,’ I say, my voice breaking. ‘Maybe. Yes. Yes, he is.’
‘How interesting,’ she says slowly, then gasps. ‘You’re going there for him, aren’t you?’
When it’s suggested so plainly like this, it does sounds outrageous. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Zoe.’ She laughs. ‘This is so romantic. Why have you waited so long?’
‘I don’t know about romantic. It feels chaotic. And you’re right, it’s been so long – too long, and I’m probably making a huge mistake. Aren’t you meant to tell me to think about this properly? To be sensible and think of my future?’
‘You can have a future there.’
‘What about if it doesn’t work out? If I go there and he doesn’t want me. Or I go there and end up hating the place.’
‘Then you come back.’
‘What about if he’s changed and we’re no longer—’
‘You’ll only know if you try.’
‘I can’t believe you’re encouraging me to do this. I should have asked Eric; he would have um-ed and ah-d me into self-doubt.’
‘Your dad says go for it.’
‘Dad’s been with you this whole time?’
‘Course. He loves shopping.’
Now, I hear Dad mumbling something and Mum bursts into laughter. ‘He says I owe him a tenner for losing the bet.’
‘The bet?’
‘After we met Cian for lunch at your old flat, your dad swore you two would end up together. Said Cian was gazing affectionately at you over the Magnum Minis.’
There are no words.
‘Anyway, darling girl, do what’s best.’
It’s obvious the reason I called Nicole and the reason I called Mum was the same: I want someone to tell me this is nuts; that what I’m thinking of doing is reckless, unhinged and not how a thirty-one-year-old should live at all.
If Kasie was here, she would definitely tell me to do it, because she would see this as high romance brought to life.
Like those first few episodes of Married at First Sight, before it all goes horribly wrong.
Kasie was good at giving advice on most things; she always knew the best way to treat headaches, deal with tricky colleagues or stand up to overbearing family members.
Though when it was anything to do with men or love, she was the last person I would ask for suggestions, because she was too blinded by the idea of romance to be objective.
It’s been a while since I did it, but I scroll back through the now archived chat with Kasie.
A year ago, I went through and deleted all the undelivered messages I used to send when I was desperately missing her.
Now I go all the way back to where it’s mostly Attenborough memes and the most pedestrian of flatmate texts.
Pls pick up milk
Do we have dried shiitake mushrooms?
Smash It Samuel strikes again, followed by a photo of a package hidden in our wheelie bin.
Before I know it, I’ve clicked compose:
Me: Cian’s in London till Tuesday. I feel sick knowing he’s so close. And worse still, knowing that he might still want me. I wish I was brave enough to go to him, to tell him how much I love him and how everything has felt so flat since he left.
After I hit send, I sandwich the phone between my palms and watch the ants disappear under a plant pot. My phone pings several times and I prepare myself to see the inevitable reply of undelivered. Though when I look, there are four messages. Two Nicole. Two Kasie.
Kasie?
My fingers sweat and I struggle to unlock my phone screen.
Kasie: Life’s too short! Be brave! Go now! lol!
Kasie: Btw wrong number
When I click on the icon by Kasie’s number, the image has changed. Gone is the one I took of her posing over a lavish lunch at an Arezzo winery. In its place is a smiling grey-haired woman holding a replica football trophy, with the status ‘We All Follow the Arsenal’.
How is this possible, I wonder, then discover the horrible truth that networks can recycle numbers after ninety days.
Me: Sorry.
Kasie: No problemo. Followed by the thumb-up emoji.