Chapter Two
Being unexpectedly single is tricky to navigate when being one of a pair is all I’ve ever known.
Spending my entire life as my big sister Josie’s devoted sidekick taught me that navigating life as part of two was better in every possible way.
Josie’s bravery made up for my reticence.
My steadiness (mostly) kept her out of trouble.
My natural inclination for the background was supported by Josie’s desire for the spotlight.
She loved to cook, I loved to eat, I was the See, she was the Saw, it just made sense.
Life with Josie meant joy felt twice as joyful and pain, half as painful, and to me that just seemed like good maths.
Two is clearly better than one. So when Josie died and I met handsome, confident Henry ten days later, it seemed natural and comforting and perfectly distracting to slip into being his devoted sidekick instead of hers.
But now he’s gone too. And for a human being whose soul is made complete by being one half of a whole, the sudden absence of a corresponding half means I have ceased to function effectively.
I am fifty per cent less than I was. I have become, well, a little bit insane.
For example, here are three little bit insane things I have been doing since Henry moved out last month:
Wearing my prescription sunglasses indoors all day because summer is the most romantic of all the seasons and this unrelenting August sunshine feels obnoxious, taunting, unbearable given the circumstances.
Every time I put the sunglasses on I sing ‘Hello darkness, my old friend’, which makes me feel slightly better for a couple of seconds.
Drinking no less than four very strong home-made cocktails every night (making my way through the Stanley Tucci lockdown recipes canon), ordering some sort of meat-heavy takeaway, putting on my headphones and listening to ‘End of the Road’ by Boyz II Men.
Then I languish around the apartment, intermittently huffing with sadness and eating my meat.
Keeping it a secret from my literary agent Bridget that I’m having serious trouble writing a single word of the final Bedlam Creek book. Which is non-negotiably due in sixteen days. And which I have already been paid for.
It doesn’t help matters that my flat is also my place of work and every single corner of it reminds me of lovely Henry.
That wonky kitchen table where he would sit each morning, scribbling into a leather-bound notepad, plotting out the novel that would go on to be a Booker Prize long-listee.
There’s the bed on which he hand-plucked and scattered hundreds of fresh pink rose petals for a Valentine’s Day surprise.
That olive-green velvet armchair is where he would pull me onto his lap, bury his face in my neck and tell me that I was his favourite smell in the world, even better than freshly burnt matches (his previous all-time top-ranking smell).
There on the fridge is our invitation to his best friend Jim’s fortieth-birthday weekend, which I was especially looking forward to because I love the romance of a swanky hotel.
And there, by that bay window, is where he cried and told me that I was no longer enough.
That I didn’t challenge him. That our constant cocooning had made his brain feel lethargic.
That I had started to revolve around him so completely, it sometimes felt like an obligation to love me simply because of how much I loved him.
Then there was the whole horrible declaration about needing to split up for a little while. Ugh.
Right here, by the big framed Moonstruck poster on the wall is where I begged him to stay. Where I stood and watched, horrified, as he rolled the suitcase he had pre-packed out of the door.
Of course, I’ve tried leaving the flat to go and write in a local café or the London Library or a park bench or once to Winchester Cathedral because that’s where Jane Austen is buried and I thought it might give me some inspiration.
But none of it worked. I got no words written and I ended up spending money I didn’t have on drinks, Tube fares and Jane Austen merch from the Winchester Cathedral gift shop.
I would have tried taking my laptop to different parts of the house, but I live in a studio apartment, which means that from every spot in the flat, I can see the rest of the flat.
So I remain surrounded by memories. Reminders of lost love that lead me menacingly towards the Boyz II Men/languishing/meat cycle I know deep down is harming me in ways I cannot yet fathom.
My phone screen lights up as my literary agent Bridget calls for her weekly check in. I should answer. I need to answer.
I press end on the call.
A few moments later an email pops up.
Just ever so gently checking in! No pressure, but also …
are you okay, Gertie? You’ve gone quiet and I was expecting more pages from you.
By the way, I asked Rockford Press about re-contracting us for a new series, but Eleanor wants to see how the final Bedlam Creek book does first. Especially as sales of the last one dipped more than we would have hoped.
So this one really needs to knock it out of the park! No pressure, though!
I stare at the floor for a good minute before typing out a reply.
Hey Bridget! I’m at the London Library scribbling away so can’t speak on fear of Death by Librarian, but all good! Will be in touch v soon. xx
Then I wander over to the kitchen, take a mug off the shelf, and open the dresser cupboard where I keep the booze.
Gimme what you got, Tucci.