Chapter 8
Phoebe grabs a bottle of wine from the rack and twists open the cap, taking a quick swig before pouring herself a large glass. Then she looks around the living room, noticing the gap beneath the TV where Max’s Xbox used to sit.
When Max told her that he was leaving, she didn’t believe him at first. But then she’d seen how serious he looked and a sick feeling rose in her stomach so it had been hard to focus on what he was saying, her whole body in shock.
‘Things haven’t been good for a long time – surely you must know that. You’re always working. You’ve never really prioritised this relationship.’
His words had stung mostly because she knew deep down that they were true. But there was only so much of her to go around. Yes, she felt awful every time she had to postpone a date or turn up late. But what was she supposed to do? She didn’t want to let her patients down either. How do people do it? When she was younger, she had thought that juggling friendships, relationships and a career would be easy, or at least not this bloody impossible. But now it all feels so overwhelming, as if she’s holding the leads of a pack of energetic dogs and they’re all determined to head off in different directions.
‘I know things have been difficult, but that’s why I thought this holiday could be what we need. It could be a chance for us to reconnect.’
As she said it, all the images she’d browsed that morning came flashing back into her mind. Pasta, beaches, a villa with a pool. She’d coped for ages without a holiday, but now that the thought had come into her mind, it felt like a mirage in a desert. And maybe it could be the answer to their problems. Maybe things would look different in the golden light of a Tuscan vineyard. Maybe, it would make him love her again.
But it seemed it was too late for that.
‘Look, the thing is, I’ve met someone else.’
Phoebe couldn’t decide whether to punch him or burst into tears. But it probably wasn’t a great look for a nurse to get done for assault, and if she started crying, she might not stop and she had to get to work. So, instead, she took an incredibly deep breath – the kind of breath she often coached her patients in but very rarely took herself.
‘I’ve got to go. Let’s talk about this when I get back.’
But now he’s not here.
‘Bloody coward!’ she shouts aloud, kicking the corner of the coffee table and instantly regretting it, hopping on the spot and sloshing her wine. ‘Bloody coffee table. Bloody toe! Bloody Max!’
She starts to cry as she swears, hot, angry tears sliding down her face, making her feel even angrier. She doesn’t cry. She’s strong.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she pulls it out of her pocket, seeing Max’s name glowing on the screen.
I’ll come back for the rest of my things tomorrow. I’ve covered this month’s rent, but if you want to stay in the flat, you’ll need to start covering everything yourself. I’m sorry it ended like this x
Her hand finds the bottle of wine and she fills her glass again. She takes a long sip, the slight numbing sensation that follows a welcome relief.
If you want to stay in the flat, you’ll need to start covering everything yourself.
Shit. The flat is hardly pristine – neither of them had the time to keep it particularly tidy – and she has never got around to painting, despite their landlord’s insistence that they could make the place their own. But it’s still home. She loves the view out over the high street to the valley and river beyond. And there’s a squishy sofa and a comfy bed to flop onto at the end of a long day. The flat has always felt like her safe place and she doesn’t want to leave. But how is she going to manage to cover everything by herself? So much for a bloody holiday!
As she slumps onto the sofa, her phone rings. As she sees her mum’s name, she suddenly remembers she promised she would ring back to speak to her nan. But she’s in no fit state to speak to anyone right now. Her face is covered in eyeliner and snot and there’s a high chance her tongue is already purple from the red wine. She cancels the call, turning her phone on to silent and placing it face down on the coffee table.
Briefly, she considers the techniques she would advise to her patients if they were in a state like this. She could do a body scan, checking in with how she’s feeling in an attempt to get out of her head and into the sensations of her body. But all she can focus on is the throbbing of her toe. She could try box breathing or a visualisation exercise, or, shit, even some actual exercise.
But she doesn’t do any of that. Instead, she takes another big swig of wine. Who needs mindfulness when you have Cabernet Sauvignon?
The sound of banging suddenly rises up from the shop below, making her jump.
‘Not again!’
The noise continues, the bangs followed by whirring and the beat of the radio.
‘It’s the middle of the night! Who does building work at night?’
She considers striding downstairs to confront whoever it is who has moved into the premises and clearly has no respect for others, but she can’t be bothered, so stamps her foot on the floorboards instead. It doesn’t make a bit of difference. Wine. Wine will help.
By the end of the fourth glass, everything feels softened, even the sound of the building work below no longer bothering her. A lovely warmth flows through her body. By the end of the bottle, she is fast asleep.