Chapter 3
When Gemma got back, the house was very quiet and still, as if frozen in time.
Normally, she liked the quiet, but this felt eery.
Shoeless, she padded inside, barely making a sound herself.
A part of her hoped Adam would jump out from behind a door and give her a fright, and say it had been one big – albeit misjudged – joke.
The other part hoped she would never see him again.
In the kitchen, his stained teacup sat in the sink.
Her mug was on the kitchen table, sitting in a puddle of cold coffee from when it had sloshed out.
In the living room, his shoes had gone and so had his iPad.
She wished, for once, to still see the untidy reminders of him.
In the bedroom, the bed was unmade and his side was unusually messier than hers.
From the wardrobe, most of his clothes had vanished, and on his bedside table only a glass of water remained.
There was now only one toothbrush and one towel in the bathroom.
Near the basin, a ring of hardened toothpaste indicated the spot where his electric toothbrush used to sit, and there was a strong smell of his favourite musky cologne, as if it had been spilt.
It was like he’d taken the best bits of himself and left the worst for her to clean up.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror.
She peered closer at her reflection; her face looked strained.
When had that near-permanent frown line between her eyebrows and the tiny creases at the edge of each eye appeared?
It was like her face had once been folded into an origami crane, then unfolded and pressed flat in an attempt to remove the creases so the paper could be folded into something new.
Already, it was a portent of what was to come and it made her anxious.
Her future had just been screwed up and thrown out, and she didn’t know what it resembled anymore.
She looked away from the mirror, took off her sludge-caked jeans and draped them over the bath to wash later.
Now, in just her pants and favourite striped mudlarking T-shirt, Gemma went downstairs to the kitchen.
It was way past lunchtime and she’d eaten nothing all day.
Her stomach wanted something, although she didn’t know what.
She opened the freezer. Sometimes Adam liked ice cream for dessert.
There was none. Which was probably a good thing because she couldn’t bear the thought of turning into the romcom stereotype of a jilted woman sobbing into a tub of ice cream.
Still, frozen peas weren’t doing it for her.
She looked in the fridge. There was little to help mop up her sadness.
Perhaps cheese on toast? With lots of cheese. And a glass of rosé.
Or a bottle.
No, she wouldn’t get drunk. That was another romcom cliché right there.
To hell with it. She poured a large glass of wine and made cheese on toast.
When the toast was done and the cheese browned on top, she went to the living room and sat on the sofa.
Adam hated eating in front of the TV and the thought of food getting lodged between the cushions or falling onto the carpet.
She balanced the plate on her lap and alternated between sips of wine and bites of food.
It made her happy to spite him. But when a piece of crust fell from her fingers, bounced off the plate and landed onto the upholstery it made her miss him, and she got teary all over again.
Why couldn’t things go back to how they once were?
It was so much easier hanging on to hope than acknowledging it was over and having to accept rejection.
She couldn’t process losing Adam let alone the future life they may have had together: children, travel, joint friends, and, probably, their house.
How she loved their little home. It was a modest terrace and possibly a little dated but perfect for them.
When they bought it, they were enamoured by its proximity to the river and nature, and yet only a half-hour train ride into Vauxhall in South London.
It was close to the shops, some pubs and a good primary school.
They’d wanted to do a full renovation but had only been able to afford to repaint the interior.
Despite never having painted a thing before, they did it themselves, together.
Adam even agreed to – albeit reluctantly – change the ‘Magnolia’ cream kitchen to a muted yellow that matched the daffodils in the back garden and have a soft dusky blue in their bedroom.
They’d laughed at their inexperience and occasional blunders, and bonded over joyful dreams of creating a life together.
How naive that now seemed. She poured a second glass of wine and pulled out her phone.
Would it be torturous to look at photos from the past, of their wedding and the holidays they’d been on?
She needed reassurance that the previous eleven years of their relationship hadn’t been a complete waste of time.
Or, worse, that her conviction she’d been Adam’s soul mate, lover, lifelong partner and friend – as she thought he had been for her – was a mere figment of her imagination.
Probably this had been true at the start of their relationship, and hopefully, for some of their marriage, but clearly this was no longer the case.
Had she become unlovable? What a dreadful, disturbing thought.
No one wants to think of themselves as undesirable, and yet, was this now her?
She had to stop this line of thinking. It was far more palatable to think about the times when she was certain they’d both been in love.
They’d met through work when Adam was a medical sales rep for the pharmaceutical company where he still worked, and he’d been tasked with informing her oncology nursing team about his company’s products.
As he did his presentation, and while she was trying to concentrate, something unexpected came over her – a hot flush of desire that was impossible to ignore.
She liked how he appeared confident but not cocky and had remembered everyone’s names after only a single introduction.
He switched between being earnest and cheeky, which Gemma found appealing.
And she was – still was – attracted to his big hazel eyes and strong jawline.
So when, at the end of the day, he asked if she’d like a drink sometime, she’d said yes.
Gemma found her two favourite wedding photos.
In one, they’re standing under the white-rose-decorated country house pavilion after being announced as husband and wife.
In the other, they’re walking hand in hand through the garden with the sun setting in the background.
What a fabulous day it was. How in love she’d been.
How enamoured with Adam and the thought of what was to come.
How she’d had no doubts that they’d stay together.
How she’d had no doubts about the man she’d married.
She swiped away the photos and put her phone on the table.
After a large gulp of wine and a nibble of cold, hardened cheesy toast, she got up and took the dishes to the kitchen.
Even though everything around her was familiar, it looked different, off-centre.
Standing in her yellow kitchen used to feel like being comfortably cocooned in an egg.
Now it seemed to be a suffocating reminder of her abandoned eggs and the children she would no longer have with Adam.
Her world had shifted and she no longer seemed to belong anywhere. She felt helpless and hopeless. Lost.
Gemma wondered if she would ever be found again.