Chapter Nine
CHAPTER NINE
Tears stream down my face as I sit and stare out the window, trying to soothe the ache in my chest by reflecting on my time with Ash. I can’t help but smile at some of the memories we created – even going to the laundrette felt special, sitting close with his arm hooked around my neck, my leg dangling over his, not caring about PDAs as we kissed and talked and laughed.
But now it’s six days later and Ash still hasn’t called. I managed to get the same number on my second day here after finding a phone shop that sold fully unlocked devices, but it hasn’t made a difference. I haven’t heard from him. I’m staying strong with my parents regardless, though the atmosphere at their villa has been thick with tension. When I arrived, my dad was okay – he was in full holiday swing – but Mum was infuriated by my insolence at being twenty-four hours late. Her icy reception was tame compared to how she took the news that I planned to continue interrailing. She had already told people that I’d start working at Knap three weeks earlier than expected, so the delay would cause her to look as though she’d lost control – her kryptonite.
Eventually I cracked under the weight of her declarations of how selfish and ungrateful I was, and admitted that I’d met someone and wanted to continue travelling with him.
I regretted it as soon as I said it, and she didn’t disappoint, shaking her head at me pityingly as she said, ‘I should have known you were following a man. You’ve always been a sheep.’
It didn’t help that I had to admit I didn’t know Ash’s surname. How could we have left so much unsaid? We talked about everything that mattered and yet it never occurred to me to ask for his last name. We don’t know each other’s addresses or social media handles – I’m not even sure if he’s on social media; he didn’t have Instagram. If he’d come to the internet café with me instead of going to get picnic supplies, he would have seen the name of my family business on the website, but he didn’t.
I know there will be an explanation for why he couldn’t contact me. I remember the tightness of his arms around me as we hugged goodbye, and the intense look in his eyes as he told me he’d see me in Madrid. I just have to make it to him.
Now it’s one week since I left Ash and it’s imperative that I get to Madrid on time. But to my sheer and absolute horror, the bus from Albufeira breaks down on the way to Seville. My heart is thumping so hard as we’re told to disembark and wait at the side of the road.
What follows is the longest hour and a half of my life – I’m shaking with panic by the time I see our replacement bus coming along and the relief literally makes me feel so weak at the knees that I have to sit down. As long as the trains from Seville to Madrid are running on time, I should be okay.
But when I race into the hot, stuffy station and see the hordes of people waiting, I know something is wrong. It turns out a train broke down earlier and it’s taking time to clear the backlog.
When a train to Madrid eventually comes, it’s carnage with all the people trying to board. I push my way onto a carriage with a ferocity that only my determination to see Ash could conjure. For two and a half hours, I stand in the aisle of the crowded train car, rucksack between my legs, bouncing on my feet and muttering under my breath. With every glance at my watch, my heart rate ratchets up and my sense of helplessness and loss of control increases.
Please wait, Ash. I’m coming.
What if he thinks that I couldn’t stand up to my parents and didn’t keep my promise to him? What if he gives up on me?
I’d built in enough time to be an hour early, but I’m forty-five minutes late as I shove my way off the train and run towards the taxi rank. Plaza Mayor, where we’ve agreed to meet, is a half-hour walk from here, but if I can just jump in a cab …
I almost scream with frustration at the massive queue, but I hold it together and begin to run. I’m wracked with anxiety, sweat breaking out over my skin as I pound the pavements under the ferocious glare of the sun. I’m so hot and breathless by the time I reach the square that I feel sick. And when there’s no sign of Ash by the statue, I almost do throw up. What if he’s already left?
There is a café, as I’d hoped, but he’s not inside, so I search the shops around the perimeter, returning to the centre of the square after every visit. When there’s nowhere else for me to look, I sit down at the base of the statue, trying to keep my stinging arms in the shade as tears stream down my cheeks.
Maybe he’s late too. Surely he hasn’t given up on me – I never would have given up on him so soon.
I wait for two more hours in the blazing Madrid heat.
My mother’s laughter when I revealed I didn’t know Ash’s last name rings in my ears, as well as her snide comment: That’s a red flag, if ever I saw one. What’s he hiding?
What if she was right? What if he didn’t come? What if he’s never coming? Did I read too much into those three days? Ash could have had anyone – what makes me think I’m special? Maybe I wasn’t. Was I just a hook-up to him?
Fuck, it’s messing with my mind. My heart feels like it’s in a vice. Am I being ghosted?
No. No. It was real, what we had. It was something . He said he’d be here, and he will be, even if he’s late. And if he was early or on time, he would have waited for me like I’m waiting for him. He would have given me the benefit of the doubt, at least for a couple of hours.
But why didn’t he call? Surely he wouldn’t have lost Stella’s book – he knew how important it was to me. Doubts continue to crowd in as I spiral.
I decide to wait in the café, but another hour passes and I grow desperate.
He couldn’t have faked the way he looked at me , I try to reassure myself, replaying our time together on the beach. I think of how we lay side by side on the sand, studying his map and trying to decide where to meet, and suddenly a thought occurs to me.
Oh my God. Have I got the wrong square?
I leap to my feet, my heart racing as I check Maps on my phone. I almost run out of the café without paying and have to quickly backtrack to settle up.
The walk to Plaza de Espana is seventeen minutes. I’m almost certain we agreed on Plaza Mayor, but I go to the other square anyway. My skin is burnt to a crisp, the soles of my feet sting, my throat is parched and my heart feels cauterised. Every inch of my body is stretched to breaking point, but I keep searching. I look under every tree, behind every statue and monument, inside every shop, bar, restaurant and café I can find. I do this until the light fades from the sky and I’m forced to find somewhere to stay for the night.
The next day I do it all over again. And the next day. And the next.
I can’t bear to leave Madrid, can’t face the fact that Ash will be lost to me forever if I do. I can’t accept that he didn’t come, that I wasn’t worth showing up for. So I stay there as the days roll into one another, my heart broken, an empty vessel wandering the streets, searching but never finding.
After calling my parents’ PA for the eighth day running to check whether Ash has been in touch, she tells me that she’s booked a flight home for me the following day. I don’t argue. I have no strength left.
Even my mother holds her tongue when she sees me, but I can tell that she’s shocked. I start work the next day; I need something to take my mind off Ash.
After a while, the pain begins to recede. I’m not sure I’ll ever escape the dull ache, but the crippling agony of betrayal, of not being enough, grows muted with time. I spend most of my waking hours at the office, and six months after leaving Madrid, I find myself at my desk late on a Friday night, the technical drawings for my new Stella range laid out before me. It’s just sold into John Lewis. I wish it made me happy.
My parents quite like this new me, the emotionless, hard-working daughter my mother always wanted me to be.
A few more months pass and the office lifestyle is getting to me – the traffic on my way to work, the fluorescent lighting, the sound of ringing phones and irate voices. I frequently find myself staring out of the window, thoughts of Ash coming unbidden. I suppressed so many of my memories after Madrid and it still hurts to think about him, but for some reason, now I can’t stop.
A year after we parted ways, I’m studying a fabric sample for my new Lisbon range – the same colour as the peach iced tea I was drinking when we met, the colour I recall Ash’s eyes being. Everyone else went home hours ago, but I can’t bring myself to get up from my chair.
What happened to you?
A rush of emotion overcomes me and I go with the tidal wave. I get through half a box of tissues that night.
Another year passes and I’m going through life on autopilot, but no one notices, or if they do, they don’t care. I push out range after range after range, and my career goes from strength to strength. I have never felt more alone.
My confidence grows and my heart begins to harden. My parents congratulate me when my ranges are featured in the press, but their compliments bounce off me, just as their occasional insults do. I no longer care about people-pleasing.
I tell myself that I don’t need anyone. I don’t need my parents, I don’t need my grandparents, I don’t need Stella, I don’t need Ash. The only person I can depend on is myself and it’s time to take back some control.
Exactly three years after leaving Ash in Lisbon, I walk into the boardroom for a meeting that I’ve called with my parents and hand them a cheque for ￡30,000.
‘That’s for my university tuition,’ I say leadenly, laying it on the table along with my letter of resignation and an agreement from my lawyer that signs over my shares and revokes all future commission from my designs.
I don’t want to owe them anything. It’s the only way I’ll be free to live my life the way I choose to live it.
Whatever happened to Ash, I still believe in the words he spoke to me on the train platform. Life is too short not to do what you love . And I’m tired of living to please my parents.
Mum and Dad leave work soon after I do, arriving home in time to see me carrying my bags to the front door. The shock on their faces makes me feel oddly numb.
‘If you walk out that door, you’re gone for good,’ Mum warns.
‘Marian,’ my dad interjects.
‘If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get,’ I reply, avoiding my dad’s gaze.
I can’t deal with the thought of him being hurt. I have to keep my eyes set on my goal. It’s time to follow my own path.