Glancing across our hotel room I see that everything has been packed away and that it looks spotless. I do this whenever we go away. Ian’s always taken the mickey out of me for it – apparently there’s no need for housekeeping to come in whenever I check out because I leave it impeccably clean. I thought it was a good quality to have, but perhaps that’s just one of the little things that have irked Ian and forced him into abandoning me when he should’ve been marrying me. Saying that, I have many idiosyncrasies. This is merely the tip of a rather large iceberg, I suspect.
Annoyed that my decluttering task is complete, my eyes land on the clock on the telly.
‘Fuck,’ I gasp as I jump off the bed, realizing we’re meant to be leaving in ten minutes.
‘Lizzy?’ I hear Ian call desperately, the door still ajar.
I really don’t want to see him, but I have no choice. I shut the door so I can unlock the chain before reopening it fully.
There he is. My heartbreaker. The crusher of my dreams. The one who wants to disentangle his life from mine.
Ian has the decency to knit his brows apologetically, his brown eyes looking at me in his own sorrowful way. There might be no tears, but I can see he’s hurting too, or maybe this is for show so that I don’t hate him too much for ending things. Deep down I know Ian wouldn’t do such a thing. He doesn’t give in to social pressure and would rather his face reflect exactly what he’s thinking. He doesn’t put on a show, whether that’s faking happiness to see someone or sadness because someone’s cat has died. He doesn’t deliver an emotional expression unless he’s feeling it. His inability to fake enthusiasm for evenings out is part of the reason we’ve found ourselves such homebodies. It’s easier than feeling like he’s pissed off whenever we go out and having to apologize for him. Clearly I should’ve known that him ‘not feeling it’ and freely cutting ties related to me and marriage as well.
He looks dishevelled. Although I don’t need a mirror to tell me he doesn’t look as shitty as I do.
‘I’m going to shower,’ I mumble, lowering my gaze to my feet as I shuffle away.
‘Liz, are you OK?’ he asks, coming after me and stopping the door from closing with his foot, his hand resting on the glass panel between us. ‘I’m so sorry things have ended this way. I never meant for it to all spiral out of control like this. I thought I could make it work. I wanted to. You deserve so much more than I could’ve given you. I should never have done this to you.’
‘Ian. Please don’t even pretend you care about my feelings,’ I say, my voice sounding firm and vulnerable all at once. There’s a finality in his words that brings home the reality of our situation. There’s no turning back. He regrets the way in which this has all happened, but not the act itself.
‘But I do.’
‘Then care enough to leave me alone and let me deal with this without you,’ I say, pushing the door firmly while feeling him lift his foot up and away. It closes.
The win is crushing. If this were a movie he’d fight for me, push harder on the door and saunter into the bathroom so that I couldn’t resist before sweeping me up into his arms declaring he’s made a mistake. But this isn’t a film.
I shower quickly and throw on the travel clothes I’d piled up earlier – jogging bottoms and an oversized top. I brush my teeth and roller some sea-salt stick under my pits, but don’t bother with make-up. I don’t see the point or have the drive.
Once the last of the toiletry items have been gathered up I take a deep breath with my hand on the door handle, calming myself before going back in to where he is. Ian is lounging with his feet up on the bed, watching some reality TV show about airports and looking pretty chilled out.
‘Thanks for packing for me,’ he says, scrambling into a sitting position as soon as he sees me come in.
Normally I’d be grateful for the acknowledgement and recognition, congratulating myself on having found such a kind and thoughtful partner. Today I’m not.
‘I’m leaving in five,’ I say, turning my back to him and placing my wash bag into the smaller suitcase we’re sharing. ‘With or without you.’
I hear his shoes thump on the floor as he gets off the bed and heads into the shower.
My teeth grind together as I fight away the tears. Soon enough I’ll be home and things will be easier to cope with.
Home.
Our home.
The home we co-own.
Sadness engulfs me and takes away any solace home was holding for me.
The whole journey to the airport I plan to beg the airline staff to move our seats so that we’re sitting separately on the plane. I can’t bear the thought of our elbows and thighs touching for seven hours and forty minutes. Obviously we wouldn’t talk – I’d put on my eyemask and feign sleep the whole way – but feeling him next to me would literally be the worst kind of torture.
Nervously handing over our passports to the chirpy check-in assistant, who’s dressed in red with her brown hair effortlessly swooped up into a French plait, I notice her glancing between the two of us. My request is lost in my throat, as my mind wonders what she sees. Is our heartache apparent? Does my sunkissed skin betray my sadness? Has she noticed how far we’re stood apart? How I flinch when Ian brushes my hand in an attempt to help me find our paperwork? Does she notice that we’re all wrong?
‘Good news!’ she sings, looking from her computer screen to me. Me. Not Ian. ‘We have some space available in Upper Class today. Have you flown Upper before?’
‘No,’ I croak.
‘Oh, actually …’ she says, picking up a pair of glasses from the desk in front of her, her face concerned as she puts them on and inspects the screen closer. ‘I can’t get two seats next to each other but I could always –’
‘No. No. That’s fine. Yes. Yes please,’ I blurt, not caring that my eagerness to sit separately isn’t hidden.
If last night had been an actual proposal and this lady (who is clearly an angel) had offered us the same upgrade, I’d be feeling completely smug right now – I wouldn’t even bother trying to suppress it. I’d be heading straight to the Upper Class lounge to take a picture of me with some bubbles for Instagram and Facebook, while simultaneously giving another flash of my new bling – just in case someone missed the gushy post I’d inevitably have posted the previous night. I’d be declaring that I was the luckiest girl alive.
As it stands, I still feel lucky. Although now it’s for not having to be anywhere near someone I still love wholeheartedly. It hurts to look at him, to feel his touch or get a whiff of his aftershave. I don’t want to hear his voice or catch his gaze.
I don’t want to come to the realization that all I actually want right now is to curl up into his arms while he tells me it’s all going to be OK.
That is not my reality. Therefore, the further away he is from me, the better.
6
When Ian suggests he goes straight to his mum’s from the airport rather than home with me I don’t protest. In all honesty I enjoyed the free champagne a little too much on the flight. The air stewardess just kept bringing it out, so who am I to refuse? Perhaps the lady who expertly read the situation and upgraded me put a little note next to my name saying something along the lines of ‘alcohol needed – has a twat of an ex on board too’. Maybe. Whatever the reason, my head is pounding when we reach London, leaving me even more irritable than before. Plus, I haven’t said a word to Ian since we were in the hotel room so I’m not about to start. Buggering off to his mum’s is the least he can do while we try to figure out how the hell we move forward from here and start unpicking the many ways we are so tightly stitched together.
To add insult to injury, when I get back to our block of flats I find the lift has a great big ‘out of order’ sign stuck across its closed doors, meaning I have to drag and heave my suitcases up four flights of stairs. I’m a sweaty mess by the time I get to the top. I’m now in the foulest of moods.
I thought walking into the flat would offer some sort o
f comfort, the familiarity of the walls and belongings, the smells and textures giving me some sort of warmth and friendliness. Instead, the memories start flooding back as soon as I get my keys out to open the front door. There we were five years ago, excitedly hopping from foot to foot, about to walk into our first proper home after years of renting and dreaming it would happen, before Ian swooped me into his arms and goofily carried me over the threshold.
‘We’re not married,’ I laughed.
‘One day,’ he replied, kissing me in a way that was full of promise.
The memory mocks me.
I push forward, turning the key in the lock and stepping over the post that’s gathered while we’ve been away. Our first bit of post was a ‘new home’ card from my nan. We all thought she was going to lose her rag about me moving in with a man out of wedlock, but she was rather cheery about the whole thing and not as old-fashioned as we’d feared. In fact, she’s the only one who has never really pushed the idea of marriage on to any of us, even though she and my granddad got married within a few weeks of meeting each other. She didn’t even flinch when Mum told her about Michelle being up the duff out of wedlock, which I know Mum found difficult because, apparently, Nanny had been quite strict with her when she was younger. Getting older has clearly made her less conservative and more liberal.
Struggling through the narrow doorway with our two suitcases, I place my key into a small wooden bowl on top of the console table. We’d bought the bowl while travelling around Africa seven years ago. We found it at a huge market in a town square that was mostly for the locals rather than frivolous tourists looking to buy a cheap souvenir. I wanted a larger fruit bowl at first, or one of the colourful woven rugs with bold geometric patterns arranged in panels and executed in the interlocking-tapestry weave, but Ian, rather sensibly, pointed out that neither would be the easiest thing to carry as we trekked around – we were heading from Cape Town to Cairo and we were only at the start of our trip. I agreed and we then compromised on the smaller version of the fruit bowl, which was just as beautiful but meant I wouldn’t have to dump any of my possessions to make room for it.
I toyed with the idea of moving it elsewhere last year and getting something new in its place, but Ian insisted it held special memories so we had to keep it where we could see it – even though it doesn’t really go with the décor in the flat, which is made up of mostly glass furnishings, copper accessories and Farrow & Ball Borrowed Light-painted walls – a classic pale blue that makes the space feel nice and airy, even though it’s a one-bedroom flat.
It’s been a while since I looked at that bowl and thought of our travels together. It seems like such a long time ago and the pot has just become a pot. Back then, we’d only just left uni and knew that we had to return by a certain time so that Ian could start his new job, but we wanted one big adventure first. The people we met, the cultures we stole glimpses of, the animals we encountered and the beaches we bathed on were beyond what we’d hoped. We stayed in an orphanage for a week, sleeping in the village chapel at night, then played games and taught the children the Hokey Cokey in the daytime. One of my fondest memories is of us getting ready for bed and hearing the hundred children, who must’ve been crammed in their single dorm, happily singing the song they’d learnt from us. We grew closer on that trip and knew we were ready to head home and become proper adults.
As it does whenever we come back from any trip away, the flat seems darker and smaller than when we left. Like a Cadbury’s Creme Egg, it’s as if someone’s made the whole thing smaller while it’s been out of our sight.
Yet it’s the same. Posters, pictures and postcards adorn the walls, capturing special memories of places we’ve visited and moments we’ve had.
Our belongings share stories too; an ebony figurine – another treasure from Africa – of two people in a tender embrace, their hands placed on each other’s hips, their heads solemnly bowed. Then there’s a mask from Venice, a silly road sign from our trip along Route 66, a pot of jam I took from a posh spa in the Lake District. Pillows we picked out together, a rug Ian loves but I’ve hated since the moment he brought it home. There’s our huge DVD collection, even though we now watch most things on Netflix or iTunes. The gramophone Ian bought me one Christmas along with a Tracy Chapman vinyl that hasn’t been played since that day because I simply forget about it – other than to be annoyed with how much dust it collects. Shelves of books we’ve both read and debated, a sofa we’ve fallen asleep on many a time, usually with our arms and legs wrapped around each other. A breakfast bar we’ve eaten every dinner at since we moved in, even though there’s a proper dining table a few feet away. A bed we’ve had sex in numerous times – I mean, not millions, or thousands, or possibly even hundreds of times – but it definitely has seen some action … I mean if that bed could talk I’d rather not think about what it might say.
My eye, rather tragically, lands on a trophy I made Ian last year because I’d forgotten it was our anniversary and panicked myself into super-gluing various household objects together and spray-painting it gold. In Tippex along the bottom, on a wooden ice lolly stick, I wrote the words ‘My better half’. If that’s the case then what am I left with now? The rubbish half? A below par human being who no one will ever want to marry? Wonderful.
Tearing my eyes away, I drag the suitcases into the bedroom and dump them on the bed. I lean against the side of the mattress and look around, feeling uncomfortable in my own home. All this stuff, stuff that I thought held so much sentimental value, means nothing to me any more. Now it symbolizes empty promises, broken hearts and me not being good enough. I thought this was us building strong foundations for the future; turns out we were playing with sandcastles.
I’m tempted to grab scissors and cut up Ian’s shirts, or at least cut holes in his socks so that his toes poke out. Something tells me it would help to feel like I’m doing something, as though it’ll help me gain control of the situation. In reality I know it would only be a moment of weakness and that I’d feel wretched and stupid afterwards for doing it.
I can’t stay here and do nothing though. The realization is strong and sudden. I can’t be surrounded by ‘us’ when ‘us’ is no longer an option. The sense of loss and grief is too overbearing.
Grabbing hold of the bigger suitcase, I undo the clasps and flip it over so that my neatly folded clothes land in a heap on the floor. I’m not going to be needing my array of brightly coloured skimpy clothes for the foreseeable future – the thought of wearing any of it causes my skin to feel itchy. No. A bright red kaftan with gold beaded embroidery that shows my bare thighs and a classy amount of cleavage isn’t what I want in my life right now.
Stepping over the dumped clothes I go to my wardrobe and throw open the doors.
Black.
I want to take anything that’s dark, miserable and comfortable with me. I rip clothes off hangers and grab them off shelves, not even looking at what I’m packing, just taking note of the colour. I pack it all, then retrieve my wash bag. Once the essentials are done I go back into the lounge and look at all of our belongings. What on earth happened to my stuff? How has it all been left with memories of Ian smeared all over it? I don’t want to be reminded of a person I wasn’t enough for, so anything we bought together can stay here. Although what here is mine? What possessions have I bought without the two of us in mind?
The CDs! I think with relief, even though I can’t remember the last time I listened to one of them. I go to the shelf unit in the corner of the room and trace my finger along the pile. They’re all either Ian’s or bands Ian’s taken me to see. Likewise the DVDs are none I came here with.
I remember taking a load of my stuff to Mum’s when we moved in here; they must be there still.
I look down at the books. I know I haven’t got any of my favourites from Paige Toon, Adele Parks, or Lindsey Kelk here either because they all live on my Kindle. I wouldn’t want my go-to reads dampening Ian’s highbrow collection of the classics h
e likes people seeing when they come over. He used to like telling me all about them, of course, but I tended to zone out and tell him I’d read the darn things. Having someone explain a book to you is neither entertaining nor interesting.
In the drawer of the wooden coffee table I find my laptop and charger. I place them into a blue Ikea bag along with some photo frames containing pictures of my family and a fluffy pink pillow I bought when we went to a market a few miles up the road. It was cheap and Ian hated it. I loved it. I could leave it here to spite him, but seeing as I’m leaving so much behind already I feel like I want something to put in this pathetically empty bag. Plus, it’ll protect the minimal things I have taken with me from breaking on the way.
I hoik my bag over one shoulder and grab my suitcase with the other arm and attempt to exhale some of the anxiety running through me.
I know this isn’t the last time I’ll see these walls, but I know I’ll never live here again or refer to it as my home. It’s never been mine, it’s been ours, and I need to get ‘ours’, ‘us’ and ‘we’ out of my head before I drown in despair. Ian doesn’t want me, I understand that – but now I have to realize that I don’t want to be with a man who can so flippantly go from proposal to break-up. Whatever I thought we had we didn’t. I’m not going to stand here and mourn. I’m not going to wait for Ian to come home and beg for him to reconsider us being together, declaring I never wanted to get married anyway. I’m not going to waste my time on someone who doesn’t want, or deserve, my love and respect. I’m leaving and moving forward.
I step out of the flat and stride along the corridor, feeling a little lighter for leaving everything behind. Then I realize the lift is broken and that I have to shift everything down four flights of stairs.
Why is nothing ever easy?
7
Why I decided to smash my phone up when the love of my life pulled our cosy life from under me is beyond comprehension. I’ve not been able to get in touch with anyone since, which is quite ironic seeing as I spent most of the holiday avoiding calls and texts. It’s been a blessing in one way as I haven’t had to have an awkward chat with my mum yet, but it also means I’ve been unable to sort out my life or seek solace from Connie. And I so need my mate.
Some Kind of Wonderful Page 5