by Sue Watson
‘Oh Alex,’ I say, warmth flooding through me. I reach out to his open arms and we embrace. ‘You know it’s ridiculous to imagine me leaving you for Harry – right?’
He rests his chin on my head as he hugs me close. ‘I’ve wrecked everything, haven’t I? Because I’ve been cheated on before, I imagine all kinds of stuff, say stupid things. If you want me to leave now, then I’ll just go.’
I take his hand and lead him to the sofa, where he lies down and rests his head in my lap. I stroke his hair, like a mother would a heart-broken child, and keep telling him it’s fine, we’re fine, and he mustn’t be upset. He closes his eyes, and I put my head back on the sofa and think about the last twenty-four hours and wonder if this has changed my feelings towards him, or if I can just carry on as before.
‘I want us to get back to where we were,’ Alex says. ‘Can we forget about yesterday and move on, Hannah?’
I nod slowly, and pat him on the shoulder. ‘Obviously it will be easier when you’re officially divorced, but it might make me feel weird about spending time at your place, her place.’
He suddenly seems to come alive, and what we’ve just talked about seems to be instantly wiped away. ‘Then I’ll make it your place! I can have it redecorated, buy new furniture, change everything. What colour would you like the walls?’
‘You don’t have to do that.’ I smile. ‘I just need time to recalibrate.’
‘Okay.’
‘And if… if she asks to meet you again, will you tell me?’
‘I won’t see her again. We’ll just talk through our solicitors from now on.’
‘You don’t have to do that, but perhaps if you do ever need to meet for some reason – maybe just take me along?’
He suddenly loses the colour in his face. ‘No, we couldn’t do that,’ he says, looking down at the sofa. He starts to pick at the fabric.
‘I don’t mean we all do lunch or anything, that would be awkward. But if she suggests meeting, then we could go together. If she meets me, she might get the message that you’re happy, you’ve moved on and there’s no going back.’
‘She won’t, she… she would hate that,’ he says, shutting it down, horrified.
‘I’m not exactly loving the idea myself. But it might help her to accept things.’
He just shakes his head; he doesn’t want to even talk about it.
I understand he doesn’t want his ex-wife and new girlfriend to meet, it might be difficult, but this is about clarity. I just hope he really was honest and clear with her yesterday, and I hope he’s been honest about me.
I don’t want to push him, so leave it for now and change the subject. ‘You mentioned breakfast?’ I say.
‘Yeah, I’ll pop out for something.’
‘I’m not exactly a domestic goddess, am I?’ I joke.
‘No.’ He smiles. ‘I did wonder when was the last time you ran a vacuum over this carpet.’
‘Wow,’ I murmur. I’m a little taken aback, and torn between thinking ‘how dare he?’ and feeling slightly ashamed. I’m already embarrassed about him seeing the empty fridge and threadbare sofa. But I didn’t even think about the state of the carpet. Although I only vacuumed it the other day and I’ve been staying at his since then, so it can’t be that messy.
As he kisses me on the forehead and gets up and leaves, I sit for a while in silence, thinking. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it – I get down on all fours to investigate the carpet. I’m imagining a pile of crumbs I’ve missed somewhere, but the carpet looks fine, even when I really scrutinise it – perhaps his tidiness threshold is lower than mine. I’m left puzzled over his comment, but since yesterday, I’m puzzled about quite a lot of things regarding Alex.
Chapter Nineteen
Alex is taking ages to shop for breakfast, which is now looking more like brunch. But knowing him, he’s discovered the nearby deli and he’s buying special cheeses and charcuterie. He’ll be poring over every detail, asking about the provenance of the meat and tasting all the samples, taking ages over each little morsel. He adores food, and is a brilliant cook, I happened to mention I was hungry one night, it was after eleven but within minutes he’d whipped up a bowl of the most delicious, garlicky, bright-green home-made pesto and hurled it into a bowl of warm pasta.
As I said to Jas, ‘I’ve never eaten a big bowl of pasta in bed, in front of a man I love before. Who does that?’
Jas said she’d love to taste his pasta, and I mentioned it to him but he wasn’t keen.
‘I want to just come home and flop, I don’t want to be making small talk with people I don’t know,’ he’d said.
‘But I’d love to do something as a couple – what about your colleagues or friends? I’d love to meet them.’
But he didn’t like that idea either. ‘I spend long enough with them,’ he said, ‘there’s no way I’m spending my home-time with them too. Besides, our time together is too precious – I don’t want to share you with anyone else.’
I think about that now, as I sit in my flat. It’s like he has no one except me. And I only came into his life recently. But then I know he doesn’t get on with his dad and stepmum, and he’s got no siblings, it’s understandable that he’s so invested in me. And is that really a problem or am I just looking for flaws now after the roller coaster of the last twenty-four hours?
I decide to stop overthinking, and to do something. So I decide to get some plates together and make a cafetière of coffee for when he gets back with the breakfast, there’s nothing nicer than the smell of freshly brewed coffee through the flat. I open the cupboard door and reach for the cafetière, when my hand alights on a tin of beans instead. I’m a little surprised, because that’s where the cafetière lives. I stand on my tiptoes to reach further, but nothing. In disbelief, I search for the cafetière with my hands and my eyes, but the cupboard is stacked with about eight tins of beans and tomatoes. I bought them ages ago, before Alex even, and they’ve been hanging around since earlier in the year – but in a different cupboard.
‘That’s odd,’ I hear myself mutter. I could perhaps have put the cafetière in a different cupboard by mistake, but the tins standing to attention in a very neat line would suggest this has nothing to do with me. I don’t know when he’s had the time to move things around, but it’s got Alex’s name all over it. His cupboards are so organised, I asked him recently if they are ordered alphabetically.
‘No,’ he’d said quite seriously. ‘I just like everything in its place, helps me think better.’
And now it looks like he’s imposed that order on my kitchen too. ‘What the hell?’ I say to myself as I whip open the other cupboard doors in my desperate search for the cafetière. But each cupboard seems to have been ‘organised’ in the same way. Cleaning equipment is in the one beneath the sink, each bottle lined up with the label facing me so I can see what I’m grabbing, and it’s the same with the cupboard above the sink, tea towels stacked so neatly, they look like a pile of envelopes. I can see it’s much neater, more organised, but the idea of Alex taking it upon himself to re-order my kitchen is a little unsettling and, actually, quite invasive. Finally, in the cupboard above the kettle is the cafetière. I’m just getting it out when I hear the front door.
‘I’m in the kitchen – though not as I know it!’ I say as Alex wanders in.
‘Ahh you saw what I did? I meant to mention that.’ He’s smiling, very pleased with himself.
‘Yeah. When did you do all this?’ I’m feeling slightly exasperated.
‘About 6 a.m. I couldn’t sleep, and you were dead to the world. I came in here to make myself a cup of tea and decided to try and make sense of it all. Everything was everywhere, and the cupboards hadn’t been dusted for a while.’
‘It’s very kind of you, and it might make sense to you – but I can’t find anything,’ I say. I was going to be cool about this, but I’m now a bit pissed off at his comment about the cupboards being dusty. ‘I knew where everything was before.’ I ca
n hear the snap in my voice as I now scramble around the cupboard looking for the filter coffee – which has definitely disappeared.
‘If you’re looking for the filter coffee, I put it in an airtight container,’ Alex says, reading my mind. ‘Coffee loses its aroma and taste very quickly once you open it, it’s due to the roasting process. For every twenty-four hours you leave coffee exposed to air at room temperature, it loses ten percent of its shelf life.’
‘Thanks for the Ted Talk,’ I murmur, taking down the container that Tom used to keep his maggots in for fishing. ‘God, I should have thrown this out.’
‘Yeah, it’s not exactly Conran, but if you keep it in the cupboard, no one will see it,’ Alex says.
‘I don’t care if anyone sees it.’ I dig into the brown arabica sand aggressively. ‘I just would rather not have my coffee in this container, because it was Tom’s and he used it for live bait.’
‘Ugh, gross.’ Alex pulls a face and then rummages in his carrier bag and places a large paper bag on the kitchen counter.
I pour boiling water into the cafetière and push the plunger down with some force.
‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he says, sounding wounded. ‘You were saying last night how chaotic you are, and when I looked everything was in the wrong cupboards. I didn’t throw anything away… well, only stuff that was obviously rubbish.’
This makes me cross. I feel like I’ve been invaded. ‘You might have thrown something that was obviously rubbish to you – but to me it might be precious.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think. I was just organising the kitchen for you.’
‘Yeah, I know – you were just being kind, but’ – I turn to him – ‘this is my space, you know?’
He nods slowly, as he begins to take items out of the paper bag: fresh baguettes, French cheese, a jar of fancy jam. ‘I bought butter… you haven’t got any,’ he says, holding a packet of Normandy butter in his palm, like a peace offering. And it’s probably me being oversensitive, but it feels like a reprimand, a judgement.
‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but I stay at yours most of the time, so there’s no point in buying perishable stuff that’ll go off – that’s why there’s no butter in the fridge.’ I realise that sounded a bit snippy, and in light of the fact he’s emptying a bag of delicatessen loveliness onto my kitchen counter, I’m being quite mean. ‘I’ll get the plates and cutlery,’ I add, opening the cupboard door that used to be home to the plates and cups. ‘Aah,’ I say, slamming the door.
‘Sorry, I moved the plates, thought they’d be more convenient near the cooker.’
‘Convenient for whom?’ I can’t help asking.
He looks up from slicing a French loaf. ‘I only did it to make life easier for you. Can’t I do anything right, Hannah?’
I sigh, and plonk the plates down on the table.
‘Perhaps you’d rather Tom… or Harry was here instead of me?’ he says peevishly.
‘You’re being stupid now,’ I say, not wanting to even engage in this conversation.
‘Stupid? You come over to mine all the time and yet I stay one night here and you start talking about it being your space, and feeling invaded. Harry’s texting every five minutes and I’ve dared to use Tom’s precious container for bloody coffee and—’
‘Harry texted once about a work matter and the container isn’t a sodding keepsake, I just don’t want my coffee stored where live maggots once lived.’ I open my arms in despair. ‘It’s got nothing to do with Tom… or Harry, or anyone else for that matter.’ I look up into the air. ‘I can’t even believe I’m having this conversation.’
‘What am I expected to think? You don’t seem to want me here, but apparently it was okay for Tom to move in, for Harry to have a key and feed the cat.’
‘Alex stop,’ I say calmly. ‘You’re behaving like a child.’
‘And you’re behaving like a bitch.’
It hits me in the solar plexus. That word again.
I stare at him. He’s not looking at me, just moving the cheese around and opening the jars of chutney, as if he hasn’t just called me a bitch. I want to throw the stuff across the room, if only to make him stop, get his attention, make him realise what he just said. And now I think he did mean it when he said it last night. I won’t have this.
‘I’d like you to leave please,’ I hear myself say.
He looks up at me, shocked.
‘That’s total disrespect, Alex, and I won’t put up with it.’
He’s never given any indication he could be like this. Is he just tired or pissed off I found out about Helen? It doesn’t matter – whatever it is, I won’t allow anyone to speak to me like that.
‘Please leave,’ I repeat.
I see a flash of something indecipherable in his eyes as he slams the jar down on the countertop, grabs his jacket and storms out of the flat.
I stand in the kitchen, angry, hurt and disappointed, so bloody disappointed. I want to cry, but my anger blocks the tears. I know when they come there will be a flood.
In the silence Alex left behind, I boil the kettle, and when, hours later, I haven’t heard from him, and I’m sitting in the kitchen nursing a freezing-cold cup of tea, I call Jas.
I don’t tell her straight away about Alex and his lunch date and our row over the phone, but later, while drinking glühwein at the Christmas market, it all spills out. I’m upset and she comforts me with her usual refrain about all men being bastards and how she’s yet to meet one who isn’t. I’m grateful Jas isn’t saying I told you so but, of course, she wouldn’t. Despite never meeting him, she clearly doesn’t like the idea of Alex, but she wouldn’t rub salt in the wound.
‘I really thought I’d met the one who wasn’t a bastard.’ I sigh, discreetly wiping my eyes and hoping against hope I don’t start blubbing. I feel sick and empty at the same time, and the alcohol and frosty air is hitting my brain quickly. ‘He didn’t tell me he was married. He called me a bitch. He even said I’d rather sleep with Tom than him and implied that I have some weird thing going with Harry, for God’s sake.’
‘Ooh, that’s a stretch.’ Jas shakes her head. ‘And, no offence, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to sleep with Tom – he was – well, just Tom, wasn’t he?’
‘You never like any of my boyfriends,’ I say. ‘I know Tom was a bit meh, but he had his moments.’
‘Seeing the card that came with those roses, I can only imagine how revolting they were.’ She pulls another face, and suggests we have more drinks. It’s dark and freezing, the tarpaulin covering the market stalls is flapping wildly in the breeze and I feel lost. I don’t want to go back to my empty flat yet, only to be reminded of everything that’s happened with Alex, so I agree, and we order a jug of mulled wine. Warm alcohol is the only answer.
‘Thanks,’ I say as we sip the next one, ‘you’re always there for me.’ Jas can sometimes be blunt and critical, but her heart’s in the right place and she’s the person I know I can always turn to in times of need – like now.
‘You’ve been there for me too.’
I feel my eyes well with tears, everything’s gone from wonderful to shit in the space of a day.
‘Stop crying, you silly cow, he’s not worth it,’ Jas says, pushing my hair behind my ear with her gloved hand.
‘But if you knew him, you’d understand, he’s everything—’
‘Turns out he isn’t everything though, is he?’ She sighs.
And I have to admit it – it looks like Jas was right all along.
Several mulled wines later, Jas drops me off at my flat in a taxi. I’m a bit the worse for wear and as soon as I get home, I gaze at the abandoned brunch still sitting on the table, out-of-season strawberries, my favourite date chutney – Alex had chosen each item with me in mind, he had chosen with love, and it makes my heart hurt a little.
Then I start to think how everything got out of hand and wonder if I overreacted. What I saw as him trying to take over, invading my territory, was just Ale
x being thoughtful, looking after me in his own way. In every other aspect of our lives, he makes me happy and comfortable, so he just wanted to do it in my home, that was all.
But then I remember how he lied to me and called me a bitch and then the tears come anew.
I wander the flat feeling slightly wobbly after the many glasses of warm wine. By 11 p.m., I’m a mess. Which is when he finally calls.
‘I’m sorry, Hannah,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry for… for everything.’ He sounds as if he’s on the brink of tears, his voice croaky.
‘You called me a bitch,’ I say, still in disbelief. ‘I was so hurt, I didn’t think it was in your nature. Never in my wildest dreams could I ever imagine you being so vile.’
‘I don’t know where it came from. And I didn’t mean to piss you off. With the cupboards.’
‘I know.’
‘I thought that’s what we did. You move my stuff. I mean, only last week you said the toiletries in the bathroom were better on the lower shelf where you could reach them, and you moved them. I didn’t even think about it. I wasn’t trying to take over or invade,’ he says defensively.
‘I know, I know.’ I’m nodding as I speak. He’s right. I move stuff around in his kitchen, sometimes putting things back in the ‘wrong’ cupboard. He often moves it back, because he’s more OCD than me, but he never says anything, in fact he laughs about it. ‘I was being unreasonable,’ I say. ‘And I’m sorry, I’m just used to being on my own here and knowing where everything is – that’s all.’
I’m standing in my living room, holding the phone, looking out of the window onto the dark street below. No one’s about, the leftover snow is piled in greying heaps, the street light casts an odd yellow tone.
‘Hannah, can we draw a line under the last twenty-four hours? Please, let’s just move on – and be us again.’