by Ali Harris
‘Of course you can!’
‘I can’t face Adam . . .’
‘You don’t have to. He’s gone away for a while. So you need to get on a train tomorrow, go pick your stuff up and I will meet you a couple of hours later and bring you back to mine where you will stay indefinitely. That isn’t a request, by the way. It’s an order.’
‘But-but . . . I can’t just leave! What about—’
‘I’ve already arranged it with Loni. You have to go back to work and sort yourself out. You can’t take sick leave forever . . . you’ll get the sack!’
‘I’m a temp, Milly,’ I’d reminded her. ‘I can’t be sacked. And besides, Nick has been very understanding. He said I could take as long as I need . . .’
‘Of course he did, but what does he know? What you actually need is to get back on your feet again. And that is not going to happen hiding away at Loni’s. You need a call to action, and as your best friend I’m making that call!’
The way she presented it I seemed to have no choice. So now I find myself facing up to the moment I have been dreading for weeks, setting foot back in my old life, my old flat.
The lift doors open and I am spat out onto the eighth floor. I’m in a vast, air-conditioned grey corridor with six doors, three on each side. They are steely grey with round studs and I realise now that they resemble prison doors. I put my key in the lock and open the door tentatively.
The flat itself feels cold and unfamiliar despite it being a bright, summery afternoon. It’s hard to believe that it was only just over two weeks ago that I’d excitedly packed for my wedding day and honeymoon and waved goodbye to this place thinking I would come back as a different person – a wife. I gaze at the simple décor and expensive, functional furniture – all chosen by Adam long before I moved in. I can’t see one thing that belongs to me. Not a candle, or a cushion, or a book. There are photos of Adam and me all over the place, but they look like those fake photos you get when you buy frames. Models posing, laughing, showing you what a perfect life you could lead.
As I carefully place my rucksack on the shiny, galvanised-zinc island unit, I acknowledge that this place has never felt like my home. From the moment I moved in I felt like a lodger in a life that didn’t belong to me. Not through any fault of Adam’s. He made me feel welcome and told me I could make any changes I liked. But everything had been done so perfectly, every corner and shelf filled, that I saw nowhere, no way that I could make an impression. Besides which, I remember feeling like every surface of the shiny, silver, space age-style kitchen was reflecting someone else back at me: someone prettier, more accomplished, more sure of herself. Someone like Adam’s ex, Eliza Grey, with whom he originally moved into this flat.
I tried not to be paranoid, but the flat had her name all over it. Grey: fifty sodding shades of the stuff. In the lounge, the kitchen, the bathroom – even our bedroom was painted in various fashionable Farrow & Ball hues.
Looking around, I realise that there’s only one place I’ve made an impact on here. One space I made a mark on in a way that Eliza never could.
I run up the architect-designed floating staircase, push open a heavy, fire exit door and step out onto the roof terrace.
And as I do I suddenly feel at home. I look down at what I’m wearing, the comfortable gardening clothes I left at Loni’s when I moved to London, and I realise that I didn’t leave the old me behind when I met Adam – not completely. I just kept her up here all this time.
I turn around slowly, taking in the glorious space that I lovingly designed, planted, tended, curated over the past five years until it became this beautiful haven. Every detail, every decision up here has been made by me – and with Adam and me in mind. There’s the hardwood IPE decking I chose because I knew it would take on a silvery-grey tint and look both more natural and in keeping with the flat’s interior. I’d thought about fake grass but I didn’t want it to be twee or a pastiche of a garden, but a modern, fresh space that was a blend of both of us: as well as a mix of both the country and the city. I walk around it now, noticing with pride how I cleverly divided the overwhelmingly large space into four smaller, more intimate ‘rooms’. At the front there’s the ‘lounge’ with an outdoor corner sofa and a ‘kitchen’ with a built-in stone island unit complete with herb garden planters, and then the ‘bedroom’ and ‘garden room’ behind them. Gazing around, I remember how I made the internal screens from bamboo trees and espaliered fruit trees, adding pretty mood lighting designed to subtly give each space a moderately different atmosphere at night. In the ‘garden room’ I planted climbing roses and curled fairy lights around a pergola and the branches of some potted silver birch trees, giving the sense of a secret garden. In the ‘bedroom’, a modernist rocking hammock sits next to the outer steel boundary. A runway of soft, subtle uplights leads the way to it down the centre of the space. No tall planters or trees are on the boundary edge – just a border of lavender and echinacea to bring a calming, sleepy scent. I wanted us to be able to lie there with a glass of wine in our hands enjoying an uninterrupted view of the city.
I sigh with a mixture of satisfaction and sadness. This is where I made my mark; right here is my home.
Correction. Was my home.
Suddenly I feel overwhelmed by a longing to see Adam. I might have left him but I haven’t stopped loving him. Not for a minute.
I head through the fire exit door, turning to say one last goodbye to my roof garden just as a gust of wind brushes through the branches of the trees, the scent of the May flowers – the early blooming roses and peonies – tickling my nose before being carried away. I will miss it. But not as much as I will miss the times I spent up here with Adam. I feel like the wind is already blowing my old memories away, carrying my old life with it.
I hurry down the staircase and back into the flat. The sooner I pack up my stuff and get out of here the better. But I find myself hunting for clues as to where Adam has gone. I pick up my rucksack from the island unit and go into the bedroom. The room is pristine, bed made perfectly, grey walls shining like brushed concrete, the wall of built-in wardrobes shut tight. The dressing table cleared of my make-up and toiletries and all packed into a box. Adam must have done it. With a lump in my throat, I open the wardrobe and start throwing my clothes and shoes into my bag. In a matter of minutes it’s like I was never here at all.
I exit the room, not wanting to stay in there a moment longer than I have to. I had checked the pillow for a note, the mirror for a Post-it, but I found nothing. I did have a sneaky peek in his bedside drawer and notice with a sinking heart that his passport was gone. Milly told me just that he felt he had to get away for a bit. It’s hard to imagine my strong, stoical Adam admitting that to anyone.
With my bulging rucksack on my back I head back out into the lounge and over to the desk. Maybe there’s a hotel address left on a piece of paper by the phone, flight details, that sort of thing? But the cleaner has been, the computer is switched off and everything is spick and span. He hasn’t left a single clue to where he’s gone. I can’t blame him for not wanting to be found after what I’ve done.
I double lock the front door and am just posting the keys through the letterbox when I hear the landline ring. The answer-phone kicks in, and Adam’s voice fills my ears. I close my eyes as I listen to him, partly to savour the memory of his voice, partly in shame.
‘Hi,’ he says in a deep, sad, resonant tone. ‘This is Adam Hudson, I’m not here right now . . .’
I open my eyes. The recording used to say, ‘This is Adam and Bea. We’re not here right now . . .’
Looks like I have been erased already. Wiped out of his life with one press of a button.
‘. . . but please leave your name and number,’ Adam continues, ‘and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
I’m about to leave when the beep cuts off. I recognise the shrill, clipped voice immediately.
‘Adam. It’s your mother, darling.’ I press my ear closer to the door. �
��I can’t get hold of you on your mobile. Why have you not turned up for work this past week? Your father is fuming! The company needs you back immediately and George has threatened to withdraw the generous promotion to MD he offered you if you don’t show up soon. I know you’re upset about her but business goes on. Hopefully you’re on your way to the New York office as planned. If so I’ll let Eliza know and she can meet you at the airport and look after you. She’s already offered to do anything she can. That girl has been a godsend to me the past couple of weeks, I don’t know why you—’
The beep sounds, cutting her off mid-sentence, and I lean back against the door, trying to piece together what I’ve just heard.
Has Adam gone away to New York with Eliza? I turn around and lean my cheek against the hallway wall and close my eyes. I know this is all my doing, but it doesn’t seem to matter to my heart that I left Adam or that I’m meant to not care. It still hurts.
I run down the corridor towards the lift and dart into it. Once I’m back on the ground floor I find myself running across the shiny floors, staring at my phone to see if Adam has updated his Facebook status to say something like: ‘In New York With the Girl I Should Have Proposed to’. I slip in my haste to get outside, not caring that Demetri must think that I’ve totally lost it. I feel a hand on my shoulder and as I look up I’m relieved to see Milly. Obediently, I allow her to lead me away from the building.
‘Come on, Bea, let’s get you back to mine,’ Milly says, putting her arm round me. Suddenly I have a flashback to her saying the same thing seven years ago when she led me away from Loni’s. I feel like I’ve gone back in time. And that’s when it occurs to me.
‘Maybe that’s what I’m meant to do . . .’ I mutter to myself.
‘What?’ Milly says, looking at me worriedly. Clearly talking to oneself is a sign of Another Breakdown. Something Milly, Cal and Loni have spent the past seven years anxiously looking out for.
‘Go back!’ I exclaim. ‘I’m going to go back through my Facebook timeline, see all the things I did, the places I went to and paths I chose. But this time I’m going to do them all differently! Live an alternative life!’
‘Ri-ght. How, exactly?’ Milly says slowly like she’s talking to a complete nut-job.
‘Instead of relying on Adam I’m going to find a proper career, find my dad and also find . . .’ I stop. I daren’t tell Milly about Kieran. She’ll go mad.
‘Find what?’ she presses, her dark, arched eyebrows pulled tightly together.
‘Myself, of course!’ She looks at me searchingly before holding out her arm to me again, but instead, I stride confidently ahead of her.
I’m taking the lead and making my own decisions now.
Chapter 16
Bea Hudson doesn’t want to come home!
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It’s our last night in Paris and we have stumbled across a lovely little bistro in the heart of Montmartre to celebrate the end of our honeymoon.
‘What a perfect week,’ Adam says in satisfaction as he finishes the last of his gratin of crayfish tails and sits back in his chair. His face is illuminated in the candlelight, his dark stubble enhancing his prominent cheekbones, his eyes the colour of rain-soaked Paris streets. He looks so happy. I love that I’ve made him that way.
I nod. ‘I wish it didn’t have to end.’ He leans forward and takes my hand.
‘It doesn’t have to, you know . . .’ He smiles at me, the corners of his mouth turned up teasingly. He looks so sexy in his crisp white shirt, the top few buttons undone, hair artfully ruffled. Paris suits him, holidays suit him. He rubs his chin and his wedding ring glimmers. He stares at me and I see my husband, the Adam I know and love, looking as he always does, handsome, together, strong – but also, more unusually, completely relaxed. I wish I could freeze time and keep him like this.
‘Of course it does, Ad, holidays can’t go on forever, no matter how much we want them to. Ugh,’ I sigh, ‘I’m dreading going back to temping. I don’t know why but I don’t think I can face flitting from one place to another any more . . . I want to be more . . .’
‘Permanent?’ Adam grins. ‘I knew it, marriage has changed you already!’
‘I was going to say fulfilled, inspired, challenged . . .’
‘So do something else,’ he says with a teasing smile. ‘Jack in your job and do something you really love.’
‘Ad, you know I’m not qualified for anything.’
‘You’ve always wanted to be a garden designer – and you have real talent,’ Adam says, leaning forward, his eyes sparkling with encouragement. ‘Just look what you did with our roof terrace. Everyone always says how amazing it is and that you could be a professional.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ I protest bashfully.
‘Why not?’
‘I never finished my degree, for a start.’
‘So go back to university! You don’t have to be a temp for the rest of your life, Bea, you know I’d support you every step of the way.’
He always makes everything seem so easy.
‘Look,’ he says, taking my hands. ‘I know not finishing your degree really knocked your confidence. I know you’re scared of . . . you know . . .’ He trails off. He’s never sure how to refer to my ‘blips’. I see him scrabbling around for an appropriate phrase. ‘what happened to you . . .’
‘My breakdowns,’ I state firmly. He twizzles his wine glass, clearly discomfited by my choice of words. As hard as he tries, Adam doesn’t know how to refer to my ‘lost’ years. He says it upsets him to think of me so unhappy, so unable to cope with the stress and pressure of my A levels and then my degree. It’s why he’s always tried to make my life so easy, make decisions for me.
‘But that won’t happen again,’ he says. ‘You know I’ll support you in anything you want to do.’
‘I know, Ad. I just don’t want to think about it right now, OK? I don’t want to think about going back to London, or going back to work. I don’t want to think about any big decisions I may have to make. I don’t want to think abut anything other than being here now with you.’ I close my eyes and take a deep, satisfied, yogic breath through my nose. Loni would be impressed. I open my eyes and see Adam has pulled something out from under the table. ‘What’s that?’ I ask, peering at the sheet of paper he’s holding up.
‘It’s our wedding in the “Celebrating” section of the Tribunal,’ he says proudly. ‘Mum faxed it to me. I thought if he saw it your dad might get in touch. I’ve even told the journalist at the paper to give out my details if a Len Bishop contacts them . . .’
I reach across the table and take his hand. ‘It’s so thoughtful of you, Adam, but I’ve decided the wedding was his last chance. I’m not interested in him now. I want it to be all about the future now – our future.’
Adam squeezes my hand and I smile at him.
‘OK, well, as long as you’re sure,’ he says slowly. ‘I just hate the idea of you always feeling there’s something missing.’ His jaw muscle flickers in frustration as he rubs his hand through his hair. It’s so typical of Adam to try and fix everything. I think he feels guilty that he has never had to deal with big life problems himself, so he feels duty bound to solve everyone else’s. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what attracted him to me in the first place – he wanted to fix me.
‘It was perfect because you were there, standing at the end of the aisle, looking so handsome in your morning suit and waiting for me so patiently . . .’
‘Very patiently,’ Adam points out with a sly wink.
‘Even when I wiped out walking down the aisle! But it was worth the wait, right?’
He laughs into my lips before kissing me.
‘Here’s to our future, Mrs Hudson,’ he says as we pull apart. ‘I know it’s going to be such a happy one.’
‘Me too,’ I say. And for the first time in my life I believe it.
Chapter 17
Bea Bishop feels like she’s gone back in time . . .
Sighing, I lift my laptop from the floor, hop onto the bed and click open Facebook, typing Adam’s name into the search box. My heart constricts as his face appears on my screen. It’s a picture from Campaign when he first joined Hudson & Grey as Account Director five years ago. He’s wearing a charcoal-grey suit and a crisp white shirt with the top button open and is looking directly into the camera. I lean my chin on my hand, staring at his dark hair that’s been carefully styled. He’s clean-shaven and looks every inch the successful businessman that 512 of his Facebook friends, family and colleagues know and love. But I know this isn’t Adam. This serious ‘suit’ isn’t the guy I woke up to every day for seven years who was tender and loving, who could make me roar with laughter, who would do naked karaoke for me on demand, who can’t drink red wine because it brings him out in a rash, who makes amazing fish finger sandwiches. The guy who, when we met, acted like I was the most important thing in his life. The guy who always made me feel like, even if I didn’t know where I was going, he could carry me to wherever I wanted to be.
I go into my message folder and open up a new message. I have an urge to write to Adam, to try and explain my actions better than I did at the church. He deserves that. I hate the thought that I have hurt him and I need to give him some clarity so that he is able to move on. I start typing, the words flowing as freely as my emotions.