I’m back in my flat, swamped with relief that I decided against letting it out after all. I’d have been left standing on the doorstep, looking through the window like a Dickensian urchin, watching as strangers lived out their lives in my home.
It smells musty and unlived in, but it’s still home. I noted as I parked the car, after a stressful drive through snow and sleet, that Kate’s house is looking in tip-top form. Barbara and Ron have obviously been doing their jobs well; the small forecourt is spotless, the paint on the front door has been topped up, and the brass knocker is shining. I have no doubt that if I let myself in, I would be able to use the world’s cleanest toilets.
I don’t, though. That would be too much for me right now – confronting Kate, and the ghosts that swirl around those rooms. Way too much.
I called at a service station on the way back, and have come equipped with milk and bread and a bag of Krispy Kreme doughnuts that I probably won’t eat. I’ve made a mug of tea, and put the heating on, and closed all the curtains. It’s evening, and already dark. The sounds of city life are intrusive and noticeable after so long in Dorset – cats yowling, car doors slamming, the occasional siren.
I welcome it all – it’s different, and I need different. I need to stop thinking about green fields and coastline that stretches on forever and cafes full of comfort and people full of kindness. I need to stop imagining a future where I kept all of that, where Martha stayed, where Cal … well. Where Cal existed at all.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned how to do over the years, it’s cope with disappointment. I have so many techniques for this I should probably write some kind of self-help guide: What To Do When Everything Turns To Shit – Again.
Some of it involves tea, which I have. Some of it involves music, which I also have – Bowie’s Diamond Dogs is playing in the background. Some of it involves sheer bloody-mindedness and the will to survive at all costs.
Sadly, for the time being at least, I seem to be all out of that. It’s not the kind of thing you can pick up at a service station, or download from iTunes. It comes from within – and at the moment, the well is dry.
This is also a familiar feeling, and one that I know will pass. I just need to regroup. To toughen up. To hide the tender spots away, and pretend I never had them in the first place – apply the emotional plasters that will give me the strength I need to go on.
Once I have that, I’ll go back. I’ll smile and react well when they tell me. I’ll wish them all the best, and I’ll drive them to the airport, and I’ll wave them off as though I’m excited for them. I’ll make promises about staying in touch or coming to visit, and Martha will be able to start her new life free of guilt or worry about poor old me. I’ll do all of that, and then I’ll collapse. But that’s okay – she won’t be there to see it, and neither will Cal.
I tell myself all of this as I sit there, alone, surrounded by the person I used to be. The person who went to festivals and stuck posters on her walls and wore tie-dye T-shirts. The person who made herself a tiny shelter in this flat, and lived a small, contented life. The person who never dreamed of meeting someone like Cal, or being a mother, or taking the risk of plunging herself into a community of friends. Maybe I can be that person again, one day.
One day – after they’ve gone.
They’ve noticed I’m gone, of course. I’ve had three missed calls from Cal, and several snarky texts from Martha. Even one from Laura, which tells me they’ve been over to Hyacinth looking for me.
I reply to them both in as reassuring way as I can. ‘Needed a post-Christmas break,’ I say to Martha. ‘All that mushy stuff got on top of me. Be back tomorrow.’
She’ll get that, being Martha – she’s also a bit afraid of the mushy stuff. Cal, of course, has assumed that I’ve done a runner because of what happened between me and him the night before, and I go along with that. It’s easier.
‘Be back tomorrow,’ I say to him. ‘Thought we both needed some time to cool down.’
Now, excuses made and promises to keep, I allow myself the luxury of facing up to how I actually feel: absolutely bloody dreadful. I wish Kate was here, to give me a hug and tell me it’ll all be okay in the end. Or that I had parents I could turn to. I even ponder visiting Barbara and Ron, but soon come to my senses.
By about eight o’clock that night, I’m on my fifteenth mug of tea, and have only managed to eat half a doughnut. I know this isn’t good, that I need to look after myself, but my stomach isn’t playing along and refuses to co-operate.
The snow has turned to grey, sleety rain, and I can hear it slapping away on the windows, as though it’s a monster trying to batter its way in. I’m lying in bed, listening to it, trying to persuade myself to drift off to sleep, when someone thumps on the door. I ignore it – it’s probably a drunk person, and I’m in no state to deal with a drunk person.
I clench my eyes shut, as though that will somehow stop me from hearing, as the thumping comes again. I continue to ignore it, and hear swearing as well. Then the sound of a car door opening and slamming again, and some commotion across the road. Drunk people, like I thought.
A few minutes later, the drunk person seems to have somehow found a key to my flat, and I sit up in alarm as I hear the door scraping open. I jump to my feet, ready to rock, and grab up a hefty hardback copy of the Oxford English Dictionary to protect myself with – words can definitely be mightier than the sword.
I have it lifted in the air and ready to swing when the door opens, and Cal walks in. He takes one look at me – at the dictionary, at the aggressive stance, at the expression on my face – and immediately backs up, holding his hands in front of him in surrender.
“Hey! It’s just me … take it easy, Zoe …”
I let out a big puff of air, and lower my arm. Part of me would still quite like to whack him across the head with a dictionary, but I don’t. I put it down on the bed, and arrange my face into something more neutral. Something less damaged.
He’s in the room now, making it feel small and crowded, which I don’t like. He’s forgotten his usual cowboy hat, and is soaking wet – presumably from traipsing around in the sleet outside. His hair is trailing rain down his neck, and his white T-shirt is moulded to his body in a way that very unfairly makes me feel vaguely lustful.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, stamping down on the vaguely lustful and performing that artfully British task of distracting myself by putting the kettle on. Again. “And where’s Martha? Is she all right?”
He strides over, takes the kettle out of my hands, and places it out of reach. He turns me around so I’m forced to face him, and stares into my eyes as he talks.
“She’s over at Kate’s house. She gave me the spare key, and she’s waiting there – she knew exactly where you’d be.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m very predictable … why are you here, though? I told you both I’d be back tomorrow. I told you both I was fine.”
“You did. And we both knew that was bullshit. What’s going on? Why did you run away? And how do you live in a place this small – it’s like being in a hobbit hole!”
I feel strangely insulted at this comment, and snap back: “Well it’s perfect for me! I never asked you to come here, being all tall and big and filling the place up – bugger off back to Budbury whenever you feel like it!”
“Not,” he replies, taking hold of my hand and pulling me over to the bed, where he sits us both down, “until you tell me what’s going on. You disappeared without a word of goodbye. You send us some nonsense texts about needing to cool down. And you look like shit. I don’t believe for a minute that all of this is because of what happened with us last night … so stop lying, and tell me what the problem is. We’ve both been worried sick about you.”
He sounds angry now, but is still speaking quietly and slowly, as though he’s trying to control himself and not go completely ballistic. He also sounds, truth be told, a bit hurt. Maybe he expected his godlike skills to have a different effect on me.
I stay quiet, chewing my lip, and wishing he’d just go away.
“Come on, Zo,” he says, more gently, reaching out to hold one of my hands. “It’s just me and you. No Martha. Be honest with me, for heaven’s sake – what’s wrong?”
He’s right, I think, letting my fingers fall lifelessly in his. It is just me and him. No Martha. There’s no reason I need to carry on faking it for now – and maybe he deserves a bit of honesty. Maybe he deserves to know how much he’s hurt me, even if it does mean I sacrifice my dignity.
“I heard you,” I say, staring straight ahead at the bookshelves. At the posters. At anything but him. This is hard enough without having to look at his face.
“I heard you, and Martha, this morning. Talking about your plans. Talking about leaving for Australia, and living together, all right? I heard it all. And it’s fine … I get it. New start. Daddy and daughter. I understand. And as far as Martha’s concerned, I’ll appear one hundred per cent okay with it – for her sake. But I’m not. I’m not okay. I trusted you, Cal – I trusted you! And for me, that’s a bloody big deal …”
I hear him sigh, and feel his fingers tighten around mine. He holds my face, and turns it towards his. I try and pull away, but he keeps me there – and I have no choice but to meet his eyes. Deep, dark, and sad.
“You,” he says, shaking his head. “Are an absolute bloody idiot.”
My eyes widen at this, and I wonder if I can grab hold of that dictionary again – I expected anger, or embarrassment, or regret. I expected him to apologise, or feel guilty, or explain. What I didn’t expect was to be called a bloody idiot, and I don’t like it. I open my mouth to snap something back at him, but before I can, he starts speaking again.
“No! Just be quiet, and listen, will you, woman? So, you heard us talking this morning, assumed the worst, and did a runner? Without giving either of us the chance to explain? Is that about the size of it?”
“What is there to explain?” I say, voice high and desperate. “You’re both leaving on the third. She’s going to Australia. You’re going to be living together. You’re both worried about breaking the news to me. And you want her to call you Dad …”
He actually laughs out loud at this point, which again is unexpected. I’m now as confused as I am upset, and none of that is helped by the fact that he kisses me, quick and hard, a brief encounter that’s over almost as soon as it’s begun. He reaches out, tucks stray hair behind my ear, and trails his fingers over my face – he strokes them beneath my eyes, sore from crying, and sighs deeply.
“Like I said,” he continues, “you’re a complete bloody idiot. You only heard half the conversation, Zoe. Yes, Martha’s coming back with me on the third. She’s coming back with me for two weeks, while I sort my life out, and put my affairs in order. Say goodbye to my parents, pack up my stuff, and move back here. And yes, we’re hoping to live together – in Budbury, with you, you daft cow. Frank’s offered me a permanent job, managing the far, so he and Cherie can finally retire.”
I blink at him, unsteadily, not quite able to compute what I’m hearing.
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” I splutter, frowning in confusion.
“Because I needed to talk to Martha first, see if she wanted her old dad to stick around or not. And then I needed to talk to you – which I was planning to do last night, but … well, we kind of got distracted with other stuff instead, didn’t we?”
Predictably enough, I go red at that comment – which is nice, as it means my skin is now colour coordinated to match my eyes. I nod. Yes. We did indeed get distracted.
“But why were you so worried about telling me? If she was just coming with you for a holiday?” I ask, still struggling to keep up.
“Because it’ll be during term-time. She’s due back in college on the fifth, and thought you’d go bananas about her missing school. That simple. I can’t believe you thought we’d do that to you … you really do have trust issues, don’t you? So you’ve been here, all day, convinced that we were both dumping you?”
I nod, miserably, trembling with emotion. I just don’t know how to react – I’d become so firmly rooted in my own sense of betrayal, so ready to think the worst, that I have nothing much left in the tank.
He puts his arm around my shoulder, and squeezes me into his chest. One hand strokes my hair, and he holds me steady and quiet for a few moments.
“Nothing to say?” he asks, eventually. “Run out of words? This is a first …”
I clutch onto his T-shirt, and lay a single kiss on his chest, and raise my face to look at him. He’s worth looking at, this man – but somehow, looking at him and knowing he’s staying is even more scary than looking at him knowing he’s leaving. Wow. I really am a mess.
“I’m … sorry,” I say, placing my hands on his shoulders. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to explain. Force of habit. I suppose I was … freaked out. By me and you being friends. By me and you being more than friends. By everything, really. I shouldn’t have run. I was coming back, honestly – but I shouldn’t have run.”
“That’s okay,” he replies, looking at me searchingly. “I forgive you, and I think you’ve had a miserable enough day torturing yourself without me adding to it. But … you still haven’t said how you feel. What you think. About me staying. It’s not just Martha’s opinion that counts, and it’s not just Martha I’m staying for … it’s you, Zoe.
“I told you your heart would be safe with me, and I meant it. I love Martha, and I love you. I think we’ve got something special here, but I need to know that you feel the same … I need to know that I’m not the only one who thinks this is special.”
I close my eyes, and breathe. Deeply. Cal has just told me he loves me. And I know I feel the same. The sudden switch from misery to elation has left me dizzy, and my heart is thumping so hard I can almost hear it. I’ve spent the whole day disgusted at myself for trusting this man – for allowing myself to hope – and that isn’t so easy to set aside.
Not easy – but not impossible. I might have trust issues, but I’m not a complete loss. I look up at him, and smile. I let my fingers tangle up in his hair, and touch my lips briefly to his.
“I love you too,” I finally say. “And I very much want you to stay. I’m terrified, but I really do want you to. More than anything. Now kiss me, properly, before we go and see Martha.”
“Yes ma’am,” he replies, grinning. And he does, in his very own godlike way.