Three missed calls from Tiffy.
Can’t talk to her. Don’t want to hear her explain herself. I’m still walking, God knows where – maybe around in circles. I do seem to be seeing a lot of very similar Starbucks. It’s all poky and Dickensian, this part of London. Cobbles and pollution-stained brick, tiny narrow strips of sky overhead between grimy windows. You don’t have to walk far to end up in the shiny, pale blue world of the City, though. Turn a corner and find I’m face to face with myself, mirrored in the glass headquarters of some accountancy firm.
I look terrible. Exhausted and crumpled in this suit – suits have never looked good on me. I should have tried harder to smarten up; might have reflected badly on Richie. Already got Mam to contend with, whose idea of smart is slightly higher heeled knee-high boots.
I pause, surprised by the viciousness of that thought. Cruel and judgemental. I don’t like that my head could come up with it. I’ve come a long way to forgiving Mam – or I thought I had. But right now the very thought of her makes me angry.
I’m just an angry man today. Angry that I would settle for being happy just to have judges listening to my brother’s case, when he should never have been led in there by a prison officer in the first place. Angry that I was caught up worrying about showing Tiffy how I feel, and didn’t do it in time, and got outdone by a man who gives her nightmares, but certainly knows his way around a big romantic gesture. Nobody doubts how Justin feels now. No danger of that.
I’d really thought she wouldn’t go back to him. But then, you always think that, and they always do.
Look down at my phone: Tiffy’s name on my screen. She’s texted me. I can’t bear to open it, but can’t handle the temptation, so I turn my phone off.
I think about going home, but home is full of Tiffy’s belongings. The smell of her, the clothes I’ve seen her in, the negative space around her. And eventually she’ll come back from the launch – the flat’s hers for tonight and the weekend. So that’s out. Can sleep at Mam’s, obviously, but oddly seem to be just as furious with her as with Tiffy. Besides, can’t stand the thought of sleeping in mine and Richie’s old room tonight. Can’t be where Tiffy is, can’t be where Richie isn’t.
I have nowhere to go. Nowhere’s home. Just keep walking.
This flatshare. I wish I’d never done it. Wish I’d never opened my life up like that and let someone else walk in and fill it up. I was doing fine – safe, managing. Now my flat’s not mine, it’s ours, and when she’s gone all I will see is the absence of tiffin and books about bricklayers and that bloody stupid paisley beanbag. It’ll be another room full of what’s missing. Just what I didn’t want.
Maybe I can still save her from a life with him. Yes to a proposal doesn’t mean they’ll definitely get married, and she could hardly say no, could she, with all those people staring. I feel a dangerous surge of hope, and do my best to quash it. Remind myself that there is no saving of people – people can only save themselves. The best you can do is help when they’re ready.
Should eat. Can’t remember when I last did. The night before? Already seems like for ever ago. Now that I’ve realised I’m hungry, my stomach growls.
Swing into Starbucks. Walk past two girls watching Tasha Chai-Latte video of Justin proposing to Tiffy. Drink tea with lots of milk in, eat some sort of overpriced toastie with lots of butter in it, and stare at the wall.
I realise, when barista clearing the table gives me curious, pitying look, that I am crying again. Can’t seem to stop, so I don’t make myself. Eventually, though, people are noticing, and I want to be moving again, alone.
More walking. These smart shoes are rubbing raw at the skin of my heel. Think longingly of the worn-in shoes I wear at work, the easy way they fit, and within fifteen minutes or so it’s clear I’m not just walking now, I’m walking somewhere. There’s always room for another nurse in the hospice.
