Together Apart (4 page)

5.

22 September, 11.15 a.m.

I
 hate this bloody room. It’s too small, and with all my stuff in it, it’s like an obstacle course. I feel like a prisoner in here, and to make it worse, it’s Sunday – officially the worst day of the week. The hours are stretching out in front of me, and all I have to look forward to is flicking through crap TV on my own while other
people
do annoying, couple-y things like going for walks in the park and driving out for country pub lunches. Smug gits. I wish today could be like how Sundays used to be, when Adam and I would be smug gits too. I used to go to bed on a Sunday night with a huge smile on my face, wishing there could be just one more day of the weekend left. Now, I wish it would just be over and done with already.

I really don’t know how much longer I can handle this. Whenever he’s in the flat, it feels like every cell in my body is being pulled towards him. I have to retrain myself to understand he’s not mine anymore, and right now it feels like a losing battle. He went out last weekend, came back completely wrecked and woke me up with his banging around. He called me a heartless bitch when I went to see if he was okay. I knew it was the drink talking, but I’m not an idiot. There was more than a hint of truth to it. If only I could tell him that I still love him with every ounce of my being, or that most nights I can’t sleep because I miss him wrapping himself around me in bed. I want to tell him that I do want to spend the rest of my life with him, even though I said I don’t. Of course, I didn’t say any of those things. I just kept quiet and helped him into bed.

I knew I should have left him there. I should have walked away, got back into bed and slept. But I didn’t. I looked at him passed out on the bed, thinking about how much I used to love breathing in his smell, even if I couldn’t remember what he actually smelled like. And how he used to envelop me in a hug, his strong arms holding me close, even if I’d forgotten what it actually felt like. So I did something I knew I absolutely, positively should not have done. I got into the bed and lay next to him with my head on his chest. It was the first time I’d felt calm for weeks. I stayed there for a long time. I would have stayed all night if I could, but I couldn’t risk him waking up. If he did, he would have had a go at me for being a complete headcase, or, worse, he might have cuddled me back.

I have to stick with my decision. I have to keep telling him I don’t want him, even though it’s like depriving myself of oxygen. I have no other choice. Telling him what happened – what I did – is not an option.

22 September, 2.05 p.m.

Claire called me back. Actually, she called the day after I’d left her that stupid voicemail, but I kept diverting her calls. I couldn’t avoid her any longer. She was in Shanghai (I knew she’d be somewhere glamorous) and wasted no time in telling me how I’d screwed up – how I should have called her straight away and how I should never have moved in with him in the first place if I wasn’t prepared to tell him the truth. Tell me something I don’t already bloody know. We ended up arguing, like we always do. I already know I’ve screwed my life up, yet again. I don’t need Miss Goody Two-Shoes to tell me as well.

I should never have called her. I miss her and I love her – of course I do. But our relationship only seems to revolve around disasters. The memories, the guilt, the shame – I can’t deal with it. I won’t call her again.

Adam watched the unnervingly tall redhead looking around the state-of-the-art kitchen and could almost taste the commission. Things were looking up and not a moment too soon. At work, he was the bee’s knees, the dog’s bollocks. He’d earned a reputation for letting out the apartments quickly and efficiently, so much so that he’d ended up taking over lease negotiations with the big companies who rented the bulk of their apartments from the managing director, but lately he’d brought his personal problems to work with him, and it was starting to show. Everyone knew all about his break-up, including the contract cleaners. It was embarrassing.

‘Everything’s included in the rent, right? Including use of the gym and spa?’ she asked with her American accent, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

‘The facilities and maid service are, but bills aren’t. Plus, you’ll also get a discounted rate at the hair salon and the florist just
outside
. You work in advertising, right?’ If his memory was correct, she was a director at some massive transatlantic outfit.

‘Yes. I’m based mostly in New York, but I need somewhere to stay when I’m over here.’

‘This is a great location,’ he said, leading her onto the decked terrace decorated with tidy potted plants. ‘You have great views, easy access to Regent’s Park and the Tube, plus the West End is only minutes away for shopping, restaurants and theatres.’

He followed her gaze and looked at the rooftops sitting under a perfectly blue, cloudless sky. The crisp autumn air settled on his skin. He felt invigorated. Finally, something had clicked. It was over. He wasn’t going to act like a lovesick fool anymore. He had an ego to salvage, after all. Carl had arranged their night out for the following weekend, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he wanted to go out and pull. It was as much about getting Sarah out of his system as it was about getting laid.

He looked over the railing and pointed down at the street below. ‘And since this is the penthouse, you also get designated parking.’

He looked at the redhead and held his breath. This was why he loved his job – the seconds before the deal was closed, when it could swing either way.

‘I’ll take it.’

He grinned. Job done. It was shaping up to be a cracking week.

Later that evening, as he flicked through the channels on TV, his mobile phone vibrated. He’d promised a colleague he’d bring in his Goa guidebook. It was a good thing he’d had the sense to put a calendar reminder on his phone; otherwise, he’d have forgotten all about it. He switched off the TV as Sarah came into the liv
ing room.

‘I was going to get some take-away after Pilates. Do you want anything?’

‘No, thanks,’ he replied without even looking up at her.

He listened to her leave the flat and scowled. Spare-
room
-gate was the last time they’d said more than a sentence to each other, and that was two weeks ago. How much longer could he cope with them living together? He sighed and went out into t
he hall
way. They’d only moved in three months ago, but already the storage cupboard was alarmingly full. He started removing boxes and bags and swore. They were going to have to put some time aside to throw out what they didn’t need. It would make packing easier, at the very least.

He finally found the guidebook hidden amongst some old novels stuffed into a holdall and flicked through it, remembering his holiday with his ex. He’d had enough of gaudy European resorts full of endless tacky Irish pubs with pissed-up teenagers and thought that Goa, with its chilled and hippy reputation, would be perfect. It turned out to be anything but. It was the first time they’d had to spend twenty-four hours a day together, and a week in,
tempers
had flared. Maybe he just shouldn’t go on holiday with women
anymore
. He didn’t exactly have a great track record with them.

A red and blue shoebox in the corner caught his attention. It wasn’t one of his. He’d probably put it in here by mistake when they moved in, but it was strange that Sarah hadn’t noticed. She was meticulous with her belongings. He lifted the lid and frowned at the pile of notepads and school exercise books in front of him.
Picking
up the one at the top, he flicked through the pages, filled with Sarah’s neat handwriting. They were diaries. He knew she kept one, but he’d never considered reading it. It would be a major
invasion
of privacy. What did she write about now? No doubt it was about him and their break-up. Maybe if he read it, he’d be able to find out why things had turned out the way they did.

He flicked through the rest of the diaries. They seemed to stretch back years. It would be wrong to read them, especially as she seemed to go out of her way to keep her past to herself. He should tell her they were in here, really. She was bound to notice they were missing sooner or later. He shrugged and replaced the box. It wasn’t his problem anymore. They were over.

26 September

It’s been nearly fifteen years.
Fifteen years.
Already. How is that even possible? For the last few days, that familiar feeling of
someone
lurking in the shadows has come back. This guilt . . . It’s like blocks of concrete weighing down on my chest.
Sometimes
it’s too strong to bear, and I wish I could tell someone, but everything would be ruined if I did – my job, my
family
, everything. I’m not a heartless person. I know I’m not. If I were, I wouldn’t feel like this, and I wouldn’t think about him every single day.

I hate feeling like this. I feel so anchorless without Adam. He’s gradually slipping away from me, and I can’t blame him. All he knows is that I’m acting like a stone-cold, heartless cow, especially after how I acted when he switched our rooms over. It wasn’t that I was more concerned about my stuff than what’s happened between us; it was just that it was so final. It was as if he wanted to send me a message that he’s moving on, and if that’s really what it was, it came across extra loud and clear. And I know that I’ve brought this on myself because I wanted him to accept we’re over, and I knew it would hurt, but not like this. It’s more painful than I could ever have imagined. Since then, we’ve barely spoken but, as heartbreaking as it is, at least it’s giving me some space to at least try to move on. It’s not really as if I’ve got any other choice. I just have to keep focusing on the fact that it’s for the best.

It was so stupid of me to think I could have a happy ending. This is my punishment for what happened, and while I might not like it, I can understand it. I just hate the way I’ve hurt Adam.