Blue Sea Writers

The 13th Step

Wed, 05 May 2021 12:00:00 Z

The taxi drops me at the bottom of the garden. I slowly climb the steps, their curves and ridges familiar beneath my feet. When I reach the tenth step – the big, flat one – I stop and gaze up at the house, at the paint peeling from the fascias, the estate agent’s sign nailed above the window. Angry clouds hang over the tiled roof.

I hear the wind rustling the leaves of the cherry tree, the rumble of traffic on the busy road. A child skips along the pavement behind me. For just one moment I let myself believe it is her.

A clap of thunder breaks my reverie. I climb the steps: eleven, twelve, stepping over number thirteen, just as Alice used to do. Her steps were lighter than mine.

“Race you,” she would shout, giggling as she ran up the steps, pigtails flying. She was so full of life, so free of cares, but never did I see her take the thirteenth step.

“Why do you do that?” I asked her once.

She looked at me, her mouth set in a firm line, before shrugging and pulling a face, her freckled nose screwed up, eyebrows furrowed.

“You know there’s no such thing as bad luck, don’t you?” I asked her.

Again, the shrug, that cheeky, mischievous look on her face. I batted her away, laughing as I sent her off to wash up for tea.

But I was wrong after all.

Inside, I throw my keys onto the side-table, ignoring the flashing of the answer-machine. I flick the switch on the kettle and wait for it to boil. The rain patters on the windows. She was born on a Thursday and it’s a Thursday again this year. Somehow, it makes it all the harder to bear.

Thursday’s child has far to go. I used to say the rhyme to her when she was a tot.

“What does that mean, Mummy?” She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “Will I go to the moon?”

“Who knows?” I said, pulling up the bedcovers, tucking her in tight. “Why not, if that’s where you want to go.”

She looked serious then. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe the moon. Or maybe Africa.”

I like to imagine she’s in Africa now, working with the elephants and giraffes. The posters, faded with age, still hang on her bedroom wall.

The kettle boils and I lift the teapot from the shelf and wipe it out before pouring in a splash of hot water. I put the lid on and swish it around, feeling the warmth of the liquid seep into the porcelain.

Alice made us a cup of tea once. She poured a thin, brown liquid from the pot, a look of triumph on her face. I took a sip and declared it the best tea I’d ever tasted, willing her father to do the same. He wrinkled his nose behind her back but smiled as he accepted her offer of a cup.

The house was different the next morning. I felt it before I opened my eyes, a stillness that made my heart flutter even before I raced to her bedroom door and saw the curtain blowing in the breeze.

I toss a teabag into the pot and pour the water on, breathing in the earthy scent of the leaves. My hand brushes against a glass as I reach for a mug. I am hit by a surge of longing for the tang of gin, the bitterness of vodka, the escape into oblivion. I steady myself against the worktop, clasping the mug to my chest, a fragile lifeline.

I can still hear the bang of the door as he walked out for the last time. It was only when I awoke, head in a pool of vomit, that I realised why he, too, was gone.

I walk into the living room and pull the sale documents from the pile of papers on the coffee table, read them through one last time.

Head in hands, I rock myself.

I reach for the photograph standing in its frame on the table, see her smile, ever-constant, never-changing. I place a kiss on her cheek and reach for the phone.

I listen to the voice on the other end of the line, calm, polite, professional as she tells me the buyer is ready to exchange. Am I?

I glance at Alice’s picture again. Around me the house shifts and settles.

“Yes,” I say, slipping the contract into its envelope.

It’s time to move on.

I hang up the phone and sit alone in the house I once loved, imagining it filled with life again. I gaze out the window, watching as a rainbow forms, arcing over the rooftops.

Just as quickly, it is gone again.

The End of Summer

Wed, 07 Apr 2021 18:00:00 Z

It was night-time when we set off. I awoke as Dad carried me, blanket and all down the stairs. I heard the familiar creak of the floorboard as we reached the hallway, saw my suitcase still waiting by the door, snuggled into him as he stepped out into the cool night air.

I fought the idea of sleep the night before, staying awake for hours after Mum tucked me in and kissed me goodnight.

"The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner we’ll be there," Mum said when she came to check on me. It didn’t help sleep come any faster.

"Hurry, Daniel," she whispered now as Dad bundled me into the car. I blinked my eyes open at the worry in her voice but Dad stroked my hair as he fastened the seat belt and my eyelids slowly closed again.

I heard the slam of the doors, the rattle of seat belts, the patter of rain on the windscreen and the cough of the engine as it finally burst into life. Then we were rolling, the tyres hissing against wet tarmac, the car gently rocking, sending me back to sleep.

I dreamt of nights spent in Aunt Maria and Uncle Peter’s old VW camper, looking up through the rooflight at the stars shining above.

I dreamt of the beach, of building sandcastles with my cousin, Lizzie, while her brother David flew his kite overhead, its long tail flapping in the breeze.

I dreamt of Ludo running after him, crashing through the castle wall I was building, sending the sand crumbling into the moat. I didn’t care. I was just glad to be with them again, to run my fingers through Ludo’s dark fur and feel the warmth of his breath against my face.

I awoke with a warm, tingling feeling. The sun was rising. We’d soon be there, Lizzie and David too.

Then I heard her crying. "Mum?" I said, my voice thick with sleep and fear.

She turned around in her seat, red-rimmed eyes gazing at me mournfully. "Oh," she sobbed before turning away. "We shouldn’t have brought her," she said.

My stomach dropped and tears bit at my eyes. Shouldn’t have brought me?

"Shhh, Monica," Dad said, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror. "Morning, munchkin." He tried to smile; I could see the top of his cheeks rise, but his eyes didn’t follow.

I stared out the window, watching the fast-moving traffic on the long, straight road ahead. Where were the narrow country lanes, the high hedges and dramatic views over the bay? "This isn’t the way to the beach," I said.

"No," Dad said quietly.

Mum said nothing but I could see by the way her shoulders shook that she was crying again. I felt the urge to do the same.

"But-"

"Just hang in there, munchkin," Dad said, wearing his sad-eyed smile again. "We’re nearly there."

"Nearly where?" I asked, bunching my fists. "Why aren’t we going-"

"At the hospital," Mum wailed.

"Hospital?" An icy shiver went through me. Grandpa went to hospital when he was ill and I never saw him again.

"Monica!" Dad’s voice was stern. He flicked the indicator and pulled off the motorway, braking hard. The seat belt cut into my chest, then sent me thudding back into my seat.

Mum gasped but said nothing.

We drove the last few miles in silence, me swallowing back the fear that was eating away at my stomach, Dad’s hands gripping tightly at the wheel.

We arrived and Dad pulled into a parking space outside a tall, white building with lots of large, streaky windows. Before the car had come to a halt, Mum was out and running, her arms and legs flapping like a giant bird.

Dad sighed and scrabbled around for some coins.

"What-?" My voice came out as little more than a squeak.

"One more minute, munchkin," Dad said, pushing the door closed behind him.

I watched as the coins disappeared into the slot of the machine, waited as it printed the ticket, watched Dad come back to the car and lean over to place it on the dashboard. Then he opened the back door and climbed in beside me.

"Now?" I asked, and he nodded but it was a few moments longer before he spoke.

"There’s been an accident. A tyre on the camper van blew and your Aunt Maria..." He puffed out his cheeks.

"They’re operating on her now."

I swallowed, hard. "Will she be ok?"

"I hope so, munchkin."

"Lizzie and David?" I asked.

"They’re fine," he said, pulling me into a great big hug. "Just a few bruises. And Uncle Peter’s okay, too."

I nodded, relieved.

"Do you want to go in?" he asked.

I shook my head and picked at an old scab on my knee. "So, what about our holiday?" I asked.

Ahh. I He looked serious. "About that, munchkin. Well, Lizzie and David are going to want to be near their mum. Your mother, too."

My heart sank, but I knew he was right. I had to be brave. "Just you and me, then," I said.

"We’ll see, munchkin." He smiled and ruffled my hair. "Maybe we can do something. Once we know-"

"We could take Ludo," I said, hope blossoming in my chest.

"Ahh," Dad said, clearing his throat. "I’m sorry, munchkin." For the briefest of moments, I wondered what he was sorry for. But then I looked into his big, sad eyes and before he said it, I knew. "He didn’t make it."

Then the tears came. Aunt Maria would be fine. Dad had said so and he was never wrong. But Ludo… Ludo was gone.

Dad opened his arms to me and I snuggled into them, letting him rock me as the tears rolled down my cheeks and the memories of Ludo ran through my mind.

Bonfire Night

Wed, 03 Mar 2021 12:00:00 Z

Kayla held her breath and flicked the match into the old drum. The flames played at the contents, just as Jason had played with her when they'd first met. Soon they flared. She nodded watching a thin twist of smoke float away on the night air.

The idea for the bonfire occurred to her after Jason's disappearance, no more than a glimmer of an idea at first but like the flames, it had taken hold.

She pulled the newspaper clipping from her pocket and looked again at the headline. Life with Jason had not been pretty, but she had never dared to dream of making a life without him. She'd never expected to get the chance.

She stood with a pile of his clothes at her feet, the last reminder of their life together. She would not rest until every last remnant was extinguished.

"What's that smell?" Janice sniffed the air, her nose like a pointer. She glanced over at her husband, Gerald, but he showed no sign of a response.

Janice pulled back the heavy curtain. She usually didn't like to peer through the nets, but the smell was growing stronger and there was a strange light playing against them. Surely that spit of a girl from next door wasn't having a fire?

She peeled back the nets and glared into the darkness.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed.

"Hmm?" Gerald grunted, his eyes not leaving the television screen.

"Come and look!" Her voice trembled. "She's… She's…"

"Who's she, the cat's mother?" Gerald's moustache twitched, his amusement clear at turning one of her favourite phrases against her. It only served to increase her annoyance.

"That girl!"

"Kayla?" Gerald asked, though she could tell he wasn't much interested.

"Who else?"

Gerald sighed. "What's she done?"

Janice didn't stop to explain.

Kayla looked up when Janice marched into the garden. There had been many disapproving glances over the fence, but this was the first time Janice had crossed the boundary.

"What's up?"

"What's up?" Janice said, her eyebrows quivering. "Is it not obvious?"

Kayla said nothing, just stood, watching the flames.

"Well? Are you going to put that fire out?"

"No," Kayla said. "Don't think so."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said no."

Janice first blinked, then frowned. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Finally, she stalked back into her house, muttering under her breath.

Kayla turned back to the fire, her face glowing, much as it had that night. She saw the sneer on Jason's face as he plucked the wrap from her fingers even as she held it over the sink, could still feel his hand tight around her wrist, the jolt of pain as her head hit the wall.

Why had she hesitated? Was she really so weak, a nothing, as he said she was?

She had known in that instant she would never be free.

But that was over. And the fire would cleanse all her sins.

"Honestly, that girl's getting more and more out of hand. I thought maybe now that awful boyfriend of hers has gone, things might improve, but…"

"You think he was awful?" Gerald's eyes left the screen just long enough to launch the question at her.

"Well, of course I do, Gerald." Janice stared at her husband in disbelief. "Honestly, I've said it enough times."

"Indeed." Gerald's moustache twitched. "Well, then shouldn't we be pleased that he's gone? And support her efforts to rid herself of what he left behind?"

"With a bonfire, Gerald? It's just not… it's not… civilised!"

"I don't know," Gerald replied, turning back to his programme. "Wasn't fire a major step on the road to civilisation?"

The newspaper clipping blackened and curled.

She read it the first time right there in the shop, unable to leave until she knew for sure. Man, 25, shot dead in gang war. It was no surprise he stormed out that night. That he hadn't come back had been a mystery and, if she allowed herself to be honest, a huge relief.

She'd known a life in drugs would catch up with him sooner or later, but she thought he was indestructible. Until the article.

Kayla took a deep breath, feeling the smoke coiling its way through her airways. The flames were dying now, and with them, the images of that night. Jason's face was no more than a few curls of smoke carried on the wind. She breathed out slowly, releasing the tension from her body, letting go all her pain. It could serve her no more.

She leaned back as the rain started to fall, fat drops of water hitting her face and plastering her hair against her neck. The heavens had heard her prayers and were sending her a sign. The past was over. Everything looks different after the rain.

She ran back to the house. She turned to wave at Janice, hands on hips in the window, and closed the door behind her, leaving the ashes of Jason's memory to smoulder and die.

The Last Exhibition

Wed, 06 Jan 2021 12:00:00 Z

“Look!” Colin says, pressing his nose up to the painting. “Look at those brush strokes!” He takes a step back. “And his use of light and shade is incredible. Just amazing.”

“Yes,” I say, smiling. I’m no expert but his enthusiasm is infectious. “Isn’t it?”

“What an achievement,” he says, gesturing around at the paintings on the walls.

He sighs, the corners of his mouth drooping, and I can tell that he’s comparing these masterpieces to his own works, knocked up in the garage between shifts in the warehouse. It’s not a fair comparison, I want to tell him. Some artists dedicate their whole lives to their bodies of work. But with that thought comes the guilt that Roger and I couldn’t afford to send him to art school, couldn’t afford for him to do the same.

The painting in front of us is of a sunset, shades of pink and purple merging with the blue. It’s no wonder Colin is drawn to it. It reminds me of the sketches he used to make night after night, never coming in for his dinner until the last rays had disappeared. He was such a good boy, never complaining, ever thoughtful. He used to bring me flowers, like his father before him.

“You never told me he was so talented,” Colin says, and I want to ask what he means, who he means, but the pain stabs my chest unmercifully. Perhaps it’s the guilt. Whatever it is, it takes my breath away.

“You go on,” I say, trying to fix a smile on my face, knowing I won’t be able to maintain it for long. “I’m just going to sit here a while.”

“I should stay,” he says, an anxious look on his face.

“No,” I say before he has the chance to sit down beside me. It comes out more harshly than I intended. I take a deep breath.

“No,” I say again, more gently, “you go on. Please.” My cheeks ache with the effort of smiling; my eyes are beginning to fill with tears. I suppress the words “I’m fine,” knowing they would be a red flag. He was so excited about bringing me to the library today. I don’t remember why. He hasn’t even picked out any books. But I refuse to spoil his day.

“Well, okay,” he says, his hair swinging across in front of his eyes. I wish he would get a haircut. I barely recognise him lately. “Just this once won’t hurt, I guess.” He winks at me. “But don’t tell the boss, eh?”

I open my mouth to ask what he’s talking about, but the pain is too much. I nod and watch as he walks away, struggling to keep my body erect until he is out of sight and I can slump across the bench, breathing into the pain, gritting my teeth as another invisible wave passes through my body.

“Are you okay?” The man is short, well dressed. He is wearing a hat. Roger always wore a hat, though he used to have better style. I shall have to buy him a new one.

“Yes, yes,” I say, trying to straighten up, not wanting Roger to see me like this. But it’s no good. The pain has gripped my whole body.

I reach out a hand to take his, but he pulls away. “Roger?” I say. “Roger?” but he looks frightened and that scares me more than anything. Roger was always so brave, right up until he left. I can’t think where he went now.

“Roger?” I say again, but he turns away, calling out loudly and there’s a woman coming towards me now, a badge swinging around her neck.

“Mrs Fairweather?” she says. “Are you all right?” I know her face but I can’t place her. Who is she and what’s she doing with my Roger?

The colours are swirling in front of my eyes. I feel like I have been transported inside one of the paintings. The pain is starting to ease. My head feels light. I feel there is something I need to say before I drift away.

“My son’s a painter,” I tell the woman, grasping onto her hand urgently. “Such a bright boy, my Colin.”

“Colin?” I hear her say through the fog of colours that swirl before my eyes. “Colin Fairweather?”

I nod and close my eyes, embracing the darkness.

I hear someone gasp. “The artist? But didn’t he-?”

“Poor love,” the woman’s voice says. “Such a tragedy.”

I’m floating now. I can feel their arms pulling me up, up, hear their voices calling to me in shades of lilac and pink.

“Colin,” I say.

“I’m here, Mum.”

Of course he’s here. He was always here. I press a hand to my chest. Or is it someone else’s hand? It’s hard to tell now.

“Hold on,” I say. “I won’t be long.”

Exposure

Wed, 02 Dec 2020 12:00:00 Z

It’s the coldness that’s the biggest shock. Many things are familiar: the wooden pews, the heavy scent of polish in the air, the thin light filtering through the stained-glass, the hushed way of talking that people adopt in churches even on happier occasions.

All this takes me back to my childhood: my parents would drag my sister and me along to the Sunday service at our parish church where the sermons were so dull we couldn’t wait to be excused to run, whispering and giggling with our friends to our respective meeting rooms.

I bite down on the thought, tasting its bitterness in my mouth.

There’s no giggling today, though there is plenty of whispering, people shuffling in their seats as they make room for friends and acquaintances.

I look around and wish I’d accepted the offer of a lift from the office. The thought of having to listen to the salesgirls’ chatter all the way here was more than I could bear but now, sitting here alone, I feel awkward and exposed.

I arrived early and chose my seat carefully: at the far end of the row, almost halfway back, at a respectful distance from the grieving family. The others came later and took their seats on the far side of the church. I glance over but they don’t see me. I sigh and turn my attention back to the front of the church.

A huge photograph of Linda looms over the closed casket. I try not to think about what lies within.

I’m still staring at the photograph when an old man shuffles his way along the bench to sit down beside me. I bend my head to feign prayer, but I can feel his eyes upon me. When I look up, sure enough, he reaches out a hand in greeting.

“Tom,” he says, his gaze unfaltering. “And you are?”

“Meg.”

He nods as if that means something to him, though I know it can’t. Linda and I may have shared an office, but that was all we shared. “Ruth will be glad you came.”

I frown and follow his gaze to the door, where a thin girl is deep in conversation with the vicar.

“And how did you know Linda?” I say.

He laughs. “Everyone knows Linda.”

I smile, though I’ve no idea what he means. I open my mouth to press him further, but the organ has started to play and the vicar begins making his way down the aisle. I close it again and join the rest of the congregation in standing.

I glance at my watch. Bang on time. With luck, I’ll make it back to the office before the sandwich van closes.

Ruth is standing by the door as we leave, shaking hands with each person who passes, repeating the invitation to join the family at Linda’s house. Her eyes look tired and red, but she seems genuine, nonetheless.

I have a smile and an apology on my lips but when I reach the front of the queue, I’m taken by surprise.

“And you must be Meg,” she says.

“Yes. How-?”

“Well, you absolutely must join us for the wake.”

“Oh, I-”

“Well, of course she’s joining us,” Tom cuts in from behind me.

“I-”

“I’m so glad,” Ruth says, bending to hug me. “There’s something Mum would have wanted you to have.”

“Really?” I swallow and fix a weak smile on my face. ”Well, in that case…”

“Come on then,” Tom says, taking my arm. “It’s not far, but these old legs won’t carry me there on my own.”

I glance over at my boss, who is staring at me in surprise, and shrug. I guess it doesn’t have to be for long.

Linda’s house is different from how I’d imagined, to the extent that I ever gave it any thought at all. The front room is decorated in a pink, floral print, with double doors that open out onto a well-tended garden at the back.

“Beautiful,” I find myself murmuring.

“Ah, yes, she had green fingers all right,” Tom says, settling himself onto the sofa. He pats the cushion next to him. I smile and take a seat.

The scent of coffee drifting through from the kitchen nudges at my memory. I can almost see Linda sitting at her desk, pouring a dark brew from her thermos flask. It was the one time in the day she would stop and talk, though she never revealed much about herself. How did I not know she had a daughter?

“And these are two of her paintings,” Tom says, pointing to two country scenes that adorn the walls. “Such a very talented lady. And so generous too, always thinking of others.”

I think of the prickly woman I knew, always nagging on at me to get out, to make friends, to get a life, and wonder whether I really knew her at all.

“So, have you got in touch with your parents yet?” Linda had been on typical form.

I sighed. “What?”

“Come on. You’ve got a face like a wet weekend. I’m not daft you know. It’s weeks since your mum called you.” She took a long sip of coffee. “Well? Don’t you want to speak to her?”

“How would you know what I want?”

Linda raised her eyebrows. “Seriously, Meg. What’s the problem?”

I didn’t answer.

“I mean, it’s up to you,” she said. “If you want to live your life like this-”

“Linda, please!”

“Fine!” She raised a hand to silence me. “Your choice. And maybe you’re right. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe she deserves it. Maybe. But do you deserve this?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“OK, so your boyfriend left you-”

“Fiancé.”

“Boyfriend, fiancé.” She shrugged. “And now you’ve fallen out with your mum. Right?”

I didn’t answer, but that didn’t stop her.

“What I’m saying is this: you only have one life. It’s up to you to choose how you live it. But don’t let it pass you by just because you’re too proud to make your peace with the past.”

I turned back to my computer, my eyes burning. I could feel the weight of her gaze upon me as she sipped her coffee, but she said no more. Would I have let her go on, I wonder, if I’d known it was to be the last time I saw her?

It’s a couple of hours before Ruth finally gets to me. “I’m sorry,” she says, shutting the door behind a small group of guests. There are just a few of us left, mainly family as far as I can tell.

I shuffle uncomfortably and adjust the smile on my face.

“I’ll go and dig it out now,” she says. I glance at my watch, hoping it doesn’t take too much digging.

To my relief, she’s back in two minutes, a piece of paper in her hand.

“Here,” she says, handing it to me.

I glance down at it and my breath catches in my throat. The pencil lines are bold and confident, but the subject is not. She is sad; her eyes gaze out of the page, revealing her vulnerability. I realise now how perceptive Linda really was. And I finally see myself through her eyes: lonely, stubborn, locked into a prison of my own making.

The tears well in my eyes, but it is not Linda I’m crying for but myself, for the years of pain and hurt, for the way I’ve been treated by others and the way I’ve treated myself.

I reach out my hand.

“Thank you,” I say and feel the warmth of Ruth’s skin against mine.

Stronger

Wed, 04 Nov 2020 12:00:00 Z

It’s a Thursday when it happens. I won’t say a Thursday like any other, as there hasn’t been such a thing as an ordinary Thursday — or any ordinary day — since the accident. There have been good days and bad days, days when the pain has been intense and days when it has lessened, not in a linear way like you might imagine, but ebbing and flowing like a river.

This is a bad pain day, so when I hear the doorbell ring, I ignore it. But when the key scrapes in the lock, I smile. It must be Rosie.

Rosie, my friend and neighbour, has been my rock ever since the accident. I wait to hear her familiar call of, “Yoo hoo, I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” but it doesn’t come. Instead I hear the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs and I shrink back, my heart pounding. Then I hear John’s voice calling me, and it’s an echo from the past.

I shake my head. I must be imagining it. But then I turn to look and there he is, framed in the doorway to my bedroom — our bedroom — and it feels so familiar and yet so very wrong.

The accident came out of nowhere. It was a grey and frosty morning; I was driving alone when a car ploughed into the side of mine. I don’t remember the impact. I don’t remember much about the journey at all. But even now I experience a sense of panic whenever I pass that junction, the horror of the moment coded into some primitive part of my brain.

Everything hurt when I woke up. Everything above the waist, that is. My arms, my back, even my lungs. But worse, much worse, was the fact that I couldn’t feel my legs at all.

I tried to move but my body refused to obey. Even my head felt like stone, weighted down onto the pillow. A machine was beeping to my left, keeping a steady rhythm. I started to tremble. My right eye was swollen closed, the vision in my left blurry through the tears that welled and refused to fall.

“John?” I said. “John?” My voice was little more than a croak, but still, I expected some reply, to feel his hand on mine, to see his face appear in the space above mine. But none of that came.

“John?” I said again, but still he didn’t answer.

I lay alone, counting to 100, over and over, waiting for him to appear until finally, exhausted, I drifted off into sleep.

When I awoke, a nurse was bustling around me, her pencil scratching against a clipboard.

“Oh!” she said when her eyes met mine. “Welcome back.”

“My husband?” I said, my voice catching in my throat.

“Shh, shh,” she said.

“Is he…?”

“Your husband?” She busied herself checking the tubes and lines that connected me to the machine. “I’m not sure where he is.” She patted me on the arm, sending a shock of pain up through my shoulder. “You just rest.”

“Not sure?”

She didn’t reply.

Even then, I couldn’t have imagined that he wouldn’t be coming at all.

It was Rosie who told me he’d gone. “I’m sorry,” she said. We both knew it wasn’t enough.

I cried then, great sobs and gulps that racked me with physical pain to match the anguish of his abandonment.

I half expected when I got home, there would be a note, a letter, something to explain his disappearance. If there was, I never found it.

As time went on, I came to accept that I might never hear from him again, and I never did. Until now.

“Hello Louise.”

Hello? Is that the best he can manage?

I stare at him. His dark hair is flecked with grey. His eyes look tired, his skin pale. I wonder where he’s been for the past six months. I want him to hold me. I want him to kiss me. I want to pound my fists against his chest. I want to make him feel the pain I’ve had to live with since he left.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

He frowns. “You’re looking…”

I cross my arms and tip my head on one side, glancing over at my walking frame. I wince as a spike of pain shoots up my spine, but John doesn’t notice. He studies his feet, shifting his weight from one to the other.

“I’m…” He shakes his head. ”I didn’t mean…”

”You didn’t mean to walk out when I needed you most?”

His head shoots up, the hurt clear in his eyes. ”That’s not-”

”Fair?” I challenge him.

He sighs. ”I’m sorry Lou. I didn’t know what to do.”

”So, you thought the best option was to leave?”

He shrugs, leaning against the doorframe, twiddling his wedding ring between finger and thumb. I glance at my bare ring finger, and wonder whether he’s noticed, but when I look back up, he’s staring at the ceiling. He sighs. ”I couldn’t cope, seeing you like that.”

”You couldn’t cope?”

Again, he shakes his head. ”I’m sorry,” he says finally. He takes a deep breath and I try to read his expression, but he looks as bewildered as I feel. ”Can we…?”

”Can we what?”

”I love you, Lou.”

He loves me.

He left me.

He’s back.

Why is he back? Why is he doing this to me? Do I even know him? Can I ever trust him?

I put a hand on my forehead and hug the other arm around me.

“I can’t do this,” I say. “I think you should go.”

It’s only later that I allow myself to cry. The tears come in waves, hot, furious tears at first, followed by calmer, sorrowful ones. I know I did what I had to do.

”And he just walked right into your bedroom?”

”Pretty much.”

”Wow.” Rosie puffs out her cheeks. ”Well, good for you,” she says, ”sending him packing.”

I let out a bitter laugh I barely recognise as my own.

”So, what now?” she says.

”Now I carry on.”

She nods and I smile. She seems to accept that as a possibility. I know what she thinks; I’ve learnt to walk again, so learning to live without John should be the easy part. She’s wrong.

”Do you think you’ve seen the last of him?”

I shrug. “It depends what story he’s telling himself,” I say. “But yeah, I think so.” I pick a piece of lint from my jeans, anything to avoid meeting her eye. ”He can tell himself he tried. It was my decision to send him away. That’s got to be enough to soothe his conscience.”

”You think that’s all it was?”

”I don’t know. I guess.”

”Well, good riddance,” she says. ”You’re better off without him.”

I smile and nod, my face a mask.

He’s gone. And now there is nothing for it but to wait and see. I’ve coped without him so far. Hard as it seems, I know the days will come and go, and if I have to face them alone, that’s just what I will do.

And if he does come back? I suppress the thought. I’ve learnt something over the last six months. Take things one step at a time.

I am stronger now than I have ever been.