“Yeah, it really is.”
“And so…that’s it? He’s not coming here? After everything?”
I shake my head.
“And you’re not going there?” she probes.
I shake my head again. “I’m not allowed. I want to be that girl who gets on a plane, who simply turns up. But I genuinely think that would be a mistake. I think he’d be horrified.”
Joan sucks cold air in through her teeth. Just nods her head slowly. “Perhaps give it some time. Give him some time.”
I make a noncommittal noise. “I’m not sure. As much as I hate to say it, I think that was it for us. Davey sounded so sure. Like it was too much effort, and if he’s not coming to England even after he recovers—ifhe recovers…” I trail off and fight the tears, pull myself together, and say, “Then, I guess, that’s it. What can I do? Nothing.”
She reaches over the fence and puts her hand on mine, where it’s resting on top of the coarse panel.
“Joan?” I ask as we’re preparing to wrap up for the morning. What Davey and I had, no matter how fleeting, can in no way be compared to a life together, a marriage like Joan had, but I ask this question nonetheless. “Do you ever think about your late husband?”
“Yes, all the time,” she says.
“Do you ever feel strange, being with another man, but sometimes your mind drifts back to…him?”
“I’ve had a long time to come to terms with Richard’s passing, and life is for living. No point living in the past. What we had was ours—special—and it’s not gone. It’s always there. Only now, after all this time, I have room for someone else in my heart.”
I try to take from that something that’s relevant to me. Eventually I’ll let go. Eventually. But not yet. And that’s OK.
—
I’ve avoided George these past few weeks as I’ve not felt up to the gym. A hurried reply to a message here, a quick thumbs-up emoji there. I’ve given myself permission to be a shit friend, but in the middle of my lunch break, while I’m queuing for a soup pot and a salad at Pret, that permission gets revoked because he finally gives in and phones me. Even after Davey’s insistence on phoning, I’m still thrown when anyone else I’ve got stored in my phone book actually rings me.
I give it a few rings in case it’s a mistake. “Hello?” I ask eventually, cradling my phone against my ear while I tap my card to pay and take my purchases.
“Oh, good, you’re still alive. OK, cool, I can go now. Bye.” George hangs on, no intention of hanging up.
“Hi,” I say guiltily and then immediately apologize for being a terrible friend as I work my way out into the bitter streets of the city.
“Holiday!” He yells down the phone in place of a proper answer. “So I need to talk to you about Thailand,” he goes on, and I’m jolted into the realization that our holiday is only days away. “Shall we go to the airport together or shall I meet you there?”
“Um.” I don’t know the answer to this.I’m not going.That’s the answer I want to say but, for the moment, I don’t.
“It’s not a trick question,” he replies. “I can come by, pick you up. Shall we get an Uber to the airport, do it in style? Can’t be buggered to haul suitcases on the Underground, can you?”
“No.”
“No to what? No to the Uber or no to the Underground?”
“Either. Whatever you want.”
“Uber then. I’ll book it.”
I’m not going,I think. I’ll tell him in a second. But Georgechatters on and I’m powerless to stop the flow of excited boyish chat that continues. He lists a whole bunch of places he wants to go in Bangkok. How he’s bought a travel guide, has dog-eared almost every page. I nod along in silence. I can’t do any of this. I only have the ability to get up, go to work, come home. I’m on autopilot and I can’t factor in a plane ride, a holiday where George takes on the persona of Tour Guide Barbie. I’m exhausted already. I need a break. I know I need a break and it will be good to stop thinking about Davey for a few minutes, but maybe I can do that just by staying at home, watching TV, reading a book. And then I won’t have to be with George. I hate how cruel I’m being and I listen back in to the call. He’s gone silent and it’s obviously my turn to talk.
“Something’s happened?” he says. “What? What’s happened?”
His intuitiveness stuns me. “What do you mean?”
“What’s the deal? Why are you all weird?”
“I’m not being weird. Am I?”
