“Well, I want to go to SushiSamba now,” I tease. “Maybe a museum or a gallery would be nice. I have no idea what George is into.”
“It’s fun to find out, though,” Clare says as we step back into the office.
I message George.Hey, hot stuff. Do you want to go on a date?I ask him.
I watch the screen, but he’s obviously with a client or not near his phone. Last seen at 2:51A.M.That’s a strange time to be online. I thought we were asleep in bed together then, but maybe his jet lag took hold of him. It occurs to me that I have no idea who George’s friends are. Actually, despite talking about life and love so much over our holiday, I have very little clue about what goes on in George’s life outside the realm of the gym. He’s thoughtful, we’re like-minded. That’s enough for me.
Do you have a best friend?I text George suddenly, which is random, but now I’m curious.
I scroll up to reply to Miranda, who keeps sending me emojis of eggplants with question marks next to them over and over again, prompting me to respond about George, which as yet I’ve refused to do. Whatever I say to her now will be dissected in great detail at our next night at the pub. I might as well save it until then.
And I look down at my WhatsApp message to Davey, which shows two ticks. He’s read it. But it’s been a couple of days since I sent it and I’ve had no response. I could delete it, but I’m assuming it’s too late if he’s seen it. The damage is done. I leave it there, taunting me. And then above our message stream I see Davey’s status suddenly switch from “last seen…” to “online.” Then hegoes offline, just as fast. And then he’s back, and my mouth opens in shock as the status next to his name reads:typing.
Finally I’m about to get a reply. I watch, intrigued. What can he have to tell me? I want to know about his chemo regime, but maybe that’s the last thing on earth he wants to talk about. I miss his face, but I know he doesn’t want me to see it. I need to know everything. But most of all I need to know if he’s all right, mentally. If he’s staying positive, carrying on. He has his mum, his dad, Grant. But does hefeelalone? I long to know. I’m desperate to tell him again that I care too. But I won’t. I’ve told him already, my message the only static thing on the screen, and I wait as his typing continues.
And then the typing stops and exactly the same thing happens as before—he goes offline. Nothing. No message. Just…nothing. Davey’s gone, taking his thoughts with him, his message either hanging in midair, waiting to be sent—the same as the last one he wrote—or he’s changed his mind and deleted it entirely. What is he doing?
—
I’m at home and still waiting for a response from George at 10P.M.His case is still here and he isn’t. I’m not expecting him to walk through the door, hollering, “Honey, I’m home,” but I was hoping for some sort of “Hi” today, especially after the amazing holiday we’ve had. But it’s clear that’s not happening.
This is a message to me not to revolve my life around men. I’ve always been very good at resisting that, but I could feel, after the past ten days, that I might have very easily slipped. George not replying to me has alerted me to that, and I very smugly decide that I’m going to make myself a cup of tea, take myself to bed, and catch up with some reading. I really need to hit the gym, but it’s late, so I get real about that.
I stay awake, reading my book to the bitter end. I’ve beendesperate to finish it since Thailand. I pick up my phone. Nothing from George. I switch off my bedside light, curl up under the duvet—a blessed relief, even now in these first spring-scented days—and go to sleep.
I’m woken by a persistent knock at my door. Am I being robbed? No, robbers don’t knock first, and so I go to the door, yell, “Who is it?”
And when George tells me it’s him, I open the door in surprise.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, bleary-eyed, blinking myself fully awake.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I look at my watch, only it’s not on my wrist. I’ve taken it off for the night. “What time is it?” I ask.
“Almost midnight.”
I nod. “I hope you’re not after sex. Or dinner?”
“Neither of those things, Gallagher.” He swoops low, kisses me, and stands upright. “Thought I’d crash with you. Is that OK?”
“Um, yeah—sure.” I stand aside and he takes up all the space in the hall, switches on all the lights on his way to the kitchen, pulls a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water. He’s sweaty, in his gym kit, as I expected, and he turns and looks at me.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Yeah. I was asleep. Did I miss a message from you that you were coming here?”
He downs his water. “No.”
“I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Is…that a problem?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I just had no idea you were coming.” I can see we’re not going to make headway on this, so I merely say, “I’m going to sleep. Are you coming?”
“Yeah. Shower first, though, and then into bed with the most gorgeous woman on the planet.”
I inch forward, kiss him on the lips. “She’s not here, I’m afraid. You’ll have to make do with me.”
