‘I didn’t notice,’ he says again, frustration creeping into his voice. ‘It could be anything.’
We stand there for a moment, the street quiet, apart from the hum of nearby passing cars.
‘We let the AA membership lapse last month,’ I say.
‘I know.’ He slams the bonnet, his shoulders slumping. ‘We’ll figure it out tomorrow. This isn’t a permit spot so we can leave it here. Let’s just get inside.’
We lock the car and trudge up the road together. Dev slips his arm around my waist, pulling me close, and I lean into him, because even with the mounting bills and the broken car and this bloody headache, he’s here and we’re together. And that’s got to count for something.
4
Thursday
I hear Dev creeping around, getting ready for work and trying not to wake me since it’s my day off. The clinic is overstaffed for once because the main treatment room has a leak. My manager, Karen, practically begged someone to take a day’s leave and I wasn’t about to argue. It’s not as if I need to save it up for anything: we haven’t had a holiday since our mini-moon in Cornwall.
I must have dropped back to sleep before he left because when I wake again the house is silent. Sunlight filters through the Venetian blind in soft, lazy stripes, but I still don’t want to get up. I think about the fridge, almost bare except for a half-carton of milk and a few sad-looking vegetables. About the message I ignored yesterday, the one I already know isn’t good news. Instead, I pull the duvet tighter around me, as if that might make it all go away.
I dreamed about the girl on the bus again, and this time when she turned to look at me, it reallywasBeth.
I need to get up and do something to take my mind off it. Wait for the guilt to fade.
I glance at the digital clock on the bedside table. Dev must have left over an hour ago. Now the car has given up the fight, he has to catch the early bus to make it to work on time – two buses, actually. One into the city centre and another to take him back out to the business park where he’s working for the next couple of weeks.
I picture Dev standing at a bus stop somewhere. Hands shoved into the pockets of his battered mac, the one he refuses to replace because, he says, ‘It still does the job.’ He’s not one to complain and at least he gets travel expenses when they send him somewhere else.
That’s Dev all over: steady and dependable. Always managing to find a way to make things work. Even now, when the odds feel downright impossible.
Since things got tight, he’s been staying for every bit of overtime he can, but there hasn’t been much offered lately. Not enough to make a difference.
That’s my Dev. Always trying to shoulder more than his share. Always putting me first. It’s one of the reasons I love him so much, but it’s also why the guilt in my stomach never lessens. Would he have married me … if he’d known?
He doesn’t deserve the lies I feed him. He deserves better than that.
I get up and wrap a fleecy dressing-gown around me. Downstairs, I make a cup of tea before shuffling back to bed.
My eyelids are just starting to feel heavy again when the doorbell rings, rattling me fully awake. No way am I getting out of my nice, warm bed again to answer the door. I’m not expecting a parcel today, and I’m not about to haul myself up and rush downstairs to take yet another Amazon delivery for the single guy next door who works regular nights.
I squeeze my eyes closed again and turn my face into the pillow, willing whoever it is to go away.
But the bright cheery ringtone continues to bounce around my skull. Every. Ten. Seconds. Whoever is at the door isn’t going away anytime soon.
Bleary-eyed, I reach for Dev’s crumpled pillow. I see my phone is flashing silently on the bedside table. Propping up on my elbow, I see Dev’s name emblazoned on the screen.The call rings out before I can reach the phone but when I do manage to grab it, I see a stack of missed-call notifications. All from Dev.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes. He must have forgotten his keys and be trying to get back into the house for some reason.
I pull the belt of my dressing-gown tighter and move to the top of the stairs. The doorbell chimes again.
‘Hang on, I’m coming!’ I call out, my voice cracking with frustration.
Halfway down the stairs, my phone rings again, its shrill sound cutting through my headache. I pull it out of my dressing-gown pocket and stab a finger at the screen.
‘I’m coming! Dev, what the –’
‘I’m nearly back home! They say they’re outside, ringing the bell!’
‘Who?’ Icy fingers trace down my spine. ‘That’s not you at the door?’
He’s laughing, tongue-tied. Trying to get his words out and failing.
