Alphabet Weekends - Elizabeth Noble [63]
Lucy, I can’t do this. I’m sorry, but I have to go. Will
That was it. Nothing to pore over, analyse. How long had he sat and wondered what to write? Had he started with ‘Dear Lucy’, then scrubbed it out, anxious not to convey her dearness to him. Had he contemplated asking for a divorce, or explaining to her that the home-and-contents insurance policy was in the top right-hand drawer of the desk in the living room, or giving her one single clue as to why he couldn’t do this? He hadn’t given her much to go on.
Lucy made up the seven-ounce feed, warmed the bottle in a saucepan of boiling water on the stove, sat down in the wicker chair in the corner of the kitchen that faced the television and fed Bella. She didn’t cry and she didn’t tell a soul. Not her mother. Not the well-intentioned health vis itor, the bank manager or the girls at the coffee mornings. No one. A combination of shock, pride and fear made a liar of her. Eventually, she knew, it would have to come out. There were things to sort out, of course. But for two weeks Will was just away on a business trip, for anyone who asked.
Until she bumped into Patrick at the supermarket. She still didn’t know, never would know, why she had done it. Where was her pride when she had seen him, basket in hand, choosing a steak in the beef, pork and lamb aisle and just started to cry?
J for Job Swap –
Rose poured herself another glass of wine, while Natalie served up two steaming bowls of pasta.
‘You’ve got to help me,’ Natalie was saying. ‘My H was frankly disastrous, and his I wasn’t much better. I need a good one for J.’
‘Since when did you care so much?’
‘I don’t care care. I just like it. You kind of get into it after a while. I’m having fun.’
‘I’m glad. Simon?’
‘Simon who?’
‘Simon-who-broke-you-into-a-million-pieces-and-left-you-lying-around-for-the-rest-of-us-to-pick-up Simon.’
‘Oh, him!’ Natalie wound a strand of spaghetti round her fork. ‘Was I really that bad?’
‘You were worse.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s in my job description. Under “Tell You When Your Bum Looks Big”.’ Rose hummed her approval of the first mouthful of pasta; the sauce dribbled down her chin. Natalie handed her a napkin. ‘Actually, it could have been worse. A lot worse. Thank God for Tom.’
‘Because?’
‘Because he did most of the work for me. Picked you up, dusted you off, started you all over again…’
‘Is that how you see this?’
‘Well, I don’t know about the starting all over again…’
‘You think that would be a bad idea, then, do you?’
‘Don’t put words into my mouth.’
‘But you do think it’s too soon.’
‘I never said that.’
‘It is, though, isn’t it? I mean, if I started something with Tom now, it would be a rebound relationship. A get-over-Simon shag thing. And I can’t do that to Tom, can I? It wouldn’t be fair. On me or him. Unless… Oh, I don’t know.’
Rose was listening, with amusement on her face, next to the sauce.
‘One of the things I absolutely love about you is your ability to have a whole argument with yourself without anyone else needing to be involved. You’re like your very own Punch and Judy show.’
‘Shut up. Pass the Parmesan, and help me think of a J. What about Japanese? I could take him to Wagamama’s.’
‘Nothing very original about a bowl of Odun noodles and a hard bench. You could take him to Japan.’
‘Yeah, right. With all the air miles I accumulate in my glamorous career.’
‘What about Ju-jitsu?’
‘Is that a martial art?’
Rose nodded. ‘Think I did it once at uni. Fancied some guy who dragged me along.’
‘Glamorous?’
‘It’s a martial art, Nat. You do it in pyjamas.’
‘That’s out, then. What about vodka Jellies?’
‘Do you ever worry about your need to tackle emotional scenarios with alcohol as a crutch?’
‘All the time. No vodka Jellies.’
‘How about another go at the horizontal mambo? You need a letter, though.’ Rose thought so hard, she practically stroked her chin. ‘I’ve got it. Jiggery-pokery. That’s what my uncle and aunt who live in Fuerteventura always call it. They do it on their sun terrace a lot, in the afternoons, apparently.