This Book Made Me Think of You(60)
“Actually, I stayed in my old job, for a while anyway. I’m currently taking a bit of a career break.”
“You changed your mind about moving to fiction then? I’ll admit I’m surprised. You sounded so knowledgeable in our meetings.”
“No, it wasn’t that. I was really excited about the job.” Tilly tries to remember what excuse she gave when she turned it down nearly two years ago. Certainly not the truth. “After you offered me the job, I found out my husband was sick. A move didn’t make sense anymore. He passed away just over a year ago.”
Surprise flashes across Liz’s face, followed by sympathy.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” she says with sincerity.
“Thank you,” Tilly replies, realizing that for once this topic hasn’t left her shaking. She feels…OK. “And thanks for giving me a chance back then. Even if the timing wasn’t right.”
“Life is all about timing, isn’t it?” says Liz. In her hand her phone buzzes, lighting up with notifications. She glances at it, then back at Tilly. “A career break…Now that sounds appealing. I’d love to chat more, but I’ve got drinks with an author to get to.” It’s after 9 p.m. But Tilly understands that’s all part of the job, just like it was for her at Splash. “But it was great to run into you. And I’m so sorry again for your loss. You enjoy the rest of your time in the city.”
They say goodbye, and Tilly watches as Liz confidently hails a cab and steps inside, giving a final wave through the window before being carried away across the city. If Joe hadn’t got sick, would Tilly be in that taxi with her now? She shakes off the thought, knowing that the what-ifs lead only to a dark place. With a final glance back at the office building, she continues in the direction of the hotel.
* * *
—
When Tilly returns home from New York three days later, after two more days of book shopping and escaping the heat of the city in museums and galleries, there is an envelope waiting for her on the mat. Her name and address are written in looping calligraphy. Inside is a thick navy card decorated with illustrations of brambles and berries, words picked out in bright white letters.
Dear Tilly,
You are warmly invited to the wedding of Harper Nightingale and Raj Johnson
On 30th November
2 p.m. at The Old Brewery, Walthamstow
Underneath the printed text is a handwritten note from Harper.
I’m so sorry for everything, Tils. I hope you’ll be there. You can bring a friend if you like. Or come on your own, just please come. Love you, H xx
She’s been trying to pretend that the wedding isn’t really happening. But here is the proof that it is in navy, white, and berry red. And it is just three months away. Tilly puts the invite in the drawer in the kitchen that contains appliance manuals, spare keys, and broken jewelry she plans to get fixed one day. She closes the drawer.
At first, she feels better. She doesn’t think about the invite as she unpacks her suitcase and stacks her purchases on her shelves. She doesn’t think about it when she notices the empty spot on the shelves where the urn used to sit, or when she puts on a wash, remembering how Joe always used to tease her for entirely emptying her suitcase as soon as she got home. When they got back from holiday, his suitcase would stay in the hallway unopened for weeks.
But once she’s finished all her chores, she can’t stop staring at the drawer in the kitchen. Eventually, she takes the invite out, attaching it to the fridge with a magnet. Then she empties the entire contents of the rest of the drawer, dumping it on the table and fetching bin bags. Because this seems as good a place as any to start on the task she has put off for long enough.
* * *
—
Over the next few weeks, Tilly cleans. It takes longer than she expected because every now and then she gets sidetracked by something that sparks so many memories that she has to pause to wait for the grief wave to recede. The clothes are hard, and she finds herself burying her face in Tshirts and sweatshirts that still contain lingering traces of his wood and jasmine smell. But she listens to the advice in The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning and takes her time, not pushing herself to do more than she feels ready for each day. And some things surprise her in being easier than she’d expected. Clothes stuffed at the back of his wardrobe that she can’t remember Joe ever wearing get washed and folded in piles for the charity shop. The reams of paperwork on his desk that had so daunted her become more manageable when she buys a shredder and realizes that most of it can be thrown away. Dead people don’t need old bank statements and travel insurance documents from holidays they went on seven years ago. And neither does Tilly.
When Joe’s desk is finally cleared, the empty space looks full of possibility. She collects her craft projects from around the flat, gathering balls of wool into boxes stacked tidily on the desk and filling the drawers that once contained office stationery with sheets of origami paper, folded fabric, and spools of ribbon. She buys a pegboard for the wall and lines spools of thread up in neat rows, arranged by color. Once she’s finished, she snaps a photo for Ellen, who replies immediately to say she loves it and to let her know she has made a start on her own craft room.
Tilly doesn’t pack all signs of Joe away completely. She clears space on a sideboard for a carefully arranged collection of framed photos of him and of them together. And his favorite hoodie remains hung on the pegs next to her coats because when she took it down it just didn’t look like home. But the place isn’t cluttered. She has room to breathe.