A scuffed navy Adidas. His shoe. I was there the day he bought them. I’ve gathered them up, abandoned about the house, and put them away for him a thousand times. My heart yawns wide deep inside my chest followed sharply by the acid burn of anger.
He left me for her. How could he think it was okay to do this to me, like this? After everything we’ve said and been to each other. Six years. No word. No explanation. Just gone. The anger inside me twists around itself, a beast ready to scream.
I exit Naomi’s account and put my phone up on the kitchen counter. Best to leave it there for now.
I concentrate on my breathing. I try to fight the fresh prickle of tears stinging my eyes. I need to stay calm.
I can’t blame Naomi for this. God knows if George even told her about me; she might not even know I exist. I tell myself I can’t blame her because I remember being twenty-one, I remember being in love. I need to remember it’s him not her. He left; he wasn’t taken.
She is twenty-one and George is thirty in November. In the interests of self-preservation, I leave that thought there because that’s someone else’s problem now.
I let my eyes play across the kitchen, across our things. The ones left behind. Shouldn’t we have more to show by now: more than a flat, and a kettle, and a toaster, and a smoothie maker? I know it’s not a decision for right now but I wonder if I should sell the flat. I guess it is mine. I put the deposit down and my name is on the mortgage. We’re not married after all. I’ve been covering the full mortgage payment for the last five months anyway. I’ve been covering most things for quite a while now. In a way, I guess, he hasn’t really been here for quite some time. I wonder how on earth I will tell anyone what’s happened without dying inside. Without being forced into the role of victim. I am not a victim.
My anger stretches taut again. How could I have been so stupid to love him? To trust him?
I sit up straight, take a breath, and try to refocus. I need to work out what I’m actually going to do.
There was a reframing trick I used to use when I hit a dead end working on Eyre. When things threatened to overwhelm me. When I suddenly felt the weight and responsibility of carrying Charlotte Bront?’s story. Whenever a scene wasn’t working or I was too cold or tired or scared I’d ask myself—what would Jane do? Not what would I do. But what would Jane do if she were here, now.
So I ask myself: What would Jane do?
And without a second thought, I know. I’ve lived with her now for so long.
In the book Jane asks herself: Who in the world cares for you? The answer is: I care for myself.
I need to care for myself.
She would cut her losses. She would protect herself. Jane would move on. Cauterize the wound to protect from infection. That’s what I need to do: control the fallout, change the story he’s written me into.
If I were Jane, I’d send a letter, an email. I’d secure another position, far from here. I’d move on and I’d adapt.
I think of my one lifeline, my bright bolt of good news in the darkness. The next few months are going to hurt, but I’m going to be okay. I will not play the role he’s cast me in. I will write my own story.
On the counter my phone sits silently. No word from him. Not even an apology. Nothing. I am not even worth a sorry.
Jane would not crack, or cry, or drunk-text. Jane would focus her mind.
I breathe deep and think only of two letters…
LA.
And with that thought I pick up my phone and dial Cynthia’s number.
3
Another Country
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 7
Sunshine and a fresh California breeze hit me as I descend from the plane. London’s February chill long forgotten, five thousand miles behind me, as I pull in a lungful of spring air and squint up into the cloudless azure sky above.