Rachel

It was a sunny, blue-skied Tuesday that Rachel had marked in her diary as a work-from-home day. Bridie was at school, Rory and Emmet at work; it was still disconcerting to think of Emmet as an apprentice with a real job. The house was gloriously quiet, yet for some reason she was finding it hard to concentrate. At lunchtime she’d gone for a routine blood test, in preparation for an appointment with her specialist the next week. Now, afternoon inertia seemed to have taken hold. Just a few minutes ago she’d opened up a new tab on her computer and googled how to fall in love with your husband.

A loud bang made her jump in her seat. What on earth? She tentatively went upstairs, where the sound had originated from. The air felt different on the landing – fresher – and there was a flapping noise coming from Emmet’s room. She opened his bedroom door – the bang was likely caused by the door slamming shut – to find the window wide open, curtains billowing in the afternoon breeze. She slid the window across. Odd that Emmet had opened it so far back: air circulation was something she usually had to nag him about. Odd too that she hadn’t noticed it when she’d been in the room this morning, to put away laundry.

Back downstairs, she reviewed the results of her Google search. They varied from religious websites to pornographic ones, from showing kindness and affection to playing hardball: Let him know that he can lose you. Rachel rolled her eyes at the expert who claimed falling back in love was ‘easier than you think’, and recoiled when she accidentally clicked through to a site called ‘defeating divorce’.

After a half-hour or so of research, she’d made a list on her phone.

Have a big night out together.

Look at old photos and remember good times.

Avoid nitpicking and being critical.

Look deep into his eyes.

Think more about sex.

Communicate.

The advice seemed to have one thing in common: the concept that falling back in love could be controlled.

She really wanted to believe that was true.

~

The following day Rachel was back in the office. The marketing campaign she’d presented to the board was finally given the green light and things went from zero to full-speed-ahead in the space of a few hours.

‘It’s always the same. Delay, delay, delay, then bang – a decision – and everything suddenly needs to be done ASAP!’ Charlotte said crossly.

Over the course of the afternoon, they had to finesse the marketing message, book advertising space and negotiate the details of the budget. Rachel was slightly out of breath when she left work. She was also over an hour late. On the positive: plenty of seats on the train. On the negative: her plan to look deep into Rory’s eyes was improbable. She was tired to her core, a cellular level of exhaustion that she hadn’t experienced for months.

She sent him a distinctly unromantic text: Sorry, only on train now. See you in an hour.

She had plenty of things she could do in that hour: emails to answer, voice messages to listen to, or an overdue call to Amy. Instead, she rested her head against the window, closed her eyes, and allowed the vibrations of the train to lull her into a light sleep.

‘The next and final stop is Cronulla. All passengers must disembark at this stop.’

Her eyes flickered open. The train was slowing, people standing up, gathering their belongings. Her ear was numb from the pressure of the glass, her neck stiff from the awkward angle.

She scrolled through her unread text messages as she waited for the train doors to open.

Southside Surgery: 4.13 pm: Please contact Dr Petrakis regarding your recent blood test.

The message had been lost in the avalanche of other messages received over the course of the afternoon. Dr Petrakis’s surgery closed at six; Rachel would have to wait until tomorrow to speak to her specialist. Did this mean something was wrong with her blood count or tumour markers or one of the other routine checks?

She was preoccupied as she emerged from the station. It could be something minor. No point worrying until she spoke to Dr Petrakis. The counterargument: she should brace for the possibility that the cancer was back. Her head was elsewhere – grappling with the prospect of more tests, scans, biopsies – and it was too late when she saw him. He’d blocked her path, was already gripping her arm, attempting to steer her in the opposite direction.

‘Nico. What are you doing? Let go of me.’ She shrugged him off, noting how dishevelled he looked.

‘I just want to talk to you,’ he pleaded. ‘Please, I just need a minute.’

‘It’s over, there is nothing more to say,’ she said, in as firm a tone as she could muster; her knees were trembling.

He blinked. ‘Don’t lie, Rachel. I know you love me too. Is it your husband? Is he forcing you to do this?’

‘What? Don’t be crazy. I make my own decisions.’

‘We can go away together. We can make it work.’

He wasn’t listening to a word she was saying. Had she ever really known this man?

‘Shut up and listen,’ she hissed, aware that people were staring at them. ‘I don’t love you. I am not going away with you. Leave me alone.’

She turned to leave but he grabbed her a second time, his long fingers biting into the soft flesh of her upper arm.

‘Please, Rachel. Please don’t shut me out like this. Please let’s just talk.’