I step out of the taxi and haul my case out behind me, swiping my fob on the gate as I enter our building. I feel the relief that I always feel in here. Outside is the chaos of Zone One. Inside is the calm neutrality of a chain hotel. No bright colours, nothing to shock. The occasional artwork on the wall is generic. Notices to residents are inane. It’s reassuring.
Tom, as was always the plan with work, is still in Sweden.
The post is gushing out of our box and I shove it under my arm as I get in the lift and head up to our floor.
As soon as I put my key in I can hear her, singing loudly, sounding even jollier than normal, I swear; though maybe that’s just because she often becomes a reverse mirror to my own mood.
And I am feeling so low that it is difficult to find the energy to turn the key in the door. I can’t imagine being able to get my clothes out of my case.
It doesn’t come over me often, but I crave having parents who I could call and cry and receive a virtual hug from.
I’m surprised. I thought this was something I was used to and didn’t have it in me to miss. Even in childhood I would go to Kit or to school friends if that’s what I needed. So why am I missing it now, this thing I never had?
Because, I think, I’ve never needed it like this. Never flailed so much. Never needed shoring up. And because I’ve never felt so distant from Tom, who, more than anyone, for my whole adult life has been the one to take on that role.
I shake my head to snap out of these thoughts. I am genuinely amazed that I have just moved my feet enough times and made contact with enough people to travel back from Sweden to my home. Surely it was only doable because I knew that when I got here, I could stay still for the foreseeable future.
The day after the row, Tom came back from work early and he and I made up. But since then, exacerbated by one of those thirty-something anxiety hangovers that won’t quite shift, I’ve started to panic.
I know external poisons can come in and wreck things. My lack of self-confidence has made Tom and I unequal. I think I’m being clingy, then I say sorry for being clingy, then I cringe at myself for saying sorry so much and suddenly that worry re-emerges: we’re not quite right. What if this poison has come in and made us toxic?
I want to be an equal partner who drinks Pinot Noir with him through joy not pain. Someone who makes him laugh and impresses him. If I am not those things, how long will Tom wait? I check on the condoms. They are still there, unopened. I think – again, the drip-feed – about why someone would be posting cruel messages on my social media, why I would be relevant to this faceless stranger. Could Tom have done something that prompted this kind of revenge or malice? Is it outside the realms of possibility that in the midst of all this, Tom has cheated on me?
I throw the post on the table, lean my case against the door then sigh onto the sofa. I think about the last time I was here and how odd the flat felt, and a shiver runs through me that is not only from the memory of the in-flight air-con.
But what now? It will be two weeks until Tom gets home and until then, I have two choices: I can sit here waiting for him to get back, or I can live my life and start to get some of me back. And something seizes me that is so dominant it even drowns out Harriet.
I write a list of things I want to achieve this year. Having a baby is of course on there, but it’s not at its heart.
At its heart is a sense that I have lost myself. And if I feel like I’ve lost myself then I need to go and reclaim myself, fast. I message Shona, suggesting that we meet up for that elderflower pressé.
Sorry it’s taken so long. I’ve been in Sweden with Tom for work.
The truth, too, is that instead of seeing her as a comfort, as time had passed I had worried about being around her. What if she announced a pregnancy? How would I cope? Then in a moment of clarity I remember the support, how it felt for someone to understand. How good that hug was, for both of us.
I redo my CV and email five copywriting agencies I’ve always been intimidated by. I book to go to a talk by novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Swiftly, a message comes back from Shona.
Yes to the boring drinks, she says. I’ve actually just started treatment so could do with the distraction. This Friday?
Then I belatedly reply to the message from Rich that suggested a catch-up.
Dinner it is, he says. Mexican? If I remember rightly your dancing after margaritas is impressive so we must have those.
I laugh, genuinely, because it’s easier to remember the old me when someone else paints the picture.
A house party, a few years ago, in Edinburgh during the festival after watching our friend Gabe do stand-up. I can remember the happy pain from laughing in my stomach and the potency of that tequila. I felt human. Rounded. I must try harder to hold onto those things.
I eat soup then check my email and have a response from one of the agencies, suggesting a coffee.
Suddenly I’m buzzing so I go for a run, picking up some sort of green kale horror juice on the way home and vowing that my other mission for the year is to get healthy. To feel like I can take on anything I might need to in the next year. Right now, I feel like I can.
I power walk home and run up the stairs to the flat. I FaceTime Tom and he answers straight away, half a second passing before I fill him in on work, and running, and my night out, and my list.
‘You’ve been busy,’ he laughs. ‘You only got home a few hours ago.’
He’s grinning and I pull my mass of hair out of its ponytail, laughing, too, and drowning out Harriet, who’s reaching a high note. The thoughts I had before now seem ridiculous.
‘Oh God, I can hear her from Sweden.’
‘I’m pretty sure the one about the chickens would make it to Venezuela,’ I whisper in response.
We smile, relaxed.
‘I’m sorry again about the other night …’ he says, going over the same ground. ‘What I said. I shouldn’t have got angry, not when you were so sad. I was just so frustrated that I couldn’t make it better. I was just so angry with everything.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘And I’m sorry again, too. I’m so sorry about doing that in front of your colleagues.’
Harriet hits an even higher note and the connection drops so we leave it there. I am sure I can hear that baby, so quiet but so piercing, in Harriet’s flat again, but when I put my ear to the wall, there is only – as ever – a piano.