JACK: Friday morning,
twelve days after the split
It is over. We are a family again.
I am giddy with relief.
For the first time in two weeks, I slept properly, and now I have woken up in my own bed, in my own room, and everything feels right again. I look up at the ceiling and it still has the thin crack in one corner. And straight ahead there is the picture of Amy and Ben as small children that I had printed on to canvas for your fortieth birthday last year. You cried. Remember?
I turn and watch you sleeping and think how beautiful you are.
When you wake up and find me watching you, your eyes grow wide, and there is a moment when you look almost scared. I smile and lean over to kiss you.
‘It’s only me,’ I say.
You jump up, saying you are late for work, though the alarm has not yet gone off. I love how you are too embarrassed to meet my eye. It reminds me of when we first got together.
At breakfast, the kids are quiet. Looking from you to me and back again. Trying to guess what is going on but not wanting to ask. Amy catches my eye, and I wink at her. I feel like a million dollars. You leave for work early, saying you have stuff to do. I go with you to the door and give you a hug, but when I try to kiss you, you wriggle away, saying you have to rush. It doesn’t worry me. I know you need time to process last night. But I also know that, like me, you can feel how right this is.
I text you on your way to work to let you know I am thinking of you. Then I text you when you will be just arriving to let you know I am thinking about what we did last night. I add an emoji of a wink. I try to call you at the time you will be heading off on break, but you do not pick up. So I try again ten minutes later. And again five minutes after that.
Still at home, I get ready for work. I take a long shower and dress with care. I briefly consider moving my things back from the box room to the bedroom. Then I think about what Julie might say if she was here and decide to wait until you suggest it yourself. I think Julie would be pleased.
When I still haven’t heard from you by lunchtime, when I am due to leave, I start to get annoyed. I know that you might be confused, but what would a call cost you? A text, even? I phone you again as I am walking to the car. And again after I drop off my first fare.
I do an airport run to Luton. The client in the back of my cab is chatty and, normally, I am OK with that, but today I find it hard to engage. When we get stuck in traffic outside the terminal, I have to close my eyes and count to ten so I don’t slam my fists against the steering wheel.
It is after four when my phone pings to show a text message from you. I am driving around Hanger Lane in West London. When I glance across and see your name on the screen, it is like someone opening a valve inside me and letting out tension. I don’t look at the text while I am driving, but knowing it is there gives me a warm glow inside.
I drop off my fare in Wembley and put my hazard lights on while I read your text. I am hoping you will tell me you have been to Tesco on your way home to pick up something nice for dinner. A celebration of our new start. When I read your text I have to read it again straight away because I am so sure I have read it wrong.
I am sorry, you say. Last night was a mistake. I have not changed my mind. We are not getting back together. Please forget it happened.
The words jump out at me. Sorry. Mistake. Forget. Each one is a punch to my stomach. For a moment I think I will be sick, and I open the car window so I can breathe in the fresh air.
I have to make a pick-up in Brent Cross so I start driving. A knot of hatred forms in my gut as big as a fist.