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Saturday, 12 November, 9 a.m.
At first, last night was amazing, like something from a romantic novel. He was there looking up at me as I came down on the chairlift, searching me out in the darkness. Even from a distance I knew it was him. He’d come. Even after saying he wouldn’t. He’d come. Andy.
As the chair drifted down, I could see him clearly, wrapped in a thick, dark coat, hood up covering his auburn hair, brown eyes on me as I drifted down my final descent, before thudding to the ground.
He helped me out, pulled me close and started kissing me. I felt as though I’d been injected with a powerful drug. I couldn’t speak I was so excited. The weather was so cold it felt as though my breath had frozen in my lungs. I couldn’t believe he was there.
He said sorry for not answering my calls, for not coming to England. But said he was here now. I was close to tears when he told me it was me he loved. That he’d always wanted to be with me.
We went back to my room and made love. I wasn’t cold any more after that. The ice on that window I couldn’t see through before had melted.
Later, as we drank gin, he told me again that there was someone else in his life. But it was more than that. He was married, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave her. But he said his love for me had been too overpowering. He’d known he had to come to Sweden. The draw was too much. ‘I’m here now,’ he said again, stroking my cheek, his hot breath on my neck.
I didn’t think about Jack. Does that make me a horrible person? Am I cruel? Cruel in the same way I was cruel to Trevor all those years ago?
This morning I woke at eight, expecting to find Andy’s warm, naked body beside me. But he wasn’t there. I glanced around the room, straining my ears, wondering if he was in the shower, but there was no sound, just silence.
‘Andy,’ I called, getting out of bed, grabbing my robe and slipping it on. And then I saw the note.
My darling Isla,
I’ve been awake all night thinking – tormenting myself for coming. I thought this was the right thing to do, as I missed you – I really did miss you. But this morning, I found a text from my wife. She’s having our baby, and I realised I’d made a terrible mistake coming here. I can’t leave her. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m so sorry.
I love you, Isla, but I’m returning to Canada. I’ll be changing my phone number, so you can’t contact me – not because I don’t want to hear your voice, but because it’s easier this way. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. The mess I’ve made of both our lives.
Forgive me, Andy
I wasn’t sure how long I sobbed for, or how loud. But now the tears have gone. I know what I have to do.
The truth is I never got over what happened in Australia. Never got over Carl Jeffery. For a time those around me thought I had. And why not? I suppose even I thought I had control. Then came the appeal, stripping away the protective layers, revealing soft, bruised flesh. I felt those spindly cracks under the surface widen.
Going to Canada was the perfect escape, far away from reality.
Then he appeared – so strong. A man who made me feel so much safer than Jack ever could – Jack who played at being a man as he tried to fix me. When I was with Andy, thoughts of Carl Jeffery dissipated. I talked. I cried. Nothing new, but so different than the talks I’d had with Jack and Roxanne, my parents. Millie. When I was with Andy, everything was OK.
Then I came back to England, his promises echoing in my head. Things began to fall apart. Odd things started happening. Andy seemed to melt away like an ice cube on a hot day. And as he made excuses not to talk to me, not to see me, my fear grew. Nobody could help me but Andy. Without Andy, Carl Jeffery would haunt me for ever.
When someone you love lets you down, loves someone else, the world turns on its axis. Nothing looks the same any more, and a distorted image of life appears before you like a scene from a horror movie. I know nothing will ever be the same again.
Now I grab the bottle of gin from last night and pour the dregs into a glass and swallow hard. I need something to give me courage.
Life isn’t worth living without Andy.
There will be no more posts here.
I’m sorry. I can’t go on.
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