Page 65 of Not in a Million Years

Twenty-Three

Now

It was raining when I arrived home. It was a typical London spring day – blustery and showery, the sun promising to put in an appearance any minute now, just not ready to do so yet. Still, in contrast to the dazzling sunshine, endless blue skies and baking heat I’d grown used to after a fortnight in Alsaya, it felt positively miserable.

Besides, I had that grim Sunday night, back-to-school feeling you get at the end of a holiday, even though strictly speaking my time in Turkey hadn’t been a holiday at all. I felt out of sorts and miserable, the last cobwebs of my hangover still not blown away, my stomach still tight with anxiety after the four-hour flight, which I’d had to endure with resolute cheerfulness because I was meant to be looking after Andy, not needing to be looked after myself.

But now Andy and Daniel had gone. We’d parted at the airport, Andy returning to Daniel’s home, where he’d stay until he was sufficiently recovered to return to his own life in Manchester. Our goodbye had been cursory – the ambulance was waiting to transport Andy and my train was due to leave, so I’d kissed Andy and said I’d see him soon, knowing that seeing him would certainly mean seeing Daniel too.

And Daniel had only looked at me, smiled briefly and said, ‘Take it easy, Kate.’

Coming from him, it had sounded like some kind of sarcastic accusation – Like you ever take it easy, you uptight diva.

Wearily, I wheeled my suitcase up to the front door of my apartment block, conscious of the washing that needed doing, the emails that needed answering, the catch-up with the Girlfriends’ Club that needed arranging – and the limits of what I was willing to tell them about what had happened between Daniel and me on our last night in Turkey.

Last night. It barely seemed possible to believe that just twenty-four hours before, Daniel and I had been friends. That we’d been getting on well again, after so many years. That I’d imagined being able to tell my friends that the coldness between us was gone and everything was going to be all right.

Just twenty-four hours ago, he hadn’t kissed me. I hadn’t known I’d need the little blister pack in its purple box, containing one pill I needed to take as soon as possible, which I’d picked up at the pharmacy outside the Tube station. I’d felt like the most shameful cliche of a single woman returning from holiday after an ill-judged one-night stand, needing emergency contraception to put the mistake behind her and move on with her life.

And I supposed that was exactly what I was.

The door buzzed open at the touch of my key fob. I stepped into the lift, noticing a trace of the smell of cigarette smoke, which wasn’t usually there. When I emerged on my floor, the smell was stronger – and there was another smell, too, of stale beer. I turned the corner and stopped in my tracks.

The corridor was normally a pretty bland space. Some designer, sometime, had clearly decided ‘corporate hotel lobby’ was the look to aim for, and achieved it with faithful enthusiasm. There were abstract prints in pastel colours on the sage-green-painted walls. There were fleshy-leaved plants in brass holders, whose leaves a plant-care company came and dusted with damp sponges every couple of months. There were hexagonal cream tiles on the floor. It wasn’t exactly characterful, but it felt safe and familiar.

Only now, the floor was littered with empty bottles and scattered with fag ash. There were cigarette butts in the plant pots. There was a cock and balls, complete with pubic hair and spurting ejaculate, drawn on the wall in what looked like… lipstick?

My first thought was that somehow, while I’d been away, squatters had moved into my flat. But I realised, kicking the bottles aside so I could wheel my case to my own front door, that was impossible. The doorbell app on my phone would have alerted me if anyone had tried to gain entry, and anyway, my door looked as secure as it always was.

I unlocked and carried my stuff inside. The flat smelled slightly musty, as places do when they’ve been left locked up and empty for a time, but otherwise everything seemed normal, exactly as I’d left it. The coat I’d decided against taking with me but not hung up in my haste to leave was still draped over the back of the sofa. The cake tin I’d washed after reclaiming it from Mona was still by the side of the sink. The imprint of my suitcase was there on the bed.

It was the same orderly, quiet place I’d left. The same lonely place.

I unpacked and put a load of washing on. Then I grabbed a couple of recycling bags, went out and collected all the empty bottles and took the bags downstairs. I picked up the cigarette butts and disposed of them, too. Normally the block’s cleaner, Lucia, would have seen to this in the morning – I guessed she was off ill, and no one had noticed the mess until now.

Order restored, I went back inside, powered up my laptop and sat down at the dining table, which served as my desk when I was working at home. I opened the door to the balcony and heard the cries of gulls wheeling over the river, feeling fresh air blowing through and dispelling the mustiness.

It was five o’clock. Too early to pour a glass of wine, and too early to order a takeaway. Too early even to have a shower, because then I’d want to go ahead and do the other things, and soon it would be too early to go to bed. I replied to a few emails, placed a supermarket order for essentials (bagged salad, chicken breasts, cleaning products, baking parchment, wine, white chocolate Magnums), and flicked desultorily through Tinder on my phone.

It was just the same as any other evening at home. Just the same as things would have been if I hadn’t gone away with Daniel. And yet, what would have felt like ordered serenity before now felt hollow and empty. There was no Daniel on the next-door balcony, his feet up on the balustrade, his swim shorts drying in the sun. There was no prospect of a walk and dinner in the evening, no cats to fuss and provide with titbits.

There was only me. And, I realised, there’d been only me for the longest time. I had my career, my friends, as many dates as I could be bothered to go on, even Claude waiting in the wings. I had my chats with Mona when I dropped off the results of my late-night baking. I had my beautiful home, everything in it arranged just the way I wanted it.

Before, it had been enough. Now, it wasn’t.

It’s just the post-holiday blues, I told myself. You’ll settle back into a rhythm and it will all be fine.

It was true – I knew that. But the rhythm had been the same, unchanging bar a few minor dramas in my and my friends’ lives, for years and years. The way things were looking, it would be the same for even longer – as long as I lived, perhaps.

I was used to solitude. I’d chosen it – I’d never had a relationship with a man I could imagine settling down with, and my university flatshare days were long past. But this didn’t feel like solitude. It felt like loneliness. It felt horrible.

I imagined someone else ending their working day round about now. Someone to whom I could suggest a walk along the river, stop for a pint in a pub with, decide on a whim to go out for pizza with. Someone with whom I could have a minor argument about whose turn it was to take the bins out, discuss whether we needed to get someone in to replace the loose floorboard or if we could try doing it ourselves first, plan a weekend away at a nice hotel with a spa.

First world bloody problems, Kate. I pushed back my chair and stood up – it wasn’t too early to have a shower any more. If you want a weekend at a nice hotel, book one for yourself.

But it wouldn’t be the same.

I had a bath (which took the best part of an hour, versus fifteen minutes for a shower – bonus!), hung my washing on the airer and put another load on, turned on the telly and flicked through the channels looking for something to binge-watch that had at least five seasons so would keep me going for the best part of a week. I ordered prawn and cashew udon and poured a glass of wine. I messaged Claude to ask how things were going and let him know I was back in town.

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