Page 95 of The Wedding Game

‘Your monitorfillsthat tiny room and no, I wasn’t suggesting I live here. Am I outstaying my welcome? You told me a minute ago that I wasn’t, but is that why …?’

‘No,’ she replies. ‘I love having you here. Ooh,’ she starts, ‘we could maybe look for a flat together? Although I’m locked into this one for quite a while.’

‘I feel we might be a bit beyond that now, don’t you?’ I say gently.

‘Yeah,’ she agrees. ‘I was just testing the water. Possibly we’re going backwards if we do that. And also I’m learning to love my own space.’

I haven’t learned how to love my own space yet. Perhapsthat’s what I need to do. Maybe I do need a change, a new adventure. Maybe I need to be somewhere new, work out what I want from my world. Maybe I need to do a Chris.

‘Moving to Edinburgh is only a suggestion. A selfish suggestion,’ she says. ‘Though it’s great here.’

‘I know it is,’ I agree.

‘You work from home, and now the London hotel’s finished … I’ve missed you, and you need to find a place to live.’

‘I’ve missed you too.’

It’s my turn to take the spoon from her and unstick the rice. It’s ready and I remove the pan from the hob.

‘All the things you loved doing in London are here: shopping, eating, Deliveroo.’

‘Deliveroo?’ I question. ‘Now you have my attention. I’ll think about it. I’ll do some research.’

Scarlet holds out the bowls for me, so I can start serving up our dinner.

‘You do that,’ she says. ‘And meanwhile I’ll start bombarding you with links to the flats I’ve already found for you.’

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

August

I stand with a mug of tea in front of one of the huge sash windows in my new rental apartment. I throw the window wide open, letting the summer air breeze through, which whips the long almost-not-there white curtain into the room. This space looks so elegant that I take a picture and pop it on Instagram. My social media accounts are a bit less about all my nights out now and more design-centric. I feel professional, showcasing goals I’ve achieved publicly. I’m making things happen for myself.

This flat is the first home I’ve lived in where I’ve been able to put a bit of my own stamp on the design. I look out across the tree-lined street towards the central-square garden – access to which comes with the tenancy of my flat. I’m slowly settling into this new life in Edinburgh.

Living in London, it would cost me at least twice as much for a flat in a central city location such as this. And I’ve got so much more space here than I could ever afford in London. The flat is recently refurbished with a new kitchen and bathroom, contained within a Georgian town house similar toScarlet’s: all high ceilings and original cornicing. The Georgians knew how to build a decent-sized room, not like the rabbit hutch that Scarlet and I were previously living in at Edmonton Green. I can’t imagine going back to that life now.

Edinburgh feels fresher, purer than London. I breathe differently here. I can walk to Arthur’s Seat and drink in the clean air while looking down at the city I’m learning to call home.

The only downside has been having to live off the scant belongings I brought with me, and some basics I got in an emergency trip to H&M a few weeks ago. Having barely any of my belongings here has made it feel like I was in an Airbnb. It felt temporary, as if I hadn’t really occupied the space – which I hadn’t. And I kind of liked it, knowing it was temporary: only for six months, with the option to extend. But I think I’m going to stay a bit longer and make a life for myself here. I’ve already gone some way towards achieving that, allowing myself to buy some ornaments and wall art for my apartment. Just a few bits here and there to make the space feel more mine.

I’m going to get the train to and from my parents’ respective houses in Reading and St Albans every now and again, and they’re excited to come and visit me in a few weeks. I plan to fly back and forth from Dublin when required – which the company will pay for – as the new hotel project gets off the ground; and Max has hinted at a promotion, as he’s keen to move up the ladder and is determined to drag me with him. I’m not far off finishing my design course but, even when I do, I’ll have the training wheels on for a long whileyet. Max won’t let me run riot on my own. Nor am I confident enough to do so. But being able to input ideas, with the benefit of having been educated in the subject properly, means I’m more confident in my choices, my designs, my abilities. I’m getting there. I’m closer than I’ve ever been, for someone who didn’t even start a proper career until post-thirty.

I’ve joined a yoga class in a new studio round the corner, which I visit in my lunch hour some days. Every couple of weekends I go swimming with some new friends I’ve made through a co-working space. And I’ve signed up to a monthly book club. These are the activities I wanted to do when I moved to the Cotswolds, but never managed to, mainly due to not driving. But I’ve done it here. It’s easy.

It’s a rare Sunday when I don’t have too much on. I’m alone, but not lonely. I’m without Josh, learning to resent him and Tamara less as each day goes by and … it’s OK. We weren’t perfect. And although I don’t expect perfection in a relationship, I think I had high expectations based on how keen he was at the start. But neither Josh nor I met these expectations jointly. Cracks had started to appear, but I didn’t want to see them. Looking back, I can see them all now – hairline fractures that grew and grew. I wish I’d paid more attention to them. I wish I’d seen the end coming.

I was lonelier living with Josh than I am living by myself now. I tried not to admit it to myself at the time. And then he was hesitant about so many things. So was I. There was so much brewing beneath the surface. I’ve always wondered ‘what if’ about Chris. Maybe Josh was feeling the same about Tamara. Maybe he’d had feelings for her long before he metme. Maybe I’ll never know. Perhaps he didn’t even know himself. If Tamara and he hadn’t got together, how long would Josh and I realistically have carried on like that for? A few months? Years? Maybe we peaked too soon.

Despite my gently waning resentment, I can’t bring myself to answer his occasional phone calls. I can’t speak to him. I don’t want to. Josh rings me again while I’m uploading my window picture to Instagram, presumably to find out where I am, so he can send my belongings to me. It’s not the first time he’s rung, and I’ve ignored him, but my reaction is the same. Every single part of me tenses. But I don’t cancel the call. I let it ring while I stand stiff and still. He’s tenacious, but then the ringing stops. I can’t answer. I don’t trust myself not to cry or scream at him.

Instead I wait two days before messaging him my address, and asking him to send all my belongings up to me. I don’t sign off with a kiss. It’s a perfunctory message. It says what it needs to.

Josh rings me again straight away, but I don’t answer or follow up with a message. Neither does he.

And then, just under a week later, a collection of boxes arrives. I guessed they were coming, but it still takes me by surprise when a courier buzzes via the main front door and tells me there’s a large delivery for me. I help him carry them upstairs and feel partly renewed, partly sad that this has all happened in the way it has. The courier and I put everything inside my front door and I look at the boxes with mixed feelings … A little piece of me was still in Josh’s farmhouse. Now that’s no longer the case.

Josh didn’t ask me to cover the delivery charge (maybe that was what he was ringing about again, after he discovered how much it would cost to courier eight full-size packing boxes the length of the British Isles). And I didn’t offer. Paying to deliver my life to me after he’d ruined it was the least he could do.

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