Page 47 of The World Outside My Window

I paced across the living room and peered out of the window again, down at the street below, hoping to see a shadow emerge from the darkness, a familiar figure stride towards the flat.

But seconds passed, and no one came.

Jim was late. Only a couple of hours late, but I hadn’t heard a word from him since yesterday and in anticipation of his return I’d made steak for dinner, which was currently drying out in a warm oven. I felt my stomach tighten as I continued to peer along the street, my vision blurring. A sudden movement across the road made me jump and I pressed my face close to the glass, my breath clouding it so I had to rub it clear. What was that? Was that someone in the hedge by the house opposite? I squinted but couldn’t make out any distinct shapes, anything that had been there now melted into the shadows. Rattled, and trying not to think about the figure I’d seen hanging around outside the flat and outside the restaurant a number of times over the last few months, I yanked the curtains shut and flicked the side-table lamp on. I perched on the edge of the sofa and tried to steady my breath, so I could think clearly.

Jim was rarely late – he knew how much I missed him when he was away, and although he kept promising he’d look for a job that didn’t take him up north at least three days a week, he was still there and didn’t show any signs of changing anything. But he did at least always make sure he got home when he said he would.

Except today.

I stood suddenly, a thought occurring to me. I was sure I’d written a phone number for his office in the back page of my address book one day. I’d been insistent, promising him I wouldn’t call unless it was urgent because he said it was frowned upon to receive personal calls in the office. Besides, I knew he was often out on site, visiting the company’s hotels round the area, so most of the time it was pointless anyway. But two hours late felt pretty urgent, so I didn’t think he’d mind.

I pulled open the drawer of my bedside table where I’d always kept my address book and stopped. It wasn’t there. I moved a couple of things to see if it had slipped underneath them but there was nothing there either. Confused, I checked Jim’s side. Nothing. Weird.

I headed to the kitchen and checked the drawers in there; the cupboard in the living room; the bookshelves in the spare room. But it was nowhere to be found. I knew I hadn’t put it anywhere else, so where was it?

I felt bereft suddenly. That address book, with all my friends’ numbers carefully scribed inside, was my lifeline. But now it was gone.

The only numbers I knew off by heart were Debbie’s, and my mum’s.

I carefully dialled Debbie’s number, and when she answered I blurted, ‘Jim’s not home.’

‘What do you mean not home?’ She was chewing something and I heard her swallow.

‘He was due home two hours ago, and he’s not here and he hasn’t rung and I don’t know what to do.’ I felt breathless.

‘Hey, hey, hey, don’t get upset, sweetheart.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine. I just – I don’t think two hours is anything to panic about.’

‘But Jim’s never late.’

‘I know. But think about it. He could be caught up in a meeting, or on the train, or he might just have lost track of time. There are all kinds of explanations other than the ones I know you’re thinking.’

Despite myself I smiled. Thank God for Debbie, who knew me so well. I honestly didn’t know what I’d do without her.

‘Listen, give it another hour or so and if he isn’t back then you can come round here, okay? I would come there but James has started waking up in the night again and I’m exhausted.’

At the mention of Debbie’s youngest son, who was only three, I was wracked with guilt. She had so much on her plate, working part-time at a primary school and with two young children, and here I was, bothering her with my pathetic neuroses.

‘Thanks,’ I said weakly.

When I hung up I sat for a minute, wondering what to do next. How had I got to the stage where I not only had no one else to turn to, but I didn’t know how to get in touch with my husband or any of his friends or colleagues? How had I let myself become so cut off?

Maybe there was something I could do. Maybe Jim had an address book somewhere. Even though I hadn’t seen it while searching for mine, there must be some places still left to look. I retraced my steps and rummaged carefully through the cupboards and drawers again, looking for any phone numbers on scraps of paper that might be useful.

Twenty minutes later and I was back to square one, with no address book, and no hope. I headed to the fridge and poured myself a large glass of vodka and knocked it back. As it hit my bloodstream I felt my heart rate slowing down and my head begin to fizz. I closed my eyes, and tried to order my thoughts.

I was yanked back to reality by the phone ringing. Heart hammering, I ran across the room and almost ripped the receiver off the wall.

‘Jim?’

Silence. A hum. Gentle breathing. Then before I could say anything, the dial tone.

‘Fuck you!’ I screamed, throwing the phone against the wall. It smashed in two and skittered across the kitchen floor. I poured another vodka and drank it down, then stood, hands on the worktop, and tried to breathe.

I was trapped. There was no way I was going to bother Debbie tonight. I was being totally selfish even thinking about it. Instead, I picked up the vodka bottle, stomped into our bedroom, and drank until I passed out, with a vague hope that, when I woke up, Jim would be home.

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