Page 48 of The World Outside My Window

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He wasn’t home. My eyes were slits against the harsh sunlight pouring through the open curtains, and my mouth felt dry. I sat up and the world spun before righting itself, and I swallowed down a lump in my throat.

Beside me the emptiness of Jim’s side of the bed taunted me, and a wave of terror washed over me, mixing with my hangover and making my stomach roll over. Why had I drunk so much when I needed a clear head to deal with Jim’s disappearance?

I padded through to the kitchen and saw the fragments of the phone scattered across the floor. Stepping over them, I filled the kettle and made a strong coffee, hoping to tamp down the nausea. I popped some bread in the toaster and forced it down with a thin scraping of butter. Afterwards, I felt less sick, but the terror was still there.

Despite the broken telephone handset I noticed there was a light flashing on the receiver, and I leapt up and almost ran through to the living room where the unbroken phone was. I snatched up the handset and dialled in to listen to my messages.

Hi lovely, it’s Debbie. I thought you were coming over. I hope you’re okay. Ring me.

My heart sank. Not Jim.

Hand shaking, I hung up and walked over to the window and pulled the curtains open. The street outside looked the same as ever, and I wondered how everything could carry on as normal when everything in my world had tipped on its head.

* * *

It was almost forty-eight hours later when Jim finally walked through the door, and by then I’d convinced myself he was dead. I’d called in sick to work and refused to leave the house just in case Jim was trying to ring me, cradling the only phone that still worked and even taking the handset into the bathroom with me when I went to the loo. I’d floated round our flat like a ghost, only coming to life when the phone rang or I heard footsteps in the communal hallway outside. I barely ate, I drank endless coffee interspersed with vodka and wine so that I was in a constant state of vague drunkenness.

And then, at the end of day two, just as I was about to give in and call the police, I heard Jim’s key in the lock and he burst through the door. I was standing in the doorway of our bedroom before he’d even had a chance to call my name, and I threw myself into his arms, any anger I’d felt extinguished by the instant relief that he was home, he was here, and he was safe.

The feeling of his strong arms around me felt so good I didn’t want to pull away, but eventually I had to, and I looked up at his face and realised I’d soaked his shirt with my tears.

‘I’m so, so sorry, darling,’ he said, his voice low.

‘I thought you were dead.’

He kissed the top of my head. ‘I’m not dead. I’m just an idiot.’

I pressed my cheek into his chest and felt his warmth radiate into me. My body felt exhausted and I hadn’t realised how much tension I’d been holding.

‘Where have you been?’ I mumbled.

He pulled away and grabbed my hand. ‘Let’s go and sit down and I’ll explain.’

I let myself be led into the living room, where we both sank onto the sofa. Jim pulled me into his side and spoke. ‘Firstly, I’m so sorry I didn’t ring you. You must have been going out of your mind.’

I nodded but didn’t speak.

‘I got called away to an emergency in one of our hotels in the Middle East, and I didn’t have a chance to ring you before I left – I asked my colleague to let you know what had happened and that I’d be a couple of days, but clearly he didn’t do it.’

I stared at him. He looked tired and stressed, the lines radiating out from his eyes and around his mouth deeper than usual. ‘You’ve been to the MiddleEast?’I said, my mind working overtime to process this revelation. He glanced down at me, an apologetic smile on his face.

‘I know, mad, isn’t it?’

‘But—’ I stopped, unsure. ‘You told me you hate flying.’ It was the reason we’d never been on a holiday abroad, sticking instead to short breaks in the UK.

‘I do,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I work in the hotel business, Lola, and we have hotels all over the world. I only fly when I absolutely have to, and even then I have to be heavily sedated.’ He frowned. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘Of course I do,’ I said.

‘Good.’ He reached for my hands. ‘I truly am sorry though. I promise not to disappear like that ever again. Forgive me?’

‘I forgive you.’

He looked round the room then, seemingly taking in his surroundings for the first time. His eyes landed on the half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table.

‘Oh, Lola, have you been drinking again?’

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