Page 64 of Statistically Speaking
“Could you get that on your way to the coffee machine?” I ask pleadingly. “It’ll probably be Margie. I’d answer it myself but I’m way too comfortable and warm to move.”
He rolls his eyes but walks through to the living room. I hear him pick up the phone and say hello, and then piece together a brief conversation from only his half of it. No, he says, she’s not available. Yes, he can take a message. There’s a pause, then I hear the phone being put back in place.
I writhe around under the covers, enjoying the sensation, looking forward to our day together. I decide that the coffee can wait, and that I will invite him to come back to bed before he puts his clothes on. Seems like a waste of a naked man not to. Seems like I am very lucky, and I should never allow myself to forget that.
When he doesn’t return straightaway, I start to wonder why, and who was on the phone. Not Margie, from the sounds of it, but also nothing important, I assume, as he didn’t come and get me. Probably a reminder that my car is due for its servicing or something equally bland.
“Karim?” I shout. “You okay out there? Forget the coffee, come back to bed!”
I am greeted by silence, apart from the vague sound of him moving around in the next room. I frown and climb unwillingly from my cavern of covers. I throw on a robe and walk into the lounge.
He is standing before me fully dressed, a look on his face that I have never seen before—anger. He is avoiding my eyes as he fastens his shirt, but his expression tells me clearly that he is very, very pissed off.
“What is it?” I say, clutching my robe with both hands. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”
“I’m going home,” he says simply, grabbing the coat he usually leaves at mine for beach walks from the back of the door.
I stride over to him, hold his arm. He feels tense beneath my touch. “Karim, what’s going on?”
“I have no idea, Gemma. I thought things were going well. I thought we were happy, building something together. I believed you when you said you were committed, that you were trying. I thought I understood. But it seems like I was wrong.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about—who was on the phone?” He stares at me, and I see that beneath the anger there is something else—pain. He is hurting, and somehow, I am responsible for it.
“It was the deputy head at a school in Norwich. She was calling to arrange a preliminary interview for the job you’ve recently applied for. The job in bloody Norwich!”
For a moment I am confused, befuddled, completely baffled by what is happening. And then I remember. I remember the recruitment agency. I remember the details of the head of history post they sent through to me. I remember that it came on the day my daughter turned eighteen. I remember that I was low, looking for a boost, trying to fill my mind with anything other than waiting for an email that would probably never land.
I agreed for my details to be passed on for that job, but I honestly have not even given it a second thought since. I have been working so hard to fight all my instincts to run, to escape, to evade the web of commitment that is beginning to surround me—but not hard enough, it seems. Eventhinkingabout running, apparently, has its consequences.
The timing of this simply couldn’t be worse—coming straight after our conversation about moving in together.
“Karim, it’s nothing—it’s just a misunderstanding. I didn’t really apply for a job in Norwich, honestly!”
“Really?” he says, slamming his jacket on angrily. “Because there’s a Becky Baker in Norwich who seems to think you did! In fact, she seemed very keen to talk to you about it!”
“Please, Karim, calm down and let me explain!” I sound desperate, and I feel desperate, and I do not like it. I tell myself that I have done nothing wrong, for once. Not intentionally at least.
He pauses, one hand on the door, and I see him make an effort to compose himself. To be fair. To give me a chance.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Go on, then. Explain.”
I meet his eyes, and my words rise up and choke me, dying in my throat as they try to escape. How do I explain? How do I get across how hard this all is for me? Anything I say feels like it might make things worse. I take a deep breath and try.
“You know how I am, Karim,” I say. “You know I’m... not quite right. I was always honest about that. We were literally just talking about it. All of this—us, the job, being here for so long—is harder than it looks for me. That’s not your fault, none of it, and Iamhappy! Wearebuilding something together! This is hard to put into words, but... there’s part of me, might always be part of me, that needs to feel free. Needs to keep my options open, even if I never plan to use them.”
He is silent as he looks at me, then shakes his head sadly.
“I know how you are, Gemma, and I’ve always accepted it—or at least I thought I had. But hearing you say that hurts. It worries me that this means more to me than it does to you. It worries me that, maybe, I’m just another one of your options.”
He gently moves my hand from his arm and opens the door.
“Look, I’m going to go. I need to cool down and think. Maybe I need to consider my options too. I’ll speak to you later.”
He leaves and closes the door behind him. It slams, even though he probably didn’t intend it to—his anger and frustration have spilled over.
I stand there, staring dumbly at the empty peg he has left behind. He has gone, and he has taken his jacket, and that is the jacket that never goes anywhere. It is the jacket that says he is part of my life.
I realize that I am crying. That my cheeks are damp and my bare feet are cold and I feel numb. Not even sad or in pain—just numb.
