Page 65 of Statistically Speaking
He has left me, and even though I know I shouldn’t overreact, that it isn’t final, I can’t help but wonder if I will see him again. Apart from at work. Maybe we will become distant acquaintances, avoiding each other in meetings, nodding coldly across corridors, sitting at opposite ends of the staff room. I wonder if it is all over before we even got the chance to see what it would become.
I wonder if I could bear that—to stay here and be near him, but not be with him. I wonder how much of myself I have accidentally given to him. I wonder how this has happened, the good and the bad, so very quickly—the stealthy way it has all snuck up on me.
I go into my bedroom and deal with at least one of the problems I am facing. I put on some fluffy bed socks. The bed socks warm my toes and set me onto autopilot. I head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, knock his toothbrush to one side, and wash away my tears. I make a coffee with the machine. I walk over to the phone, and the notepad beside it.
I see Karim’s handwriting, the scrawl of numbers, the place where he has stabbed the notepad with the tip of the pen when he realized what this message he was so innocently taking actually meant. I run my fingers across it, ashamed of the way I have made this good man feel. Ashamed but not surprised.
Maybe it was inevitable. My last boyfriend accused me of being an emotional cripple, and despite my best efforts, perhaps he was right. Perhaps some wounds are impossible to heal. Perhaps I am simply spreading around the pain, and Karim would be better off without me. If I wasn’t so selfish, maybe I’d end it right now and give him an escape route.
My phone pings and I glance at it quickly, disappointed when it is Margie.
“You okay?” she says when I answer. “I heard more noise than usual, and a slamming door, and... well, I’m nosy. And worried about you.”
I feel a sharp sting in my eyes and screw my lids tight to stop myself from crying again. I don’t like this new habit.
“I’m all right, Margie. We just... we... well...”
“Had a fight?”
“Yeah. Which makes it sound simple. I know couples have fights, but this feels bigger than that. It feels like it could... end things, I think.”
“And is that what you want, love?” she replies, and I picture her so clearly, glasses perched on her head, a frown on her face, Bill at her feet.
“No. I don’t think so. But I’m also not sure I can do this, Margie. This whole relationship thing. I’m not sure it’s fair to him. I feel like I’m going to hurt him and hold him back, and like I should just let him go.”
“Oh do shut up, Gem! He’s a big boy, and he can make his own choices—sounds to me like you’re just being a bit of a wuss, love! Finding excuses to not even fight for it.”
I am silent, and taken aback, and hurt, and a tiny bit concerned that she is right. I am so used to Margie supporting me that this new tone is a surprise—even if perhaps I need to hear it. I don’t know; I’m a mess.
“Don’t go all mysterious on me now—you know I love you, Gemma. But sometimes loving someone means you have to tell them something they don’t want to hear.”
“I know,” I say quickly, not wanting to inflict my mess on one more single person. It is my mess, and I am fed up of splattering everyone else with it, like Karim and his paint.
“Thanks, Margie. Look, I’ve got to go now. I’ll see you later, okay?”
I end the call before she can answer, incapable of becoming embroiled in a longer conversation. I stare again at the message from Norwich and see that its simple line of letters and numbers represents something far more complex.
I chew the end of the pen I am still holding, then sling it viciously across the room. I am so bloody tired of being me. Of never quite being good enough, for myself or for anyone else. It’s exhausting.
I pick up the phone, and I dial the number in Norwich.
Chapter 27
King I-Love-You the First and a No to Norwich
I pull up outside Karim’s block an hour later. I have made my phone call, spoken with Mrs. Baker, and the dirty deed is done. Now I just have to tell him face-to-face—I owe him that much at least.
I scamper inside his building, hoodie pulled up against the rain, and consider getting the lift to his flat on the fourth floor. I change my mind and run up the stairs instead, fighting my instinct to count them as I go. My instincts, I decide, are crap.
I am pleasantly warm by the time I find myself outside his home, pulling down my hood and smoothing out my hair. I ring the bell and wait. I know he is here, or at least his car is. I ring again, more insistently, putting an ear to the door and hearing loud music blasting from inside.
I ring once more, holding my finger down until I hear him shouting: “Okay, okay! I’m coming!” He opens the door, and we stare at each other for a moment. He is listening to the Foo Fighters and is holding a paintbrush. There are specks of blue on his T-shirt, and in his dark hair, and also on his face.
“You’re covered in paint,” I say.
“Yeah. Well. Turns out loud guitar music and decorating don’t mix that well.”
“Have you been angry painting?”
