Page 10 of Ex in the City
While I’d love to fix things, to make things right for the boys, it just isn’t going to happen. I need to be happy and comfortable too, and that’s not going to happen here, not with Rowan. I’ve accepted it. Now, Rowan needs to do the same.
7
I sink into my plush chair, behind my desk in the garden office. I love it in here, it’s my one true escape from the house, which I need more than ever these days. It’s one of those fancy garden rooms – the kind that feels like a real room, almost as though it has been chopped from the main house – proudly perched at the bottom of our long back garden. With its glass front, it has a view of the lawn, then the patio, and then the house itself. Not only does it give me a little distance from the house, but the wide-open view means that I can see if anyone is coming. It’s impossible for anyone to get here, from the house, without me seeing them coming, so it buys me a little time to mentally prepare for unwanted visitors.
The reason I have an office out here is because my job often involves client meetings, and so having my own space away from the house is ideal for that – even if they’re online meetings. Well, with kids running amok and Rowan constantly busy filming (usually noisy) content for his YouTube channel, the house can sometimes feel like a never-ending storm of chaos. At least out here I can maintain a shred of professionalism, even if I feel likea bit of a fraud, given my own recent (albeit accidental) almost-scandal.
I sit in front of my large pine desk, staring at my computer screen, thinking about my next move. I’m a one-woman show, so I can only devote my efforts to one or two clients at a time, but my services are always sought after (although I don’t imagine they would be, if people found out I had almost been caught up in a scam) so I have a few to choose from.
I glance at the two proposals resting on my desk – the shortlist that I’ve decided to choose between, to get me back into the swing of things. One is a confectionery company and the other a musician manager, both looking for someone to help them get their businesses back on track. The confectionery company seems like it could be a good challenge because it’s the kind of drama you couldn’t make up. After years of having a particular celebrity front their ad campaigns for a particular box of chocolates – campaigns that focus around the slogan ‘impossible not to steal’ – said celebrity has been sent to prison. For stealing. The headlines are writing themselves. Then there’s the musician manager, someone who has engaged in a series of relationships with female singers he has managed, none of which have lasted, so now no one wants to work with him. It’s maybe not as interesting as the confectionery company, but the music industry is my area of expertise.
I have years of experience behind me now. I’m the reason Ellie-Anne Foy didn’t lose the fashion collaborations she landed after appearing on reality showWelcome to Singledom, when someone unearthed bullying social media posts from when she was at school. It’s thanks to me that Starr Haul, the haulage company, was able to turn things around when it turned out one of the higher-ups was sleeping his way through the secretaries. I’ve turned plenty of potential clients down too, though, because I’m not interested in enabling people, or helping them look likethey’re doing better – what I do is so effective because I don’t simply smooth things over, I repair them. If I don’t think I can genuinely clean a person or a company up, I don’t work with them.
I sigh. God, after spending so much time and effort sorting out Rowan’s crisis, the thought of going back to sorting out other people’s messes sounds exhausting. I just need to get back into the swing of things, to find my mojo again, and it will be fine.
I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment while I think about what to do. My mind begins to drift, already thinking about things other than work, when suddenly the doorbell rings, snapping me from my thoughts – and distracting me from my work.
I jolt upright and glance around the desk for my phone.
I quickly load up the app for the video doorbell. My connection, however, decides to act up, and as I watch the little buffering wheel spin and spin, I realise it’s not going to work. I let out a little groan of frustration. The whole point of having a bloody video doorbell was so that we could answer the door from the garden room, the top floor, or even the bath, without having to make a dash for the door. And yet here I am, still running to the door, hoping I make it in time before whoever it is gets tired of waiting and leaves. I usually find that delivery men are leaving before their finger has even made contact with the doorbell, and given that I’m in a bit of a mood today, I have no patience for it.
I bolt from my chair and hurry through the garden, finally making a beeline for the front door via the kitchen, only to find that, as expected, there is no one there. I’ve obviously missed whoever it was. Amazing. Just what I need.
I let out an exasperated, seriously overdramatic sigh as I grab my phone from my pocket, once again launching the doorbell app, only to see that it is working perfectly now. Of course it is, because I’m standing next to the bloody thing.
I replay the footage, hoping for a glimpse of something that will show me if I’ve missed anything important, secretly hoping I haven’t so that I can get back to work. I really don’t need these distractions right now. The video shows a man, casually dressed in black jeans and a blue denim jacket. A black beanie perches atop his head, obscuring his features, making it nearly impossible to discern any meaningful details about him.
He presses the bell and then, curiously, turns around to survey the garden. Eventually, he gives up waiting and strolls away. He doesn’t seem like a delivery person, nor does he look like any of the neighbours or parents from school.
Satisfied I haven’t missed anything important, I’m about to close the app when he glances back at the camera, only for a fleeting moment, before he continues on his way.
I drop my phone, as though I can’t stand to look at it, like it’s the midday sun burning my eyes. But the phone has no sooner hit the ground when I snatch it back up to take another look.
I rewind the footage and watch it again. I gasp.
The eyes, undoubtedly familiar but frustratingly blurry, almost feel like they are haunting me. I know those eyes.
Panic flits through my mind before I manage to talk some sense into myself. No, it’s not a ghost from my past, and beyond those eyes, there’s nothing else to connect this stranger to the person I initially thought it might be.
With a deep exhale, I let out the tension that had momentarily gripped me. My past is on my mind at the moment, and given recent events it’s not surprising that my brain is trying to retreat to a time when I was happier.
As I make my way back to the garden room, I psych myself up about work, getting back to the task of choosing a client to help next.
I’m just being paranoid. That’s what it is. I need to focus on the present and then the future. The past is the past. See, this iswhat happens, when you open a box of memories. It all comes flooding back, whether you want it to or not.
8
It’s just a photo. It’s meant to be looked at.
That’s what I tell myself, as I step out of my dress, kicking it to one side, as I get ready for bed. It’s been a long evening, with Rowan and the kids, playing happy families.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my bedside table, and it almost feels as though the top drawer stares back at me.
I feel my breathing deepen as my heartbeat picks up the pace. Okay, this is just silly, why do I feel like I’m doing something wrong? I’m not doing anything wrong, I’m just going to look at the photo again. That’s it.
Before I can talk myself out of it again, I open the drawer, grab the photo of me and Dylan, and climb into bed with it.
For a moment, I just stare at it. At him. At myself.
