Page 29 of For One Moment With You
So, Where to Now?
I remember how I felt after that conversation with Tallulah; how the thought that all of this could be a sign made me uncomfortable. You see, when it comes to signs, historically I’m supremely brilliant at ignoring them. I’ve always thought of myself as a methodical, logic-based kind of girl – or woman.
And all for what?
Of course, Tallulah was right. Ending a marriage, leaving a home, then moving on, it was a process, one that back then, I was in the thick of.
* * *
After the conversation with Tallulah, over the rest of that day, it was as though her words had taken root and were firing up some hidden, inner part of me. One that had guts.I’m not alone, I kept telling myself. And even if I was, I wasn’t letting what Gareth had done destroy me.
Thinking about him being unfaithful, suddenly, I was incensed, angry like never before, my adrenaline flowing like a river in full flood.
Filled with a need to wrestle back some semblance of control, I texted him back.
Tilly
After tomorrow, do what the fuck you like. I won’t be here.
Pressing send, I stared at the message, realising how rash it was. But there was no taking it back. It was too late.
He replied almost immediately.
Gareth
Where will you be?
Tilly
None of your fucking business.
Gareth
But I might need to contact you.
Tilly
Texts will work perfectly, Gareth. You can start with the address of where you’re staying. My lawyer will be in touch. Goodbye.
Turning my phone off, I glanced at the large wall clock. Half past six, a time I would usually be cooking for me and Gareth, pouring myself a glass of wine while I waited for him to arrive back from work. A memory that belonged firmly in my old life. At least I’d never have to do that again, I told myself. I felt a brief wave of euphoria. Then burst into tears.
But if there was one thing I did know, it was that I couldn’t give Gareth the satisfaction of seeing me backtrack. I had tonight and tomorrow, then come hell or high water, somehow, I was finding a way to get myself out of there.
It was only as I started opening cupboards and drawers, I realised what a ridiculous task I’d set myself. That I was in no frame of mind to make any decisions – except the problem was, I already had.
When I started to pack, nostalgic Tilly resurfaced in full force with all her reasons why I shouldn’t have to be doing this. It was the photos and old letters, which would take days to sort through. Days that, due to the rashness of my decision, I didn’t have.
As I started sifting through things, a peculiar melancholy filled me. It was like Lizzie’s cards all over again, as moments from my childhood come flooding back. The birthdays and Christmases. Even the Sunday lunches Mum used to cook, the cosiness of my childhood bedroom. The feeling of safety I’d always had, which died when she did. Clutching them to me, there was no way I could throw them away. In the end, I texted Elena.
Tilly
If I’m stuck, could I leave a couple of boxes in your garage?
The answer pinged back minutes later.
Elena
Of course. So you’re packing?
