‘I miss you. I miss you so very much,’ I gulp. I can’t keep a limb still and he folds his arms around me, really tight this time, and he’s telling me that he loves me and that he’s fine, that we’re both fine.
‘We’re going to be late for work,’ he says gently after a few minutes.
I lie still, my eyes closed, trying to memorize the feel of his arms around me for when I wake.
‘Let’s stay here,’ I whisper. ‘Let’s stay here for ever, Freddie.’
His hand slides into my hair and he draws my head back so he can look me in the eyes. ‘I wish I could,’ he says, the trace of a smile on his lips. ‘But you know I can’t. I’m chairing that meeting this morning with the PodGods,’ he says, reminding me of something I know nothing of.
‘The PodGods?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘The coffee-pod people? Remember, I told you? They all turned up to the pitch wearing Day-Glo green PodGod T-shirts and baseball caps?’
‘How could I forget them,’ I say, even though I’ve no clue.
He untangles himself from me, kissing my cheek.
‘Stay here this morning,’ he says, his eyes concerned. ‘You never take a day off. Do it today, yeah? I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’
I don’t argue with him. I haven’t been to work in fifty-six days.
My life has been entwined around Freddie Hunter’s since the first time he kissed me, breathing himself into my DNA one late-summertime afternoon. It had been coming between us for a while, building like steam in an engine – his seat always beside mine in the school canteen so he could steal my ice cream, flirty comments batted back and forth across the classroom like tennis balls. He began to walk home the same way as Jonah and me even though it was out of his way, usually making up some flimsy excuse about collecting something for his mum or visiting his nan. When Jonah came down with chickenpox and had to stay home for a week or two, I didn’t stand a chance. I get nostalgic butterflies thinking about it even now: Freddie gave me a yellow plastic flower ring, the kind you get from a Christmas cracker, and then he kissed me sitting on my neighbours’ front wall.
‘Won’t your nan be worried about you?’ I asked him after the five most exciting minutes of my life.
‘Hardly. She lives in Bournemouth,’ he said, and then we both laughed because it was at least a hundred miles away.
And that was that, I was Freddie Hunter’s girl, then and always. The next morning, he slid a chocolate bar into my bag along with a note telling me he was walking me home. From someone else it could have come off as possessive; my tender teenage heart saw only thrilling directness.
I watch him move with purpose now, heading into the bathroom to switch the shower on, pulling a clean white shirt off the hanger.
‘I don’t want to jinx it, but I think this one’s in the bag,’ he’s saying, answering a work call briefly, his mobile tucked under his chin as he grabs underwear from the drawer. I watch his everyday moves, my answering smile shaky when he rolls his eyes at me because he wants whoever is on the phone to wind it up.
He disappears into the bathroom and I sit up and push the quilt back when I hear the water sluicing around his body.
‘What’s happening to me?’ I whisper, lowering my feet to the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed like a hospital patient after open-heart surgery. Because that is what this feels like. As if someone opened my chest and massaged my heart back into working order.
‘I don’t believe in fairy tales or magic beans,’ I mutter, biting down on my trembling bottom lip hard enough to taste blood, metallic and harsh.
Freddie emerges from the bathroom on a cloud of steam, shoving his shirt into his trousers as he buttons them.
‘I’d better go,’ he says, reaching for his phone. ‘If I stick the kettle on, can you make the tea? I’ll make the train if I dash.’
We chose this house for exactly this scenario, mornings when we were running late and grateful to have a train station around the corner. His city-centre job in Birmingham demands much of his time, so the less added for travel the better. My own commute to the local town hall is shorter; ten minutes and I’m in the car park at work. I love our listed building though, it reminds me of something out of a children’s storybook. It’s believed to be the oldest structure in the town, standing half-timbered and crooked at the end of the high street. Much of the architecture is similar along the rambling high street; our little Shropshire town is ancient, fiercely proud of its entry in the Domesday Book. There’s much to be said for growing up in such a tight-knit community; many families have been here from generation to generation, cradle to grave. It’s easy to dismiss the value of something like that, to feel smothered by the fact that everyone knows everyone else’s business, but there’s richness and comfort to it too, especially when someone’s in trouble.
It wasn’t just location that made us fall for the house though. We viewed it early one spring weekend morning, the sun at just the perfect height to show off the honeyed stone and deep bay window. It’s mid-terrace, and decorating it proved to be a bit of a nightmare because there isn’t a straight wall or door in the place. It all adds to the charm, I argued, every time Freddie banged his head on the low, exposed kitchen beam. I like to think the decor has echoes of Kate Winslet’s cottage in The Holiday, all stripped boards and cosy clutter. It’s a look I’ve cultivated carefully at car boots and flea markets, occasionally reined in by Freddie’s preference for more modern things. It’s a battle he was always set to lose: my magpie eye loves pretty things and my Pinterest game is strong.
A couple of days ago, after I’d forced myself to get dressed and nip round to the off-licence for wine supplies, it occurred to me that I didn’t want to go home. It’s the first time I’ve felt that way about the house since the morning we collected the keys, and another piece of my heart snapped off at the realization that home wasn’t home any more. I could never have conceived of the idea of selling the house, but in that moment I felt cut adrift and I walked in the other direction, two circuits of the children’s play park before I could face going home. And then, curiously, once I was back inside, I didn’t want to leave again. I am a mass of contradictions – it’s no wonder my family are worried to death about me.
It was our house, and now it is mine, though there is little pleasure to be gained from becoming mortgage-free at twenty-eight when I’m Freddie-free too. We both felt as if our financial advisor stitched us up like a pair of kippers on life insurance at the time; the concept of something happening to either of us before the house was paid for seemed ludicrous. How wonderfully lucky we were to feel so secure. I pull myself out of my thoughts, realizing I’m close to tears again. Freddie is looking at me questioningly. ‘Okay now?’ he asks, cupping my jaw, rubbing his thumb over my cheekbone.
I nod, turning my face to press my lips into his palm as he kisses the top of my head. ‘That’s my girl,’ he whispers. ‘I love you.’
As undignified as it would be, I want to cling to him, beg him not to leave me again, but I don’t. If this is to be my final memory of us, I want it to seal itself around my heart for all of the best reasons. So I stand up and hold the lapels of his suit jacket and look up into his beautiful, familiar blue eyes.