Stevie laughed. ‘Tempting. But I think I’ll pass. Let me give Bonnie a quick walk round the block so she can do her business then I’ll drop you home. I can take her out for a proper walk later.’
After less than ten minutes he returned. I stood up and put my arms out. ‘Thanks for this afternoon, Stevie. You’ve been amazing.’
He hugged me. ‘I don’t know about that, but you know where I am any time you want to talk.’
‘Thank you.’ I didn’t want to let go. Stevie was shorter than Gary and he carried a bit of weight, making his hold more like a bear-hug. For the first time since shower-gate I felt safe and protected as I relaxed against him and tightened my arms round his waist. Stevie tightened his grip around me. I could have stayed like that for hours, but I had to get home. Reluctantly, I released my hold. ‘You give amazing hugs too.’
He laughed. ‘In that case, you know where I am any time you want a hug too.’
‘Don’t say things like that. You’ll have me on your doorstep at three in the morning demanding a super-hug!’
9
When Stevie pulled up outside 9 Abbey Drive, relief flowed through me to see Bertie back on the drive, closely followed by anger that there was no sign of the Lexus. The calm I’d felt at Bramble Cottage gave way to rage. How dare he go out and avoid talking yet again? What the hell was wrong with him?
Stevie helped me hop to the door and offered to come in and wait with me, but I insisted he go home so he could take Bonnie out for a proper walk.
After we’d said goodbye and I’d secured another super-hug, I closed the door and hobbled down to the kitchen to see if Gary had left me a note because, to be fair to him, he could have been waiting for me and given up; I’d been at Stevie’s for well over two hours. There was no note.
I checked my mobile to see if I was doing him a disservice and he’d texted me to explain his whereabouts, but there was no message either.
✉︎ To Gary
I’m home. Where the hell are you?
Shuffling over to the dining table, I sat for at least ten minutes, staring at my phone, waiting for a response. None came. I called him instead. It rang five times then disconnected without going to voicemail. So he was choosing not to take my call, was he? Right. That’s it. I stabbed at the keypad:
✉︎ To Gary
Have we really got to the point where you’re screening my calls? It’s 6.33pm now. I INSIST that you phone or text me by 6.45pm to let me know where you are and when you’ll be back to talk. Do NOT ignore this text. I mean it!
I hunched over the phone, watching each agonisingly slow minute pass by, challenging him to dare to ignore the text. He ignored it.
✉︎ To Gary
Time’s up. You asked for it…
Holding on to the table, I pushed myself up, rage propelling me down the corridor and up the stairs, almost oblivious to the pain in my ankle thanks to the greater pain in my heart. I pulled a suitcase off the top of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom, marched into my room and threw it onto the bed. Grabbing a handful of Gary’s shirts from the walk-in wardrobe, I shoved them in the suitcase, still on their hangers.
‘I should have done this last week,’ I muttered. ‘I stupidly wanted to give you a chance to explain. To give you a chance to save our marriage. Something you obviously don’t care about seeing as you’ve spent the afternoon with your boyfriend instead of with me.’
As I reached the wardrobe to grab my second load, a thought struck me. What if it hadn’t just been the afternoon he’d spent with Rob? What if it had really been the full day and he’d been lying about going to the surgery? What if he’d been with Rob when he’d replied to my text saying that he couldn’t get away early? What if every late night and weekend in the surgery had been time with Rob instead? Had the two of them being laughing at me for being so clueless? For being so naive? For being so unassertive?
Well, I’d show him how assertive I could be. I stormed into my office and rummaged in my sewing box for my dressmaking scissors. Returning to the bedroom, I closed my eyes as I stood over his shirts and opened the scissors wide. What should I do? Cut off all the cuffs? Cut them into shreds? Or something more discreet like lots of little puncture holes
I closed the scissors and sat down heavily on the bed, shaking my head. Tempting as it was, itching powder in his pants, cutting up his clothes, or running a key down his beloved Lexus wasn’t my style. Changing the locks was, though. I put the scissors away then searched on my mobile for an emergency locksmith and made the call.
Ninety minutes later, there was a new lock on the front door and I’d packed most of Gary’s clothes into two suitcases, a holdall and a suit-carrier. I’d also filled a crate with his favourite CDs and films along with his office in-tray and a couple of files. He kept most of his paperwork at the surgery so hopefully he wouldn’t need access to the house for anything else.
The locksmith had taken pity on me struggling up and down the stairs with my poorly ankle and had kindly carried everything into the garage, no questions asked, although the sympathetic look in his eyes told me that he knew exactly what was going on. He probably encountered the same sorry tale on a regular basis.
✉︎ To Gary
Thank you for spending the day with your boyfriend, ignoring my texts and refusing to come home to talk. This has made things really easy for me. The lock has been changed and your stuff is in the garage to collect at your leisure
My phone rang moments later.
‘Hi Gary.’
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he shouted.
‘Gaining back control of my life.’
‘By kicking me out of my own home?’
‘What did you expect? That I’d continue living in limbo while you decide whether or not you’re in love with another man? That I’d cook and clean while you spend your weekends playing Frisbee on the beach with him? That I’d give you all time in the world to decide whether you want in or out of our marriage?’
He sighed. ‘I can come home and we can talk now.’
‘It’s too late for that. You’ve had your chance all week and you’ve had several chances today, but you’ve screwed up every time. Collect your stuff and find somewhere else to live.’
‘But—’
But I didn’t want to hear it anymore.
He appeared at about half nine. I watched through the bedroom blinds as he slammed the car door shut, stormed up the garden path and tried the door, probably hoping I’d been lying about changing the locks. He rang the bell several times, rang my mobile, rang the landline, rang the bell again, but I ignored him. Eventually, he gave up and lugged his stuff out of the garage and into the boot of the Lexus, got into the car, and started the engine. I released a shaky breath as I watched his car disappear round the corner.
I’d just brushed my teeth and crawled under the duvet when the doorbell rang again. Gary? I limped to the window and cautiously parted the blinds. The Lexus was back on the drive.
‘I know you’re in there,’ Gary shouted through the letterbox. ‘We need to talk. I’m sorry I didn’t come home earlier. It was wrong of me. Please come down and let me in.’