I guessed he was wondering why I was there. Did he think his little romantic messages had done the trick? Did he think I’d fallen for his charms, unable to resist him? I used to think he thought I was stupid; now I knew he did.
* * *
• • •
When he came into the living room I saw he’d changed into his old gray T-shirt and jeans. He was barefoot and looked happy and carefree. He carried a tray in with the coffee. He’d used the better crockery, the stuff we kept for guests. I supposed I was one now. On the tray was a plate of biscuits and I realized he was trying to impress, as though a well-presented tea tray would make up for trying to drive me crazy.
He poured coffee from the French press and passed me a mug, then sat down on the sofa opposite me.
“It’s good to see you, Ruby,” he said, as though he was used to me dropping in. As though we had no history between us. As though we weren’t at war. “How’re things?”
I said nothing. I took the coffee, more for something to do, and sipped it. He could never make a good cup of coffee, and this was no different. I would have been better off with the vodka, or whatever it was he’d been fortifying himself with. But I was glad of the warmth and wrapped my hands around the mug. I hadn’t realized until then how cold my hands were.
I wanted to say something, to accuse him, but I was frightened of breaking down.
“John seems to think that couple will make an offer,” said Tom.
Distracted, I said, “Who’s John?”
“That guy who was here just now. The estate agent. Mind you, he’s said that before.”
I tried hard to keep my tone civil. “Have many people shown an interest in the house?”
He shrugged. “A few. Some were time-wasters. Others wanted to knock too much off the price. The Sampsons have just come back from living in South Africa and they’re cash buyers.” He took a biscuit and drank some coffee; he looked like he was enjoying it and I resented every mouthful he took. “If they offer a reduced price, what do you think? Shall we just go for it? How far should we go? Five percent?”
I nodded. The sooner it sold, the sooner I could get away from here. The way I felt at the moment I would have sold it for half the price.
He finished his coffee and I noticed when he put his mug down on the tray, his hands were shaking. I wondered whether that was the drink or whether he was nervous. And then he leaned forward and said in his most sincere voice, “Is this what you really want, Ruby?”
I spoke carefully, trying to control myself. “Yes. Let’s just sell up and call it a day.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this, babe,” he said. “Can we talk about it? Can we try again? We’re both at fault, really. Can’t we patch things up? What do you think?”
For twelve years I’d managed to hide my feelings, but that moment was an exception. He saw my reaction and flushed a dark red. He started to speak, but then his phone rang and he picked it up, his eyes still on me.
“Hi, Gary.” I knew this was his boss at work. “Yeah, all good, thanks.” There was a pause, then he said, “Sure, do you want to go through it now?”
He reached out to grab a pen and paper from the coffee table, and I stood up and left the room. I could feel his eyes on me as I left. I could hear Tom talking and thought he’d be busy for a while. His boss wasn’t one for short conversations and it sounded as though Tom was going through some sales figures with him.
I had so many questions to ask him that I didn’t know where to start. I wanted to talk about him deleting Harry’s e-mail, to ask why he had hidden that from me. I wanted to ask him how he’d felt when he saw me drive off with my car full of bags, knowing I’d end up homeless. But really, that wasn’t what was important.
The thing I really wanted was to talk about him coming into my home. Trying to make me lose my mind. And then coming in at night, into my bedroom. Taking my scarf from my pillow as I slept. At the thought of that I felt breathless and faint. I wanted to confront him but I knew I shouldn’t. I was too angry.
While he chatted away to his boss, as though he hadn’t a care in the world, I went upstairs. I needed to calm down. To make myself think rationally. While I was here, I should take some more of my things. It would be autumn in a couple of months. I didn’t want to come back here until it was time to empty the house completely and that could be ages away.
I heard Tom move to the bottom of the stairs, clearly frustrated that he couldn’t tell me to get back downstairs.
I went into my bedroom. My old bedroom. Now it was Tom’s, of course. The suit he’d been wearing was on a wooden hanger on the back of the door and his black leather shoes were kicked into a corner. I avoided looking at the bed and went straight over to my section of the fitted wardrobes. Nothing of mine was there. Tom had taken over some of it, but the rest lay empty. I frowned. What had happened to the rest of my things? I opened the drawers I’d used since we’d had the house. I’d had to leave some clothes there when I left home. Now the drawers were all empty.
I went into the spare room, thinking he might have packed the clothes up, ready for me to take. I knew he shouldn’t have to do that, but maybe he’d thought he was being useful. My heart sank as I saw the bookcase was empty and there was no sign of any of my books. I must have had an inkling that something like this would happen as I’d photographed the shelves before I left, just in case. I could replace them, but new copies just wouldn’t be the same. I looked inside the suitcases that stood by the side of the wardrobe. They were empty. I checked under the bed. Nothing.
And then I felt a dull thud in my stomach; I knew what was going to happen now. I threw open the wardrobe doors and thrust my hand to the back of the top shelf, past the spare pillows and the woolen throw, trying to find the box. It wasn’t there.
My memory box was made of ruby red leather and bought for me when I was born by my aunt. I’d loved her and lost her to cancer years ago. My name was embossed on the box in gold lettering, and I’d used it all my life for the things that were precious to me. In it had been photos from my childhood, of my parents when they were young. A narrow silver bracelet that my first boyfriend had bought me; my first mobile phone, long defunct. Letters from my school friends when we all went off to different universities. My diaries in which I’d kept count of my menstrual cycle, so that I could work out my fertile periods. A tiny white velvet sleepsuit that I’d bought on the day we first decided to try for a baby. I used to hold it to me to imagine what it would be like to hold a child. And, tucked away in a little envelope, with nothing but the date written on it, was the scan photo of my baby, my only child, the one I’d lost when I was eighteen.
Panic surged through me. I pulled out the pillows and threw them onto the bed. I checked at the foot of the wardrobe but there was just his snorkeling gear and old running shoes.