MONDAY, JULY 15, 2013
MORNING
Cathy called me back just as I was leaving the flatthis morning and gave me a stiff little hug. I thoughtshe was going to tell me that she wasn’t kicking meout after all, but instead she slipped a typewrittennote into my hand, giving me formal notice of myeviction, including a departure date. She couldn’t meetmy eye. I felt sorry for her, I honestly did, thoughnot quite as sorry as for myself. She gave me a sadsmile and said, “I hate to do this to you, Rachel, Ihonestly do.” The whole thing felt very awkward. Wewere standing¹ in the hallway, which, despite my bestefforts with the bleach², still smelled a bit of sick. I feltlike crying, but I didn’t want to make her feel worsethan she already did, so I just smiled cheerily andsaid, “Not at all, it’s honestly no problem,” as thoughshe’d just asked me to do her a small favour.
On the train, the tears come, and I don’t care ifpeople are watching me; for all they know, my dogmight have been run over. I might have beendiagnosed with a terminal illness. I might be abarren, divorced, soon-to-be-homeless alcoholic³.
It’s ridiculous, when I think about it. How did I findmyself here? I wonder where it started, my decline; Iwonder at what point I could have halted it. Wheredid I take the wrong turn? Not when I met Tom,who saved me from grief after Dad died. Not whenwe married, carefree, drenched⁴ in bliss⁵, on an oddlywintry May day seven years ago. I was happy,solvent, successful. Not when we moved into numbertwenty-three, a roomier, lovelier house than I’dimagined I’d live in at the tender age of twenty-six. Iremember those first days so clearly, walking around,shoeless, feeling the warmth of wooden floorboardsunderfoot, relishing⁶ the space, the emptiness of allthose rooms waiting to be filled. Tom and I, makingplans: what we’d plant in the garden, what we’dhang on the walls, what colour to paint the spareroom—already, even then, in my head, the baby’sroom.
Maybe it was then. Maybe that was the momentwhen things started to go wrong, the moment whenI imagined us no longer a couple, but a family; andafter that, once I had that picture in my head, justthe two of us could never be enough. Was it thenthat Tom started to look at me differently, hisdisappointment mirroring my own? After all he gaveup for me, for the two of us to be together, I lethim think that he wasn’t enough.

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