I Let You Go (25 page)

I made space for you in the wardrobe and gradually you moved in more of your clothes.

‘I won’t be staying tonight,’ you said one day, as I sat on the bed to put on my tie. You were sitting up in bed drinking tea, your hair tangled and last night’s make-up still around your eyes. ‘I’m going out with some of the guys from my course.’

I didn’t say anything; concentrated on tying the perfect knot in my dark-blue tie.

‘That’s okay, isn’t it?’

I turned around. ‘Do you know it’s exactly three months today since we met in the Student Union?’

‘Is it really?’

‘I booked a table at Le Petit Rouge for tonight. That place I took you on our first date?’ I stood up and put on my jacket. ‘I should have checked with you beforehand, there’s no reason why you would have remembered something as silly as that day.’

‘I do!’ You put down your tea and pushed the duvet aside, climbing across the bed to kneel next to where I stood. You were naked, and when you threw your arms around me I could feel the warmth of your breasts through my shirt. ‘I remember everything about that day: what a gentleman you were, and how much I wanted to see you again.’

‘I’ve got something for you,’ I said suddenly. I hoped it was still in the drawer of my bedside table. I felt around and found it at the back, under a packet of condoms. ‘Here.’

‘Is that what I think it is?’ You grinned, and dangled the key in the air. I realised I hadn’t thought to take off Marie’s key fob, and the silver heart spun in the light.

‘You’re here every day. You might as well have a key.’

‘Thank you. That means a lot to me.’

‘I need to go to work. Have a great time tonight.’ I kissed you.

‘No, I’ll cancel. You’ve gone to so much trouble – I’d love to go out for dinner. And now that I have this,’ you held up the key, ‘I’ll be here when you get back from work.’

My headache began to lift as I drove to work, but it didn’t go completely until I had called Le Petit Rouge and booked a table for that evening.

True to your word, you were waiting for me when I got home, in a dress that clung provocatively to your curves and exposed long tanned legs.

‘How do I look?’ You gave a twirl and stood smiling at me, one hand on your hip.

‘Lovely.’

The flatness in my voice was unmissable and you abandoned the pose. Your shoulders dropped slightly and one hand fluttered across the front of the dress.

‘Is it too tight?’

‘You look fine,’ I said. ‘What else have you got with you?’

‘It’s too tight, isn’t it? I’ve only got the jeans I was wearing yesterday, and a clean top.’

‘Perfect,’ I said, stepping forward to kiss you. ‘Legs like yours are better in trousers, and you look fantastic in those jeans. Run and get changed and we’ll go for a drink before dinner.’

I had worried that giving you a key may have been a mistake, but you seemed to find the novelty of keeping house appealing. I came home most days to the smell of freshly baked cakes, or roast chicken, and although your cooking was basic, you were learning. When what you made was unpalatable, I would leave it, and you soon tried harder. I found you reading a recipe book one day, a pen and paper by your side.

‘What’s a roux sauce?’ you said.

‘How would I know?’ It had been a difficult day, and I was tired.

You didn’t seem to notice. ‘I’m making lasagne. Properly, without jars. I’ve got all the ingredients, but it’s like the recipe is written in another language.’

I looked at the food laid out on the work surface: shiny red peppers, tomatoes, carrots, and raw minced beef. The vegetables were in the brown paper bags from the greengrocer, and even the meat looked as though it was from the butcher, not the supermarket. You must have spent all afternoon getting it ready.

I don’t know what made me spoil it for you. It was something to do with the pride on your face, or perhaps the way you seemed so comfortable, so secure. Too secure.

‘I’m not really that hungry.’

Your face fell and I felt instantly better, as though I had ripped off a plaster, or picked a troublesome scab.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Did you go to a lot of trouble?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ you said, but it was clear you were offended. You closed the book. ‘I’ll make it another time.’ I hoped you weren’t going to spend the evening sulking, but you seemed to shake it off and opened a bottle of the cheap wine you liked. I poured myself a finger of whisky and sat down opposite you.

‘I can’t believe I graduate next month,’ you said. ‘It’s gone so fast.’

‘Have you had any more thoughts about what you’ll do?’

You wrinkled your nose. ‘Not really. I’ll take the summer off, maybe do some travelling.’

It was the first I had heard of any desire to go travelling and I wondered who had put the idea in your head; who you were planning to go with.

‘We could go to Italy,’ I said. ‘I’d love to take you to Venice. You’d love the architecture, and there are some incredible art galleries.’

‘That would be amazing. Sarah and Izzy are going to India for a month, so I might join them for a couple of weeks, or maybe do some Inter-railing around Europe.’ You laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I want to do everything, that’s the problem!’

‘Maybe you should wait a while.’ I swirled the rest of my whisky around my glass. ‘After all, everyone will be off travelling during the summer, then you’ll all be coming back and hitting the job market at the same time. Maybe you should get ahead of the others while they’re gallivanting around the world.’

‘Maybe.’

I could tell you weren’t convinced.

‘I’ve been thinking about when you leave uni, and I think you should move in here properly.’

You raised an eyebrow, as though there might be a catch.

‘It makes sense: you’re practically living here anyway, and you’ll never be able to afford a place of your own with the sort of job you’re looking at getting, so you’ll end up with some grotty flat-share.’

‘I was going to move back home for a bit,’ you said.

‘I’m surprised you want anything more to do with your mother, after she stopped you from seeing your dad.’

‘She’s okay,’ you said, but you were a little less certain now.

‘We’re good together,’ I said. ‘Why change that? Your mum lives over an hour away – we’d hardly see each other. Don’t you want to be with me?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘You could move in here and you wouldn’t have to worry about money at all. I’d take care of the bills and you could concentrate on getting your portfolio together and selling your sculptures.’

‘But that wouldn’t be fair on you – I’d have to contribute something.’

‘You could do a bit of cooking, I suppose, and help keep the house tidy, but really you wouldn’t have to. It would be enough just to wake up with you every morning, and have you here when I get home from work.’

A smile spread across your face. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.’

You moved in on the last day of term, stripping your walls of posters and packing up your belongings into a car you borrowed from Sarah.

‘I’ll get the rest of my stuff from Mum next weekend,’ you said. ‘Hang on, there’s one more thing in the car. It’s a sort of surprise for you. For us.’

You ran out of the door and opened the passenger door of the car, where a cardboard box rested in the footwell. You carried it so carefully back to the house that I assumed it must be something breakable, but when you handed it to me it was far too light to be china or glass.

‘Open it.’ You were almost bursting with excitement.

I lifted the cardboard flap on top of the box and a tiny bundle of fluff looked up at me. ‘It’s a cat.’ I said flatly. I had never understood the appeal of animals, particularly domestic dogs and cats, who leave hair everywhere and demand walks and affection and company.

‘It’s a kitten!’ you said. ‘Isn’t he the most gorgeous thing?’ You scooped it up from inside the box and held it to your chest. ‘Eve’s cat had surprise kittens, and she’s farmed them all out now, but she kept this one for me. He’s called Gizmo.’

‘Did it not occur to you to ask me before bringing a kitten into my house?’ I didn’t bother tempering my tone, and you began crying instantly. It was such a pathetic, obvious tactic that I became even angrier. ‘Haven’t you seen any of those adverts about thinking things through before getting a pet? It’s no wonder so many animals are abandoned – it’s people like you making impulsive decisions!’

‘I thought you might like him,’ you said, still crying. ‘I thought it would be company for me while you’re out at work – he can watch me paint.’

I stopped. It occurred to me that the cat might well be entertainment for you while I was out of the house. Perhaps I could cope with a cat, if it made you content.

‘Just make sure you keep it away from my suits,’ I said. I went upstairs and when I came down again you had laid out a cat bed and two bowls in the kitchen, and a litter tray by the door.

‘It’s only until she can go outside,’ you said. Your eyes were wary and I hated that you had seen me lose control. I made myself stroke the kitten and heard you sigh with relief. You came up to me and snaked your arms around my waist. ‘Thank you.’ You kissed me in that way that was always a precursor to sex, and when I pushed ever so gently down on your shoulder you sank to your knees without a murmur.

You became obsessed with the kitten. Its food, its toys, even its shitty litter tray were somehow more interesting than tidying the house or cooking the dinner. Far more interesting than talking to me. You spent entire evenings playing with it, dragging stuffed mice across the floor on pieces of string. You told me you were working on your portfolio during the day, but when I came home from work I’d find your stuff strewn about the living room, as it had been the previous day.

A fortnight or so after you moved in, I came home to find a note on the kitchen table.

Out with Sarah. Don’t wait up!

We had spoken, as we always did, two or three times that day, but you hadn’t thought to mention it. You had left nothing out to eat, so presumably you were eating with Sarah and hadn’t concerned yourself with what I might have. I took a beer from the fridge. The kitten mewed and tried to climb up my trousers, digging its claws into my leg. I shook it off and it fell on to the floor. I shut it in the kitchen and turned on the television, but I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think about was the last time you and Sarah went out: the speed with which she disappeared with a guy she had only just met, and the ease with which you came home with me.

Don’t wait up.

I hadn’t asked you to live with me in order to spend my evenings sitting on my own. I had already been taken for a fool by one woman – I wasn’t about to let it happen again. The mewling continued and I went to fetch another beer. I could hear the kitten inside the kitchen, and I pushed open the door sharply, sending it skidding across the floor. It was comical, and cheered me up momentarily, until I returned to the living room and looked at the mess you had left on the floor. You had made some half-hearted attempt to stack it in one corner of the room, but there was a lump of clay on a sheet of newspaper – no doubt transferring its ink on to the wooden floor – and jam jars filled with murky substances piled into a handyman’s tray.

The kitten mewed. I took a swig of my beer. The television was showing a wildlife documentary, and I watched as a fox tore a rabbit to pieces. I turned up the volume but still I could hear the kitten mewing. The sound twisted itself into my head until each cry made the anger rise up inside me a little more; a white-hot rage I recognised but over which I had no control. I stood up and went to the kitchen.

It was past midnight when you got home. I was sitting in the dark in the kitchen, an empty bottle of beer in my hand. I heard you close the front door oh-so-carefully, unzip your boots and tiptoe through the hall and into the kitchen.

‘Did you have fun?’

You cried out, and it would have been funny, had I not been so angry with you.

‘Jesus, Ian, you scared the life out of me! What are you doing sitting here in the dark?’ You switched on the light and the fluorescent bulb flickered into life.

‘Waiting for you.’

‘I told you I’d be late.’

There was a faint slur in your voice and I wondered how much you had drunk.

‘We all went back to Sarah’s after the pub, and…’ You saw the expression on my face and stopped. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I waited up for you so you didn’t have to find out on your own,’ I said.

‘Find out what?’ You suddenly sobered up. ‘What’s happened?’

I pointed to the floor by the litter tray, where the kitten lay prone and immobile. He had stiffened up in the last hour or two, and one leg pointed into the air.

‘Gizmo!’ Your hands flew to your mouth and I thought you were going to be sick. ‘Oh my God! What happened?’

I stood up to comfort you. ‘I don’t know. I came home from work and he threw up in the living room. I looked online for advice, but within half an hour he was dead. I’m so sorry, Jennifer, I know how much you loved him.’

You were crying now, weeping into my shirt as I held you tightly.

‘He was fine when I went out.’ You looked up at me, searching for answers in my face. ‘I don’t understand why it happened.’

You must have caught the hesitation on my face, because you pulled away. ‘What? What aren’t you telling me?’

‘It’s probably nothing,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to make this worse for you.’

‘Tell me!’

I sighed. ‘When I came home I found him in the living room.’

‘I shut him in the kitchen, like I always do,’ you said, but already you were doubting yourself.

I shrugged. ‘The door was open when I got home. And Gizmo had torn up pieces of newspaper from the pile next to your work. He was obviously fascinated by it all. I don’t know what was in that jam jar with the red label, but the lid was off, and Gizmo had his nose in it.’

You went pale. ‘It’s the glaze for my models.’