The Forgetting(65)
LIVVY
BRISTOL
Livvy opened the door to her wardrobe, surveyed the jumble of shoeboxes stacked at the bottom. From downstairs she could hear the faint murmur of music, something classical, Radio 3 no doubt. Dominic was down there, packing his books in preparation for the move next weekend. Checking the time, she figured she had a couple of hours before Leo was likely to wake from his post-lunch nap.
Turning around, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, experienced a moment’s discombobulation. Her hand shot to the back of her neck, made contact with her bare skin, and she readjusted her expectations, reminded herself that this was her reflection now: the short bob, the swept fringe, the wispy ends she would probably never have time to blow-dry the way the hairdresser had done. It was almost twenty-four hours since she’d had her hair cut and still the sight of her own reflection took her by surprise.
When Dominic had returned from Sheffield the previous evening, the expression on his face had morphed from shock to delight. He had turned her around, his hands on her shoulders, examining her from every angle, as though she were a delicately carved statue on a plinth in a museum. He’d taken copious photos of her on his phone, shown them to her, beaming: ‘I told you it would suit you.’ In the hours since, she had caught him looking at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice, a curious expression on his face she couldn’t quite decipher.
Her phone buzzed and she picked it up, found a message from Bea, opened it even as a knot pulled taut in her stomach.
I really am sorry that I went behind your back. I know how angry it’s made you, and I do understand why. But you must believe me when I say that I was doing it with the best of intentions. I’m not trying to sabotage your marriage. I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay. I love you. Please call me. Xxx
Livvy exited WhatsApp, tossed her phone on the bed. There had been a constant stream of messages from Bea since their row yesterday afternoon, each one a variation on the same theme: Bea was sorry, she hadn’t meant to overstep the mark, please could Livvy forgive her. But Livvy couldn’t forgive. It was as though Bea had marched into the middle of Livvy’s marriage, grenade in hand, removed the pin and been disappointed to discover that it hadn’t detonated.
She hadn’t told Dominic the real reason for her falling out with Bea. She’d said Bea hadn’t been supportive of her haircut, that she was upset Livvy had cancelled their plans a few times lately. But she’d said nothing to him about Daisy, or about Bea’s egregious invasion into Dominic’s privacy. And yet still Dominic had leapt to Livvy’s defence: ‘I know she’s your sister, and I love your loyalty to her, but she’s never really going to understand your life. She’s never going to understand what it’s like to have a partner and a child. If Bea really loves you – if she really cares about your happiness – she’ll let you manage your life however you choose, even if that means she gets to see you less.’ Aware of all the messages arriving from Bea yesterday evening, Dominic had suggested Livvy ignore them for now, take a step back, let the dust settle. Reconvene with Bea when they’d both had time to calm down.
Picking up a stack of shoeboxes from the bottom of the wardrobe, Livvy carried them to the bed, let them slide from her arms onto the duvet. Lifting the lid of one, she found a neat pile of letters, familiar meticulous writing on the envelopes. Choosing one from near the bottom of the pile, she prised out the single piece of thick, cream A5 paper.
Darling Livvy
You may think me old-fashioned writing to you when an email or text would be quicker. But I wanted to tell you that the last three weeks have been incredible. I’ve loved every moment we’ve spent together: you’re beautiful and funny and kind and I have, quite simply, never met anyone like you.
Perhaps it’s too early to tell you this, but I’m going to say it anyway.
I love you.
I can’t wait to see you tonight.
Dominic xx
Rifling through the rest of the letters, she remembered how, in the early months of their relationship, they’d written to each other daily, even when spending every evening together. Their correspondence had stopped when Livvy first moved in, but since Dominic had been away in Sheffield, she’d been writing him a letter every week and slipping it into his suitcase before he left on Monday mornings. Just short notes, telling him how much she loved him and how much she would miss him, but somehow they made her feel more connected to him in his absence.
Within a fortnight Dominic had told her he loved her . . . He always made her feel like the most important person in the room . . . Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?
Bea’s story about Daisy hissed in Livvy’s ears, and she tried to silence it, reassured herself that it wasn’t the same. Daisy clearly hadn’t been ready for a relationship, and Dominic couldn’t be held accountable for another woman’s immaturity. If Dominic had chosen not to tell Livvy about it, he must have his reasons. And starting one relationship soon after finishing another wasn’t exactly a crime.
Her phone pinged again, and Livvy was aware of something twisting in her stomach as she braced herself for another missive from Bea. But when she picked up her phone and saw the identity of the messenger, a cold sheen of dread skimmed over her skin.
Glancing over her shoulder through the open bedroom door, she strained her ears, heard Dominic whistling to a piece of music. Turning back to her phone, she opened the message.