The House Swap(31)

My hands are shaking as I unlock the front door and listen for signs of life inside. As soon as I step into the hall, I know the house is empty, but I search in every room anyway, just in case he’s there. Nothing. I call his mobile, but it’s switched off. I’ve got no way of knowing where he is and what he’s doing. I should know how to deal with it by now but, if anything, it feels worse than ever before. Even without the drugs, Francis is impulsive. I can’t predict what he might do.

I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, gulp it down in seconds. The coldness numbs and clears my head, and for a few moments I just stand there, looking blankly at the glass. It’s tall and curved, etched with a greenish line around the rim. It’s the sort of thing I might have chosen. And then the realization hits me, long overdue – that if you’re in my house, then I’m in yours.

The thought brings a rush of adrenaline, and I find myself pacing through the rooms again, searching for clues. Everything is so frustratingly anonymized. Bare wooden furniture, no photographs, almost nothing in the cupboards. I remember laughing with Francis when we arrived, wondering who might live in such a strangely minimal place. Now I realize that no one lives this way unless they want to hide something. You didn’t want me to know straight away. You wanted to drip-feed me with information, until it took hold and had an effect.

Sinister. The word pops into my head without warning. It makes me stop, arrested in the act of opening the hallway cupboard.

I’ve spent the past two years believing that you cut yourself off from me because you cared; because it was impossible to do otherwise and because, however brutal it might have seemed, it was the sacrifice that had to be made to wipe the slate clean. I can’t imagine what could be strong enough to overturn everything that happened the last time I saw you. Why have you changed your mind?

Something is rising in the back of my mind. Shadows stirring darkly at the end of a long road. Your voice, rising out of nowhere. I press my hands to the sides of my head, willing the image back down. I won’t think about it. Not now. Not ever.

I hear the sound of sobbing and I realize that I’m crying, tears streaming down my cheeks and trickling on to my top. Blindly, I move to the front door and fling it open, step outside. There’s nowhere to go, but I can’t stay here. I see the rows of houses through my tears, with their neat, featureless windows and their prettily kept gardens. Across the street, a middle-aged man is carrying recycling bins out, setting them on to the front lawn. He’s watching me through narrowed eyes, frowning, evaluating.

‘Caroline?’ It’s Amber’s voice, and I jump. She’s appeared out of nowhere, just behind me, stretching out her hand tentatively to touch my shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’

I wipe my sleeve across my eyes, burning with embarrassment and fighting to compose myself, but it’s useless. Mutely, I shake my head. She is staring at me, her lips marginally parted and her smooth forehead creased. Her eyes are wide and unblinking, like painted glass. The thought flicks through my head that this isn’t normal; the intensity of it, the tight focus of her concentration. And yet I can’t help but respond to it. When you’re at the centre of that focus, I realize, it’s hard to ignore.

‘I’ve had a message,’ I hear myself say. The enormity of it all is swirling in my head, but I have to get rid of at least a fraction of it. ‘From an ex,’ I manage to say.

Amber nods slowly; her eyes are asking me to continue.

‘I’m not …’ Speaking is an effort. ‘I’m not sure what it means.’ Abruptly, the tears dry up. I sit down numbly on the low garden wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man opposite straighten up to dust off his hands, give me one last look then disappear slowly back towards his house.

Amber sees me looking. ‘Don’t worry about him.’ She raises her voice, just loud enough that it might carry on the wind. ‘It’s your business, not everyone else’s.’ The man’s back stiffens, and he slams the front door behind him without looking back.

Amber turns back, crouching down beside me. ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘is this ex someone you want back in your life, or not?’

‘No,’ I say quickly. The word feels treacherous and unreliable in my mouth. ‘No.’

‘Then you ignore the message,’ she says, shrugging. ‘It’s simple.’ All of a sudden, the concern has dropped away from her face and she’s smiling as if she has solved a complex conundrum, the final piece slotting into place to illuminate the whole.

I nod, because there seems to be nothing else to do. There’s no way of explaining that it’s already too late to ignore you. And besides, the question she has asked me is redundant. You can’t come back into somebody’s life when you’re already in it. What happened to us isn’t something that can be brushed away or undone. Even after all this time, it’s still under my skin.



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Caroline, May 2013


IT’S SATURDAY MORNING and, as soon as we get up, everything is clear and sweet and simple. The night has passed uninterrupted, free of the erratic noises and movements that so often characterize Francis’s wakeful hours before dawn. He’s slept in our bed all night; opening my eyes to see him beside me feels gleefully novel, as if we’re a young couple waking up together for the first time.