Love Your Life(103)

But already I know it wouldn’t be the right choice for me. It would be running away. I’ve been cocooned all these months. I’ve had a single purpose. I’ve blocked out all the mess and difficulties of real, actual life. Now I need to get back. Find my place in the world again. Engage with people and challenges and work and shopping and buses and the washing up.

Plus, let’s be frank, I can’t afford to stay here forever. Farida doesn’t charge peak rates over the winter, but she doesn’t charge nothing either. Even with my discount as a former retreat guest, these six months have eaten substantially into my savings. It’s time to go home.

And if I go to Kirk’s launch, Matt might be there.

As I let an unguarded Matt-thought into my brain, my stomach churns reflexively, and I draw breath, trying to stay steady. I’m waiting for the moment that thinking of Matt doesn’t make my stomach churn. It hasn’t happened yet. But, on the other hand, I do manage to go hours without thinking about him now. Now.

    At first, of course, it was impossible, and I found myself thinking, What have I done? Why have I come here of all places?

I wandered desperately about the monastery, searching for a safe, Matt-free place, but memories of him were everywhere. In every courtyard, every corner, every doorway, I could see shadows of Dutch. Shadows of Aria. Shadows of us, laughing, arm in arm, a baggage-free couple in matching kurta pajamas, on our way to certain bliss.

On the second night I spilled the whole story of our breakup to Farida and Felicity, thinking that it might help. It was a very bonding evening and I’m glad I did, but it didn’t solve my problem.

In the end, it was like an exorcism. I walked around the whole monastery, my hands in my pockets, my chin stuck forward, muttering, “Bring it on.” Positively encouraging all the painful images to swoosh through my mind. And that did work, kind of. The more I forced myself to think about it, the less raw the hurt became. I started to laugh again and see just a courtyard, not a scene from our romance.

But Matt’s shadow didn’t leave me completely. I still went to bed every night, brooding. Thinking: What went wrong? Did it have to go wrong? Could we have made things work? I tried to retrace the steps to our split. I tried holding all our conversations again, with different outcomes. I drove myself a bit mad. Because let’s face it: We did break up. And Matt hasn’t turned up, hammering on the door of the monastery. Or even sent me a text.

    In fact, the last time I saw any Warwick family member face-to-face was when I made a quick delivery to Matt’s parents’ house in Berkshire, before I left for Italy. I rang the doorbell, and as the door swung open, I couldn’t believe my luck, because it was Elsa herself.

“Oh, hello,” I said briskly, before she could speak. “I’ve got a present for you.” I reached into my carrier bag and pulled out a framed photo of Matt swinging a golf club, which I’d harvested from Facebook. “That’s for you….” I reached for another framed photo of him, this one in a martial-arts tournament. “And that’s for you….”

I produced photo after photo, until eight framed pictures of Matt were teetering in a pile in her arms and Elsa was peering at me over the top of them, looking shell-shocked.

“I noticed you didn’t have any,” I said politely. “I should think your son noticed too.” Then I turned on my heel and left.

I thought that would be a nice clean finish. And at first it was. For the first few weeks here, I managed not to look Matt up online at all. Then I crumbled. I couldn’t help myself. So I had a quick peek, expecting to see photos of him in Japan with Genevieve. But to my astonishment, there was a news story from a trade magazine: Matthias Warwick steps down from Harriet’s House. It said he was leaving for “fresh challenges” and there was lot of blah about his achievements and family history, which I skimmed, feeling stunned. He didn’t just refuse to go to Japan, he quit! He quit Harriet’s House!

    Of course, I had a burning desire to know everything. I wanted to know how he’d decided, and how his parents had responded, and how he was feeling, and whether he’d gone to work with Topher or was doing something else….But I’m not Sarah. I’m not a stalker. Plus, if I’d started down that rabbit hole, I would never have got my book written.

So somehow I managed to be strong. I didn’t go on a trawl of the Internet, nor try to contact him, nor even text Topher on some casual pretext. I assumed I would never see him again, never know the answers. Case closed.

But now it’s opening up again, just a chink. If I go to that pub in Leicester Square, Matt might be there. Just the thought of seeing him again makes me feel half sick with nerves, half heady with exhilaration.

What if he’s with someone else by now? the Red Queen instantly demands inside my brain. Because he’s bound to be. You don’t think he’ll still be single, do you? A man like that gets snapped up at once. At once.

By Genevieve?

No, not Genevieve, but some beautiful, amazing woman who loves Japanese punk and held his hand while he quit Harriet’s House and is already pregnant with his baby.

(I have a sudden urge to hit her.)

(No. Retract. That would be a hate crime and I’m not a violent person and she doesn’t exist.)

Well, what if he is with someone else? optimistic Alice answers in my head. Then I’ll get closure. Exactly. So, in fact, however you look at it, it would be a mistake not to go. Yes. I should go.