Off Limits

THE MESSAGE BUZZES into my phone at three the next morning. I stare at it, my heart pounding, tears leaking out of my eyes. They make me angry.

I delete the message and turn my phone off.

When I wake up I’ve almost forgotten about it. I make my coffee, switch my phone on and it buzzes immediately.

Four messages from Jack.

You can’t just ignore me.

I was surprised yesterday. I didn’t handle it well.

Meet me for lunch today.

Please.

I turn my phone off again and leave it at home when I head out. After being tied to Jack—tied to my phone, my emails, my laptop—for the last two years, I’m looking up. Finally. And seeing.

I walk from Hampstead through Regent’s Park to the British Museum. I don’t think I’ve been in since I was a teenager, and strolling amongst the exhibits now gives me the perfect dose of perspective. Seeing the ancient Egyptian tombs, the mummies so perfectly preserved, the sarcophagi all shining and morbidly beautiful, I am reminded that I am just one person.

That Jack is just another.

That life is long and its adventures many.

I am philosophical enough to smile as I leave, but my heart is broken again when I walk past a man who is wearing something a little bit like Jack’s aftershave.

Dejected, I head to my favourite restaurant in Dean Street and grab a counter spot, eating a roast lunch with a bucket of wine and staring out at the street as people pass.

A matinee show after that, and a slow walk home.

I’m exhausted when I finally get to my front door, and in no mood to see a huge bunch of ranunculus waiting on my step. I know they’re from Jack without even looking at them, so I step over the arrangement, careful not to touch it with even the toe of my shoe.

I’ll deal with them in the morning. When I have more energy. Hell, maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will steal them to save me the hassle.

I stare at my phone as if it’s a lit fuse. I’m torn between switching it on and throwing it in the bin.

It’s cowardly, I know, but I leave it off. I send a quick email to my mother and grandmother, telling them I’ve lost my mobile and that they can contact me on email if there’s an emergency and then I go to bed without eating dinner.

I’m too wrecked.

The next morning, I am woken by his knocking at the door.

I know it’s him because who else knocks with their whole palm? As though they have a God-given right to disturb you whenever the hell it suits them?

I ignore him, but my throat is thick with more damned tears and my heart is spinning in my chest.

His voice is muffled but it speaks directly to my soul. Deep and dark. He’s calling my name.

I burrow deeper under the duvet, pulling the pillow over my head.

I can still hear him swear loudly.

Finally, though, he’s gone.

I stay in bed all day. I doze, and I stare at the wall, and then I doze some more. I have never been in love before, and I’ve certainly never had my heart broken. I have no concept if this is normal.

I feel as though I’ve been torn into a dozen pieces, ripped apart piece by piece, and as if my brain is too sluggish to remember how to rebuild me. Some time after dark my tummy groans. I’m hungry. That’s a good sign, surely?

I shove my feet out of bed, grabbing a pashmina as I pass my wardrobe and wrapping it around my shoulders. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the hallway mirror and grimace.