The pull toward Tom was becoming stronger. When I was at my worst ebb on Wednesday night—I hadn’t spoken to anyone for two days by then—he sent me a message.
Hey, Ruby, are you watching The Bridge? It’s rerunning on BBC. I’m watching it on my own and missing you—it was always great to talk through the plot together. You always saw things I didn’t notice! Hope work’s going well x
Quickly I switched off The Bridge; I had been watching it on my laptop. I realized that Tom didn’t know where I was working, didn’t know I’d lost my job. I’d been careful not to say anything about it to Josh, and Tom hadn’t asked about work since I left.
Another message came through. Tom again.
Oh and have you started to read The Goldfinch? Why did we never read that at the time? I’m reading it now, hope you like it x
I didn’t answer him. I was worried I’d call him and tell him I missed him. I did miss him. I missed the comfort and security of my home. I missed having someone to talk to. Someone to watch television with and go out with occasionally. And all those times he wasn’t nice to me, well, I thought he was stressed. I’d often wondered whether he was suffering from depression. I knew he’d wanted another child. He found living apart from Josh very tough. Whenever Josh called round unexpectedly, Tom would be so happy, as though he was whole again. Now he was living completely alone and I guessed he’d find that really hard. But then the other night he looked great. He seemed happy to talk to me. He was like his old self, the man I’d fallen in love with.
* * *
? ? ?
Midnight was always my weak point. It seemed to be hardwired into my brain that if I wasn’t asleep then, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I lay curled up in bed and reached under my pillow for my phone. I searched through my photos and found some of Tom throughout the years. I still reacted to those early shots, where he and I would be arm in arm and he’d be smiling at me as though he loved me. He had loved me; I knew he had. But then the later photos—there were fewer of them—they were different. There were stress lines on his face and it was clear he was unhappy. I wondered whether he’d been the same with Belinda, whether he’d grown more intolerant as time went on. I’d noticed the way she avoided him even now, years after they were together. Even in the early days she’d always had Josh ready and waiting, coat on, so that he could run out to Tom’s car. I had thought she was just good at timekeeping; it was only now that I thought there might have been other reasons behind that. He was always so nice to me then, and I didn’t think for a moment that he might have been to blame in his marriage to her. I shut down that folder. I didn’t want to think about that, especially not late at night.
Then I searched online for a photo of Harry and found one in a local business magazine. The photo was taken when Sheridan’s first opened. It was a few years before I met him, but he hadn’t changed too much. He looked out at the camera, little realizing that one day in the future a woman would call up this photo in the privacy of a grotty rented flat and lie in bed crying at the sight of him.
I reached out to my bedside cabinet. In the bottom drawer was a silk scarf that Harry had bought me. It had an abstract design in bright blues and pinks, and I loved it. My phone lit up that corner of the room and all I could see was the scarf and Harry’s face on the screen.
Harry had bought me the scarf in Paris, the weekend we decided to live together. We were walking through the city late on Saturday afternoon, looking for a restaurant that was far enough away from the conference center, so that we wouldn’t bump into any of the other