with him. Moving in with him, christening our new bed. We’d even chosen the bed we’d buy, had looked at tons of them and had made a decision on one. He’d bookmarked it online and said that ordering the bed would be the first thing we’d do when we were together. My mouth tightened. He’d be okay, I knew that, wherever he was. Sarah had said he was on holiday for a week. Were they on a beach somewhere right now as though all was well in the world? Would he leave Emma lying on a recliner in the sun and go down to swim in the sea, thinking about me and the narrow escape he’d had? Perhaps he’d run back up the beach toward her and shake cold water over her hot tanned body so that she’d shriek, then take her hand and chase her back to their room.
I shuddered. He’d told me they hadn’t slept together for a long time and I’d believed him. I was such an idiot. I knew if I told a friend about our affair, they’d say he was having his cake and eating it, that faced with the reality of leaving his lovely home, he’d chosen the easy way out. And I knew that was true—I was almost sure of it—but when I thought of his face that Friday evening, just when I said good-bye, he looked so happy and smiling and . . . well, I was going to say trustworthy but that probably isn’t the right word, given he was cheating on his wife.
I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I couldn’t afford to get upset now. I’d wanted to leave Tom; I’d thought of it for years. And now I’d left him. I needed to cope with that, rather than thinking about what might have been.
* * *
? ? ?
The first thing I did once I’d carried everything up to the flat was to go to a supermarket and buy a load of cleaning products and some cheap kitchenware so that I didn’t have to eat out. I had no intention of taking those things with me to my new house, so I just bought a fork, a knife, a spoon. One plate, one pan, one bowl. I felt a bit like Jack Reacher, as though I should keep my toothbrush in my pocket.
I was okay until I started to buy some food. Automatically I picked up a box of muesli and put it into my cart. It was as though something pinged in my brain and I couldn’t stop staring at it. People pushed past me and I moved to a quieter aisle. I realized I’d been eating that cereal for years and years. It was a muesli with all sorts of things in it, nuts, raisins, the lot, and though the packaging was impressive, I’d never liked it. It tasted dusty and too sweet. Yet I’d eaten it every weekday for years. Tom liked it and used to say there was no point in getting two different cereals, that they’d go stale. Whenever I suggested trying something else he’d go quiet and moody. It was crazy, really, how much his mood could affect me. Why had I put up with that? I went back to the cereal aisle and looked at the range on offer. Which should I buy? What did I actually like? My head started to hurt. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know what I liked. It hadn’t mattered what I liked.
Tom chose everything. And, to be fair, he did usually make the right decision. He had good taste—I knew that. It’s just that . . . well, sometimes you want to choose something yourself, don’t you? When I was living at home my mum decided everything. We either did things her way or we suffered; my sister and I learned that lesson pretty early on. And Fiona got away from it by emigrating when she was eighteen. As for me, I had a few years of freedom and then just when I was really enjoying my life, I met Tom.
I put the box back on the shelf and moved away. I wouldn’t buy any cereal at all. I’d have something else. But the same thing happened in the other aisles. I didn’t know which bread to buy, which cheese