feels too intimate – like opening someone’s diary. I struggle for all of three seconds, then open it. Rummaging around, I can’t see a comb, but I see more of Alex. His toothbrush is an unusual tortoiseshell, the toothpaste expensive, not like my supermarket-brand cheapie. I reach further in – tweezers, nail clippers, so many grooming tools. But no comb.
I’m beginning to feel slightly ashamed for riffling through this man’s personal stuff, but I need to make absolutely sure there’s no comb. Anyway, what harm will it do to know what kind of toothpaste he uses? I’m just getting to know him… more.
Suddenly, my fingers alight on something flat, pushed down the back of the bag, and I bring it out between two fingers. I can barely make it out at first, but slowly it dawns on me what it is. A worn photograph – of a woman, but her face has a furious pen mark through it. Like someone wanted to scribble her out.
Chapter Nine
I don’t understand the photo I’m holding in my hand. The pen mark is running diagonally, and angrily, across a woman’s face. She looks around my age, late thirties. Her long blonde hair sits on bare, brown shoulders, she’s wearing a strappy top and straw hat. It looks like a holiday snap. The woman is laughing, and holding her hand up to the camera as if to say ‘stop’.
I’m shocked. Tonight I learned that if you look hard enough in someone’s bathroom, there’s a good chance you’ll find something unsettling. And this is pretty unsettling. It’s probably Alex’s ex, which makes sense. I’m sure if you rummaged around at my place you’d find a photo of Tom, though most of them are on my phone – I never got round to deleting them. But this picture is worn, has obviously been looked at too many times, and it’s tucked away in his toiletries bag. He’s keeping it somewhere safe, so he can easily find it perhaps. But why has the pen been slashed right through her face, like a knife?
I catch myself again in the mirror, holding the photo, and wonder once more if I’m ready for all this. Whether I am or not, I’ve been up here long enough, I can’t delay any more.
I walk back downstairs feeling uncertain, but vaguely comforted by the delicious smell coming from the kitchen. I’m starving, I’ve hardly eaten all day. So what if he drew a line through the photo of his ex? He admitted he was upset, and he probably did it when she first walked out, when he was angry. Tom’s done far worse, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a similar ‘inked’ picture of me, several in fact. Let’s face it, the mildest of people have the capacity to be enraged when someone they love walks out. It was probably a momentary flash of anger, and he hid the photo in the toilet bag because he was ashamed of what he did to it but couldn’t bear to throw it away.
I put on a smile and walk into the kitchen, where Alex pulls out a seat at the table for me to sit down. The table’s been laid beautifully, including a vase of autumn leaves and bright-orange Chinese lantern flowers, a stunning contrast against the greys and blues of the kitchen. Hard to believe the same person who created this ‘tablescape’ also ran a pen through a photo of his ex-girlfriend’s face.
I try to put the image from my mind and, touching the papery, bright-orange orbs, ask, ‘Did you just arrange these while I was in the bathroom?’
He laughs. ‘No, I bought them from the florist yesterday when I thought you were coming over. But when you couldn’t make it, I kept them in the utility room, hoping they’d last until today.’
My heart breaks a little at his thoughtfulness, and I push away the image of the woman’s laughing face, the ink ripping through the photo. Now I’m getting to know him, I can see he puts his all into what he does, and even for a romantic weeknight supper, he takes care of the table foliage. Okay, so he hates his ex – I can live with that. I can help him move on, to let go of his anger and resentment. In this moment, I just want to live here with him in this beautiful bubble of warm garlic and earthenware crockery. I could be happy here – happy and