for one mad moment I wondered whether I should cook something for Tom’s dinner. He probably would have eaten it, too. Of course, I didn’t. It would be too weird. What would I cook, anyway? An everyday dish to remind him what he wouldn’t have again? Something special for a momentous occasion?
What I should have been cooking was written on a notepad on the fridge door. Every week Tom put together a list of meals. Tonight’s was Thai curry. My hands were damp with stress as I opened the fridge door and saw all the ingredients there, waiting. That curry hadn’t a chance of being made now. There was plenty of food, though; it wasn’t as though he’d starve, and the wine rack held dozens of bottles. There would be fewer tomorrow morning, I knew.
I walked from room to room, running through my mental checklist, double-checking I’d taken everything I needed. It was as though I was leaving a holiday home, a place I’d always known I would leave one day. Though I’d lived here for nearly twelve years, now I could see how little space I’d taken up.
On the mantelpiece in the living room was a recent photo of Josh; his expression made it clear he hadn’t wanted his dad to photograph him. Another was of the three of us, taken at Disney World on our first holiday together when Josh was seven. I’d been with Tom for two years then. Josh was beaming at the camera in this earlier photo and I looked happy, too. Well, I was, then. I reached out to touch it. My face in the photo was unlined, free from worry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like that. A couple of days before, when Tom was in the shower, I photographed the recent photo, then zoomed in on Josh’s face in the earlier one and clicked. I planned to get copies printed as soon as I could.
I looked around for my iPad. It had been my thirty-sixth birthday a few months before and Tom had bought it as a surprise. It was a newer version than his, though, and he used it more than I did. I remembered he’d charged it up the night before; he must have taken it on the train to London with him. It didn’t matter. He could have it. My pulse quickened. None of this mattered now.
I checked that the driveway was still clear and quickly ran upstairs. The bathroom looked just as it always did; I’d left everything that we both used. My toothbrush and toiletries were gone from their cabinet. I knew he’d note their absence. The linen cupboard was still full; I’d taken some of the bed linen and towels we used in the spare room, but intended to start afresh as soon as I could.
Our bedroom looked just the same, though of course as soon as Tom opened the drawers and closets he’d see the gaps. I couldn’t take everything, but it was pretty clear that things were missing. My heart thumped at the thought of Tom searching this room later, opening doors and drawers to check what I’d taken, furious that I’d gone, that he hadn’t realized I was preparing to run. That morning I’d had only an hour or so to pack and of course I couldn’t make lists in case they were found, so for the last couple of weeks I’d been memorizing items like in a children’s memory game. I’d lie in bed each night going through the lists in my head. When I drove to work I’d test myself, saying the items out loud, frustrated when I couldn’t remember something.
On the landing outside the spare room was a plastic bag that Tom had filled for the charity shop several months earlier. It had been his birthday and I had bought him some presents. He’d hinted at these for a long time, a book on a photographer he loved, a new camera case, and a Paul Smith shirt he’d bookmarked online.
“Interesting choices,” he’d said, and set them to one side. My stomach had dropped. I should have known not to buy anything without his agreement. Permission, even.
He thanked me for the gifts, but something about his expression had made me say, “What? What is it?”