Well, only two options I’d be happy with. Either the earring belongs to one of Sophia’s friends, or it was dropped by a member of staff at the valet parking when Nathan left his car at the airport. It’s a tad far-fetched, but it’s possible.
I watch the clock on my bedside table change to 22.46 and tut in frustration before turning over, hoping that not being able to see the ticking of time will aid sleep. I force myself to think of something else and focus on the team meeting earlier in the day. It had gone well, from what I could tell. They all seemed fully committed to Japan, should we get the job, and were genuinely excited about the opportunities it might bring.
My mind goes to Lottie, and how she had reacted to the news that she’d be going to Japan. Nathan had embraced her awkwardly, as if she were a friend’s teenage daughter. A man on guard, worried about what is deemed appropriate and what’s not. Up until now, that’s how I’ve viewed Lottie; a young friend of the family, an eager-to-please apprentice whom I’ve enjoyed mentoring. But now, as I lie here, picturing her body pressed up against Nathan’s, I’m reminded that she is a twenty-two-year-old woman with the type of frame I’ve always envied; petite and narrow across the shoulders, her blouse seams sitting perfectly on her lean torso, with no real distinction between her waist and hips. A neat little package that makes me feel like a cumbersome giant.
Stop, I remonstrate with myself. I think the world of Lottie, and anyway, that’s just not my style. But then I remember the look she gave Nathan, the look he gave her – as if they shared a secret.
I scream into my pillow in exasperation. How has my brain turned something I know to be totally innocent into a guilt-riddled love pact, just because I’ve found an earring in my husband’s car? This is ridiculous – what’s the point in lying here in the dark, with every scenario tearing around my brain, growing more and more exaggerated with every passing minute?
I turn on the bedside lamp and feel for the earring in my drawer, bringing it up to the light to examine it even more closely than I already have. Who would wear something like this? It isn’t real, I’m sure of that, so it must have been worn as dress jewellery. A little glimpse of bling to brighten up a dull outfit, perhaps? Or the pièce de résistance with a simple evening gown, elegant and understated? I picture two very different women, from either end of the social spectrum. This isn’t helping. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and go to pick up my dressing gown from the chair beside me. Perhaps a cup of tea is what’s needed.
I find myself wondering, as I wait for the kettle to boil, if there is a tablet that can temporarily rid the brain of its thoughts. Not the cherished memories or excited optimism for the future, but the toxic type, the ones that poison our minds and turn us into temperamental, untrusting versions of ourselves. But then I remember I’m already taking that very medicine – the two tiny pills that I pop every night, just before bed, are designed to take the sharp edges off my thoughts and feelings, protect me from the darkness. So why aren’t they working now?
I used to rely on them to get me through the day, so that I could wake up every morning without that weight on my chest, pinning me down on the bed. Over the years, what felt like a boulder had gradually been replaced by a rock, and the rock eventually felt more like a stone. It had been a great cause for celebration when I declared myself free of medical intervention eighteen months ago.
It had been liberating to be free of the blurry haze I’d been living in, after years of feeling lethargic with a brain full of cotton wool. Because that’s what it was like on antidepressants; I may not have felt the lows, but my nerve endings were so dulled that I didn’t experience the highs either – I’d just existed in the middle of a long road, with no colour either side, just grey all around.
‘I remember a time when you couldn’t have done this,’ Nathan had whispered to me at a party a few weeks back. ‘I can’t