do the right thing. In her view, doing the right thing is staying with Mark, acting as if nothing has happened and getting on with life as normal when he returns.
But I can’t help thinking what he would do and say if the situation was reversed. I think he’d blow his top. I think there’d be a huge row. I think he’d ask me to get out of the flat and find somewhere else to live.
As I pass Selfridge’s, I think of Rhoda and her Food Hall pickup. Maybe she’s got the right idea. Rhoda would never get herself trapped in a relationship like the one I’m in. At least, I don’t think she would. Am I trapped? Is that the right word? I continue walking. I feel numb. I don’t even feel numb. I feel beyond numb.
I’m starting to think that this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
Friday 20th
As I wake up and stretch, I realise that I’m starting to get used to this getting up late routine. I don’t feel so tired during the day any more. I’ve got more mental space to think about what I’m doing with my painting, for a start. It’s as if the real me had been locked in a box for a couple of years and now it’s been allowed to breathe again.
Now I’ve finished both canvases, I’m at a bit of a loose end. I think about what I’m going to do today and nothing really comes to mind. I might have a look at a few art books. It’s always useful to see what other people have done in the past and to read about how they got there, what they were thinking, what they liked.
Mark is back tomorrow. It was a week ago that he told me about his trip to Greece. I haven’t had a postcard from him yet, but that’s not so unusual; cards from foreign holidays always arrive well after the person has been back for a few days, or even longer in some cases.
I go out and do a bit of shopping. As I wander around the supermarket aisles in a dream, I realise that I’m still buying things that Mark will eat. I go and fill the car up with petrol. It’s nearly empty and I’ve got the trip out to Heathrow and back tomorrow. I wonder if Mark will have a tan? I wonder what he and the others will have got up to? I’ll stand at the arrivals gate and watch them all appear, sparkling with that holiday buzz and all wearing different, lighter clothes. They’ll have a lot to talk about and, naturally, I’ll be out of the conversational loop. I’ll be looking in all of their eyes for signs of what? Pity? Collusion over what went on during their holiday, if anything?
Maybe Alexis was right. Maybe I should take the line of least resistance and just get on with things. Maybe we’ll have forgotten all about this in a couple of years. It’s nothing, really, is it? I’m blowing it all out of proportion.
After I’ve put all the shopping away, I make a coffee and slump down on the sofa with a book about Mark Rothko that I bought second hand on Amazon a few months ago but haven’t had time to read yet. Just as I’m flicking through the intro, my mobile sings out its text bleep. It’s from Rhoda.
Plschck emls – cant cht now – bnking.Spkltr.
I can’t think of anyone else who would send me a text to tell me they were having sex. I wonder if it’s the same guy as the one on Wednesday? Or was it Tuesday? I think it must have been Tuesday and Wednesday. Obviously a long-term relationship this time. Well, it can wait for a few minutes. Perhaps I’ve misunderstood her text and she’s actually banking. I finish my coffee, take the mug out to the kitchen and turn the computer on. My own computer takes longer to start than the one in work. While it’s busy going through its mysterious, slo-mo computer tasks, I think about what Rhoda said to me.
I would walk out of that front door right this minute and I would never return. I would never see him again. I wouldn’t even bother to pack my stuff.
I get an odd feeling of elation in the pit of my stomach when I think of that possibility. The freedom of doing just that would be intoxicating. And