of all those hours of stillness and quiet and time to think, the bottom seems to drop out of my stomach. I need a purpose, a project, something. If I don’t keep moving those waters will close over my head, and the very thought of that makes my skin prickle with panic.
*
I check the time on my phone. Ethan’s over an hour and a half late – he probably got cornered by a partner as he was leaving work. I’ve been cleaning the flat all afternoon, and finished up in time for his arrival, but now an extra two hours have passed, during which I’ve been pulling out furniture and dusting chair legs and doing the sort of excessive cleaning that gets you a spot on a Channel Four documentary.
When I finally hear his key in the door I wriggle my way out from underneath the sofa and brush down my gigantic cleaning-day sweatshirt. It’s a Buffy one: the front is a big picture of her face, doing her best kick-ass expression. (Most of my clothes that aren’t suits are gigantic nerdy jumpers. I may not have much time to indulge in cult telly shows these days, but I can still show my loyalties – and frankly it’s the only kind of fashion I consider worth spending money on.)
Ethan does a dramatic gasp as he enters the room, spinning on his heels at the transformation. It does look great. We keep the place fairly tidy anyway, but now it’s sparkling.
‘I should’ve known you couldn’t even manage one day off without some sort of frenzied activity,’ Ethan says, swooping in to kiss me. He smells of rich, citrussy cologne and his nose is cold from the chilly March rain. ‘The place looks great. Fancy doing mine next?’
I swat him on the arm and he laughs, tossing his dark hair back from his forehead with his trademark lopsided flick. He bends down and kisses me again, and I feel a flash of envy as I sense how buzzed he is from work. I miss that feeling.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, moving away and heading for the kitchen. ‘Li took me aside to talk through the R and D numbers for the Webster review and you know what he’s like, can’t take a hint for love nor money. How are you holding up, angel?’ he calls over his shoulder.
My stomach twists. How are you holding up, angel? Ethan used to say that to me on the phone each night, when Carla was barely holding on; he’d say it on my doorstep, turning up just when I needed him, with a bottle of wine and a hug; he said it as I wobbled my way to the front at Carla’s funeral, gripping his hand so tightly it must have hurt. I couldn’t have got through it all without him. I’m not sure how you can ever be grateful enough for someone leading you through the darkest time in your life.
‘I’m … OK,’ I say.
Ethan comes back in, his socked feet looking a little incongruous with his business suit. ‘I think this is a good thing,’ he says, ‘the time off.’
‘You do?’ I ask, sinking down on the sofa. He settles in beside me, pulling my legs over his.
‘Absolutely. And you can keep your hand in anyway – you’re always welcome to chip in on my projects, you know that, and I can drop in with Rebecca how much you’re helping me out, so she knows you’re not losing your edge while you’re away.’
I sit up a little straighter. ‘Really?’
‘Of course.’ He kisses me. ‘You know I’ve got your back.’
I shift so I can look at him properly: his fine, expressive mouth, that silky dark hair, the little string of freckles above his high cheekbones. He’s so beautiful, and he’s here, right now, when I need him most. I am beyond lucky to have found this man.
He leans to the side to grab his laptop bag, slung down by the sofa arm. ‘Want to run through tomorrow’s slide deck with me? For the Webster review?’
I hesitate, but he’s already flicking the laptop open, settling it across my legs, and so I lean back and listen as he starts talking, and I realise he’s right – this is helping. Like this, with Ethan, hearing his soft, low voice talk revenue and projections, I almost feel like myself.
4
Eileen
Things are rather a rush on Friday afternoon – Dec left mouse entrails on the doormat. It was a kind