Rebecca
WHEN I TOLD THE removal men that this was the last time I would ever move, the foreman laughed.
‘That’s what everyone says, madam, but it’s hardly ever the case, is it now?’ He sipped his tea as he leant against the kitchen workbench. ‘Family break-ups are what earn us most of our money these days. Like in your case, if you don’t mind me saying, madam. I saw from our records that we moved you into your current property five years ago more or less to the day. And here we are, moving you out. I expect we will be moving Mr Townsend somewhere else in the near future too. It’s a big place just for one.’
I stood looking out of my brand-new window; of course the window itself was not new but it, like the flat and the view, was new to me. A barge moved downstream, seemingly deserted with just a few crates on deck and no human being in sight. The day had been overcast and it was beginning to rain. A white plastic sheet had been blown into the branches of a tree, where it flapped like a trashed bridal veil. Dusk was falling. I didn’t like dusk, that no-man’s-land between day’s slick brightness and the dark shield of night. I imagined myself standing by this same window as the seasons changed and I changed with them, lined and greying, increasingly stooped, until one day I was carried out in my coffin.
‘All right, madam?’ The foreman appeared in the doorway.
I said to him, ‘This really is the last time I move.’ And, before he had a chance to give me his knowing smile, I added, ‘Remember I’m moving in here on my own. You can’t break up what isn’t there.’
‘Oh you won’t be on your own for long, madam.’
He meant it as compliment, a comfort and an encouragement, but he needn’t have worried. Alone in my flat, my own flat bought by me, for me, with my own money, gazing out of the window at the view, a view that would soon be as familiar to me as my own face in the mirror, and listening to the sounds of the passing traffic, a sound that would soon be so familiar I would hear it no more unless an exception occurred, a crash or a faulty exhaust. I felt at peace for the first time in a long while.
‘Books in here, madam?’ The foreman pointed to the sitting room. I went to join him. ‘I couldn’t help noticing when we packed up your old place that your name was on a lot of them books.’
I nodded. As usual in these circumstances I could feel the slight modest smile on my face. This was rather annoying, I know; after all, you didn’t find lawyers or bankers or even firemen and doctors looking bashful and pleased when asked about their chosen careers, so why did I feel the need to acknowledge the fact that I wrote books in the manner of someone accepting an award?
‘So what are they about then, your books?’
‘Oh about life and people and love.’
‘Romances then.’
‘Romantic fiction,’ I said.
‘Oh yeah. Is there a difference then?’
‘I moved another lady who wrote romances last year. You two might know each other: Sally Kendall, her name was. Then again maybe she wrote under another name.’
I shook my head.
‘I don’t know her, I’m afraid.’
‘She’s written hundreds of books. All love stories. She was a lady on her own just like you; funny that, when you think about it.’
I had bought a new bed but I still kept to my side. The first night my ex-husband and I shared a bed he asked to sleep on the right-hand side; he said that way his sword arm was free. I remember thinking that would have to depend on whether Tim slept on his back or his side and then on which side but I hadn’t argued because it had been a nice idea. Since then, throughout my marriage, after its break-up and during my five years with Dominic, I had remained sleeping on the left-hand side. Maybe only when I woke up one morning sprawled across the middle of a king-sized bed would I be truly a free woman.