Page 16 of You Were Always the One

‘You have to be joking,’ she says cynically. ‘And just as well. Tallie really is better off without him.’

From the start, there’s an easiness between us. She tells me about her ex and we talk some more about her illness, then about ourselves, about life, the way old friends would. It doesn’t happen often, but today, as I drive away, I’m overcome with emotion. I can all too easily put myself in Charley’s shoes; imagine how it must feel to think about her leaving her child behind. She’s too young; should have so much life left to live. And I know illness isn’t selective, but it seems so desperately unfair.

I glance up at the sky, wondering if anyone’s listening. Putting it out there, anyway.

If you’re listening, give her more time.

Back home, my mind turns to Riggs. I wonder if he and Emma are still living together, or whether she’s moved out. Divorce is hard, even when it could be the beginning of a brand-new chapter for them both. But as I know from everything that’s going on in my own life, it’s one thing when you’re on the outside, looking at other people. Far harder when you’re looking at yourself.

6

RIGGS

A couple of days pass. Then Emma comes back from Hurghada and the moment of reckoning approaches. I make us a pot of coffee and take it over to our kitchen table just as Emma comes downstairs.

‘I suppose we need to talk,’ she says.

‘I think so.’ I pause. After all, there’s no point putting this off. ‘So what do you want to do?’ I ask.

‘I gave it some thought while I was away,’ she says. ‘There are practicalities – we need to close our bank account and divide up our savings.’ She looks at me. ‘I guess your half will help you with the rent – if you’re planning to carry on living here?’

But that’s for me to sort out. ‘What about you? Do you have somewhere to go?’ I ask.

‘A friend’s,’ she says briefly. ‘We should also think about dividing up our wedding presents.’

I scratch my head. I can’t even remember who gave us what – except for one of them. ‘You can have the lot,’ I say. ‘I’d just like to keep the Murano lamp.’ It was our most unexpected, expensive wedding present from one of my oldest friends.

She looks annoyed. ‘Honestly. Why? You have zero interest in interiors, Rigby.’

‘It was my friend who gave it to us,’ I say, slightly wounded.

‘And what if you end up travelling the world again?’ she says sarcastically. ‘What’s going to happen to it then?’

‘What makes you think I’m going to do that?’ I say.

‘It’s the kind of thing you’d do.’ There’s resignation in her voice. ‘Oh, Rigby. We’re so different, aren’t we? I mean, I go out to work, while you… You live in a dreamworld, with all that stuff that goes on in your head. None of it’s real.’

‘It’s what I do. You know that.’ Her words sting. But even I have to admit that, in a sense, she’s right. But if I didn’t live in a dreamworld, I wouldn’t be able to write my books.

I stare at her. ‘It’s a good thing we don’t have a dog,’ I say. Or a child, come to that.

Emma shakes her head. ‘I can’t believe we’re fighting over a frigging table lamp.’

‘You can have it if it’s that important to you.’ I shrug. ‘Seriously. You’re right. I honestly don’t give a shit about the lamp.’ I pause. ‘While you were away, I spoke to a divorce lawyer. As we don’t own the house, it should be straightforward.’

‘Fine.’ She gets up. ‘I’ll do some more packing.’ She looks at me. ‘You’ll need to change the bills to your name.’

‘Already in hand,’ I say. ‘I’ve also spoken to our landlord about changing the tenancy agreement.’

‘You’ve been busy, haven’t you?’ She looks taken aback. ‘Well, I guess that’s everything covered then.’ Over the next couple of hours, as she packs up most of her stuff, I hang around, uncomfortable; not at all sure what to do with myself. But this has to happen, I remind myself. Otherwise, we’ll go on, just the same.

‘I’m not sure I want these.’ Coming downstairs, she drops a box of books by the front door. ‘These days, I prefer a Kindle.’

And I know how ridiculous it sounds, but it feels like the ultimate rebuff. I mean, books are my lifeblood – and she knows that. ‘You can’t mean that,’ I say. ‘Do you have any idea what’s gone into producing each one of those?’ Then I see her face. ‘If you really don’t want them, I’ll take them to one of the charity shops.’

‘Whatever. In case you’re thinking I haven’t, I’ve kept yours,’ she says unemotionally. ‘Who knows? Maybe someday they’ll be worth something.’ She goes through to the sitting room. Carefully picking up the Murano lamp, she wraps it and places it in another box.

We briefly debate plates and cutlery, Emma keeping the silverware that used to belong to her grandparents. As for me… as Emma rightly pointed out, I’m not the kind of person who rates stuff as important. To me, what matters more is people.