She lay heavily on the sofa watching the rain through uncurtained windows. She was filled with doubt, and her doubts increased with every sullen tick of the clock, because he was over an hour late by now, and she had a nagging suspicion that it would always be like this.
In the last few days, it had occurred to her more than once that going back was still an option, and she was working up quite an appetite for humble pie. In lucid moments, she knew that what she had done was completely stupid, and she could not understand what madness had prompted her to leave a perfectly happy marriage, for this.
If she was honest with herself for just a moment, she would admit that this was not how she wanted to live. And she should have guessed how unreliable he was, although she did not know him well enough to realise how argumentative he was, and how much he drank. In fact, that was the whole problem: she did not know him well enough. And she did not like him well enough to continue sitting there, feeling miserable, just out of a feeling that she had made an irreversible decision. Why should it be irreversible?
She pushed back the blanket that she was tangled up in, and switched on the light, which suddenly revealed the bareness of the flat’s sitting room with unapologetic clarity. She could come back for her belongings later, not that there were many of them here. For a moment she considered leaving a note, but she had no idea what it would say; instead she slipped out of the flat and down the stairs, quickly, before she could change her mind.
Martin looked haggard, and his expression immediately became unfriendly when he saw her. Her throat was dry, her mind blank, so she stood wordlessly on the step, hoping that he would take the initiative.
He did. What do you want?
That was a good question. She wanted to undo everything, wind the clock back by six months and not screw up her marriage and not hurt this perfectly nice man and alienate her entire family and all her friends. She wanted to live their pleasant, mapped-out lifestyle, in their comfortable home, with all her things around her. She wanted not to feel like she was the biggest bitch on earth, and she wanted not to be constantly trying and failing to justify her behaviour to herself.
I want to come home.
His expression said that he did not feel like making this easy for her, but he stepped aside, inviting her in. They sat coldly at opposite ends of the long sofa, silent. She stared at the floor.
“I’m sorry” sounds very inadequate. Her voice sounded pathetically small.
He nodded, unhelpfully, and they sat in further silence, while she struggled to guess what she could say next, to move things along. The back of her neck was prickly with discomfort. She noticed that he had taken down their wedding photograph, and that the room was grim with dust.
It seemed hopeless. You’re right, I shouldn’t have come, she said, standing up and reaching for her bag; but he stopped her before she reached the door.
He held her by both elbows, looking down into her face, shaking his head. What makes you think I would want you back, now? How would I ever trust you again?
I don’t know. Despite the tension, she felt more comfortable this close to Martin than she had felt at any time in the last few weeks. The feeling that it would be worth the initial unpleasantness grew stronger.
Unexpectedly, he released her elbows and pulled her close to him so that her face was pressed into the wool of his untidy jumper, scratching her skin; and she could feel him sob into her hair. He held her, too-tight, so that she could only breathe out, washing both of them in waves of relief. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, she murmured over and over again, and he kept on holding her as though he would never let her go.