I sniff. ‘So what do I do? Wait for him to come to me?’
He shrugs. ‘I won’t tell you what to do, but if I were you I wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of something I wanted. I’d go and fight for it until it was mine or I had died trying. The journey has just begun and the destination could be a very beautiful place.’
He stands, and walks away from me toward his desk. He comes back with a box of tissues. I pull out a couple and wipe my face. Then I stand.
‘I should be going,’ I say.
‘I’ll walk you to your car.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘I want to,’ he says with a gentle smile.
I turn toward him. ‘Thank you, Jake.’
‘I’ll always be here for you. Don’t give your ear to the devil.’
To love too much is to lick honey from the point of a knife.
TWENTY-THREE
I think I was OK while I was in Jake’s house. While I was saying goodbye to Lily and Liliana. I was even OK when Jake closed the car door for me and waved me away.
It hits me when I’m on the motorway.
Suddenly my windpipe feels like it is full of concrete. I can’t breathe. I swerve into the hard shoulder. Horns blare. I screech to a stop. I feel as if I’m suffocating. I open the car door and stumble out. I lurch to the edge of the road and collapse holding my throat. I take shallow breaths.
On my hands and knees, I pant until I feel my airways open. Cars whoosh past at great speed. Somebody thinks to stop his car up ahead. A man runs toward me. I hold my hand up, the palm facing him to tell him not to come forward. He stops a few yards away.
‘Are you OK?’
I nod.
‘Do you want me to call an ambulance?’
I shake my head.
‘You sure?’
I nod and smile weakly at him.
‘Want me to wait with you?’
I shake my head again, touched by the kindness of this stranger.
He raises his hand in some kind of acknowledgment and, turning around, starts to walk away.
‘Hey,’ I call out.
He turns back.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s all right,’ he says, and with a backward wave returns to his car. I watch him drive away. I sit by the side of the road, and, with the engine of my car still running, I burst into a flood of tears. When it’s all over, I get back into my car and drive home. There, I stand in the shower and let the water wash away my pain. I wrap myself in a robe and call Anna. I tell her everything.
‘I’m coming over,’ she says. ‘Put some shot glasses in the freezer.’
‘Oh, Anna,’ I sigh, tears filling my eyes.
‘We need to get drunk. It’s been ages.’
She arrives at my doorstep with two bottles of her father’s homemade gooseberry vodka. She gets the cold glasses out of the freezer and pours us a shot each. The sweet, sharp taste is like summer in a glass.
I down another shot and put the glass on the coffee table with a thump. One bottle is rolling on the floor and this bottle is almost half empty.
Anna claps her hands excitedly. ‘I know what. You should become the coffee beans,’ she slurs.
I frown blearily. ‘The coffee beans?’
‘You know. From the story on the Internet about the grandmother, the broccoli.’ She stops, her eyes narrowed. ‘No, wait. It wasn’t broccoli. It was carrots. Yeah, that’s right, the carrots, the eggs and the coffee beans.’
‘I don’t know the story.’
She sits straighter. ‘This woman gets cheated on—’
‘That’s not my situation,’ I protest immediately.
She waves her hand airily. ‘Just wait for the end, will ya?’
‘Go on.’
‘She goes to her grandmother and asks for her advice. The grandmother puts three pots of water on the stove. Into one pot she puts broccoli.’
‘Carrots,’ I correct.
She nods sagely. ‘I was just checking to see if you were listening.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Now that we’ve established that you’re paying attention, we’ll carry on. And in the other two pots she puts the other two ingredients.’
‘Eggs and coffee beans.’
‘Exactly.’
I sigh. Even though I am so drunk, I can’t get Dom out of my head.
‘She lets all the ingredients boil for twenty minutes.’
‘Why twenty minutes?’
‘Do you want to hear this story or not?’
‘Go on,’ I say, and reach for the bottle again.
‘She takes all the ingredients out, and basically shows her granddaughter that the carrots went in strong and hard and came out soft and malleable. The eggs went in soft and came out hardened. Only the coffee beans elevated themselves to another level, released their fragrance and flavor, and changed the water. So all three objects faced the same suffering and adversity, but each reacted differently. When the situation gets hot, you have to decide which are you.’
I put the bottle down. ‘I feel like the carrots at the moment.’
‘That’s today. What will you be tomorrow and the day after?’
I drop my forehead into my palm. ‘Oh, Anna. My life is such a mess. I thought I was in such a good place—and now look at me! My world was like a bubble waiting to pop.’
‘Hey, look on the bright side. At least she’s dead.’
‘What?’ I gasp.
‘Yeah. At least she’s not around to disturb your fragile peace of mind with cruel physical comparisons.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I have a raging aversion to all my boyfriend’s exes. Like, seriously detest, abhor, and hate them. I get so jealous that I can’t stop pouring over their Facebook photos to examine their tans, their smiles, their outfits, in the hope of finding faults so that later I can subtly criticize them while in conversation with my boyfriend.’
She stops and picks at her nail polish.
‘In fact, one or two I’ve hated so much I even fantasized about breaking into their houses and stabbing them while they slept in their beds.’
‘Really?’ I ask, shocked.
‘Absolutely. It’s petty and childish, but I can’t help it. It’s like an addiction because I’m so insecure. I feel as if I’m in competition with them. I’d much rather a dead girlfriend who looks like me.’
‘No, I’d rather have an ex who’s alive. I can’t even consider pouring over her Facebook pictures to subtly criticize her because she’s been put on some kind of pedestal. I mean how do you compete against a dead woman?’ I ask garrulously.
‘God! I hate exes. Alive or dead, they’re just trouble. Talking about exes, I forgot to ask before, have you heard from your stalker?’
I shrug. ‘I think I frightened him off.’
‘No more midnight phone calls?’
‘No more,’ I mumble. The room has started to spin. ‘I need to pee and to get to bed,’ I say, and stand up unsteadily.
She stands and we use the bathroom together. Then she helps me to bed.
‘Sleep next to me,’ I tell her.
She smiles down at me. There’s a strange, pitying look on her face as she stands over me.
TWENTY-FOUR
I stand over her and a thrill runs through me.
I am in her space, her bedroom! How strange that hatred, in its intensity and viscosity, should be so similar to passion. Look at her! Sleeping the gentle sleep of angels. So beautiful. So innocent. Bitch!
I take a step closer. My shoes are soft-soled and make no sound. It is a warm night and a window is open. Gentle breezes make the curtains flutter. Otherwise, everything is perfectly still. It is dark, but my eyes are accustomed to the dark. I have embraced the dark, made it my friend, taken it and its terrible secrets into my heart.