own? Is that what you really want?
It’s not too late, Stella. If you don’t want to be married, fine. I wish you’d said something earlier – do you have any idea how embarrassing it was, standing there like a lemon waiting for you to follow me in? And when your dad walked in and said what he said ... I didn’t believe him. I thought it was a joke.
Anyway, like I said, it’s not too late. We can sort something out, salvage something. Can’t we? I mean, it’s not like we haven’t been through our fair share of troubles. It was hard enough just getting together in the first place! You know how much I love you, you’ve always known that deep down. Surely you can’t just walk away and carry on with your life? I phoned Lipsy this morning and she said you were at work, and when I asked when you’d be home she said you’d moved out! She said you were working back at Twilight – I’m wondering if you ever did really leave at all. And a new place to live? Are you really on your own, I wonder? Is that what this is all about? Please tell me it’s not that.
Lipsy said not to phone her again, but I’m not going to apologise for getting angry. It’s always the same with you, isn’t it, Stella? You just breeze through life doing exactly as you like, being a complete flake and messing things up – the fire last year? Who in their right mind lets their house insurance lapse? – and then for some crazy reason everyone sticks by you, stands up for you, tries to protect you. Well, you don’t need protecting from me. Lipsy spoke to me like I was the one in the wrong, like I’d hurt you in some way. Is it because of all that baby business? It was the last thing you said to me, and I’ve been going over and over it, but it can’t be that because you are thirty-eight years old – you are too old to have any more children, Stella. We are too old. It wouldn’t be fair on the baby. Tell me how having parents old enough to be grandparents could be good for a baby? And I don’t believe you were serious. I truly believe that if you were just honest with yourself for five minutes you’d see that the idea of you having another baby at your age is just another of your wild, crazy ideas.
I won’t write to you again, Stella. I’ll wait to hear from you, and then we can start to sort this mess out. But I’m not going to have another stupid conversation about babies, OK? If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll know, won’t I?
Never forget how much I love you. But life is for living, Stella, and if you don’t want to live your life with me the way we’d planned, then there’s nothing more I can do.
Love always, Paul
*
Déjà vu. What does it remind me of, this place? The bedsit I had during my brief time as a student? The grotty studio flat in the YMCA where I lost my virginity in a cider-induced haze? It’s not until I wake up on Saturday morning – my second Saturday as a jilter and my second full day in my new home – that it hits me. This place reminds me of my own house last year. After the fire, but before the vast renovation project I carried out with my own two hands. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not living in a burnt-out hovel or anything; 4B Turnmill Street is not as bad as some of the places I might have ended up. But it does have that same air of disrepair and neglect, a kind of shrinking away the moment you put your key in the door, as though the very fabric of the building is ashamed of what it’s become.
Which might be why it was the only bedsit available at short notice. The only one within my budget, anyway. I get the feeling it’s been empty for some time.
Stephan, who lives downstairs in 4A, calls the building Termite Towers. Really, that should tell you everything you need to know about the place.
But I’m determined to make the best of it. Today is an eight-till-eight shift at Twilight, and I’ve got a birthday cake in my bag for Rosa, who is eighty-something today. She won’t tell
It’s not too late, Stella. If you don’t want to be married, fine. I wish you’d said something earlier – do you have any idea how embarrassing it was, standing there like a lemon waiting for you to follow me in? And when your dad walked in and said what he said ... I didn’t believe him. I thought it was a joke.
Anyway, like I said, it’s not too late. We can sort something out, salvage something. Can’t we? I mean, it’s not like we haven’t been through our fair share of troubles. It was hard enough just getting together in the first place! You know how much I love you, you’ve always known that deep down. Surely you can’t just walk away and carry on with your life? I phoned Lipsy this morning and she said you were at work, and when I asked when you’d be home she said you’d moved out! She said you were working back at Twilight – I’m wondering if you ever did really leave at all. And a new place to live? Are you really on your own, I wonder? Is that what this is all about? Please tell me it’s not that.
Lipsy said not to phone her again, but I’m not going to apologise for getting angry. It’s always the same with you, isn’t it, Stella? You just breeze through life doing exactly as you like, being a complete flake and messing things up – the fire last year? Who in their right mind lets their house insurance lapse? – and then for some crazy reason everyone sticks by you, stands up for you, tries to protect you. Well, you don’t need protecting from me. Lipsy spoke to me like I was the one in the wrong, like I’d hurt you in some way. Is it because of all that baby business? It was the last thing you said to me, and I’ve been going over and over it, but it can’t be that because you are thirty-eight years old – you are too old to have any more children, Stella. We are too old. It wouldn’t be fair on the baby. Tell me how having parents old enough to be grandparents could be good for a baby? And I don’t believe you were serious. I truly believe that if you were just honest with yourself for five minutes you’d see that the idea of you having another baby at your age is just another of your wild, crazy ideas.
I won’t write to you again, Stella. I’ll wait to hear from you, and then we can start to sort this mess out. But I’m not going to have another stupid conversation about babies, OK? If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll know, won’t I?
Never forget how much I love you. But life is for living, Stella, and if you don’t want to live your life with me the way we’d planned, then there’s nothing more I can do.
Love always, Paul
*
Déjà vu. What does it remind me of, this place? The bedsit I had during my brief time as a student? The grotty studio flat in the YMCA where I lost my virginity in a cider-induced haze? It’s not until I wake up on Saturday morning – my second Saturday as a jilter and my second full day in my new home – that it hits me. This place reminds me of my own house last year. After the fire, but before the vast renovation project I carried out with my own two hands. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not living in a burnt-out hovel or anything; 4B Turnmill Street is not as bad as some of the places I might have ended up. But it does have that same air of disrepair and neglect, a kind of shrinking away the moment you put your key in the door, as though the very fabric of the building is ashamed of what it’s become.
Which might be why it was the only bedsit available at short notice. The only one within my budget, anyway. I get the feeling it’s been empty for some time.
Stephan, who lives downstairs in 4A, calls the building Termite Towers. Really, that should tell you everything you need to know about the place.
But I’m determined to make the best of it. Today is an eight-till-eight shift at Twilight, and I’ve got a birthday cake in my bag for Rosa, who is eighty-something today. She won’t tell
Similar Books
