So, he came to stay in my flat (honestly, it’s been like Piccadilly Circus of late). He was due to fly somewhere. He said he couldn’t stay in his London home, as some of his giant children were there. I joked that perhaps he was off to Switzerland, but he didn’t laugh. He looked awful, really grey around the edges, and even in the middle.
He went to bed, I went to work. One day, he returned with some shopping (a Sainsbury’s chocolate cake, when he should have bought proper cake from Konditor & Cook), and I noticed a slim bottle of gin that he slipped from orange bag to woolly. I said nothing.
Anyway, I became desperate to get home to the Dales to be with the animals, especially since I’d seen there was such thick snow. He hadn’t asked me once what my plans were, so I felt a bit cross. On Sunday, at midday, he emerged, so I put on my biker boots. I was hopping around, desperate to leave when, normally, with him, I can’t bear not to stay. I cling on, like Squeaky used to when I wanted to wash the duvet cover.
‘Can I give you some instructions?’ I said primly, as he went to smoke a cigarette on the balcony. ‘I’ve ordered you a car tomorrow. It’s all paid for, and it will pick you up at 10am.’
‘Have you got an alarm clock?’
‘No, but I’ll set your phone and I’ll call you at 8am.’
He didn’t say thank you. So I left, and drove in the snow, thwarted by the fact they had shut the M1, which confused the satnav lady. The next day, I rang him at 8am. No reply. I rang again. Nothing. At 8.15, he picked up. ‘Whaaaa?’
‘Are you awake?’ I said, sounding just like his mummy.
‘Yeah, I’m fine, I’ve packed.’
‘OK, well the car will be there at 10am.’
I walked the dogs, keeping Mini P on a lead because of all the day-old lambs frolicking in the deep snow. At 10.15, my phone rang. ‘It eeze mini cab driver. There is no one ’ome.’
‘Yes, there is. Please don’t go. I’ll call him.’ I called him. ‘The driver has been pressing the buzzer – why aren’t you downstairs in your hat and coat?’
‘I don’t own a hat. I had the TV on.’
At 10.30am, I got a text. ‘If you don’t confirm you still need a car, we will cancel the booking.’ I called the driver. ‘No, seriously, he’s there. Go up and hammer on the door.’
He got in the lift, although he sounded doubtful at first, thinking I must have an imaginary boyfriend, and then I could hear him hammering on the door. Bang! Bang! Bang! Finally,
at 10.40am, the door opened. ‘Is he OK?’ I said to my new confidant, whose name I discovered was Muhammad.
‘’E looks very ti-rrred,’ he said.
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And that was it. I heard nothing more, other than an email to tell me that 45 minutes’ waiting time had been taken off my debit card. I hate waste and unnecessary cost. Nowadays, if I have an oily bath, I make the Bamford rose unguent last for 20 washes, not ten. I was reminded of airport journeys from hell with my hard-to-shift husband. He would keep me waiting outside in the car for ages, which meant we had to emergency park in the Short Stay car park rather than the Long Stay. I wouldn’t have minded so much, as I hate waiting at bus stops for minivans, if he’d ever picked up the bill.
The next day, my cleaner went to the flat. She called me. I half-expected her to say he was still there, slumped in the bed, having swallowed his own vomit, wanting to experience a rock ’n’ roll death fully. ‘Lizzie,’ she said. ‘It’s like a bomb’s ’it it! I’ve never seen it like this before! You always leave it so tidy!’
‘Is anyone still there?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I’m taking the duvet and pillows to the laundry as they’ve got tea stains on them.’
Oh God. I don’t allow tea drinking in bed. I don’t believe in walking around with hot liquids, either; I always made my husband drink half a mug of tea, not a whole one, in case of waves. I know I fake-tanned his loo, but this is going too far.