Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘I do!’ You put down your tea and pushed the duvet aside, climbing across the bed to kneel next to where I stood. You were naked, and when you threw your arms around me I could feel the warmth of your breasts through my shirt. ‘I remember everything about that day: what a gentleman you were, and how much I wanted to see you again.’

‘I’ve got something for you,’ I said suddenly. I hoped it was still in the drawer of my bedside table. I felt around and found it at the back, under a packet of condoms. ‘Here.’

‘Is that what I think it is?’ You grinned, and dangled the key in the air. I realised I hadn’t thought to take off Marie’s key fob, and the silver heart spun in the light.

‘You’re here every day. You might as well have a key.’

‘Thank you. That means a lot to me.’

‘I need to go to work. Have a great time tonight.’ I kissed you.

‘No, I’ll cancel. You’ve gone to so much trouble – I’d love to go out for dinner. And now that I have this,’ you held up the key, ‘I’ll be here when you get back from work.’

My headache began to lift as I drove to work, but it didn’t go completely until I had called Le Petit Rouge and booked a table for that evening.

True to your word, you were waiting for me when I got home, in a dress that clung provocatively to your curves and exposed long tanned legs.

‘How do I look?’ You gave a twirl and stood smiling at me, one hand on your hip.

‘Lovely.’

The flatness in my voice was unmissable and you abandoned the pose. Your shoulders dropped slightly and one hand fluttered across the front of the dress.

‘Is it too tight?’

‘You look fine,’ I said. ‘What else have you got with you?’

‘It’s too tight, isn’t it? I’ve only got the jeans I was wearing yesterday, and a clean top.’

‘Perfect,’ I said, stepping forward to kiss you. ‘Legs like yours are better in trousers, and you look fantastic in those jeans. Run and get changed and we’ll go for a drink before dinner.’

I had worried that giving you a key may have been a mistake, but you seemed to find the novelty of keeping house appealing. I came home most days to the smell of freshly baked cakes, or roast chicken, and although your cooking was basic, you were learning. When what you made was unpalatable, I would leave it, and you soon tried harder. I found you reading a recipe book one day, a pen and paper by your side.

‘What’s a roux sauce?’ you said.

‘How would I know?’ It had been a difficult day, and I was tired.

You didn’t seem to notice. ‘I’m making lasagne. Properly, without jars. I’ve got all the ingredients, but it’s like the recipe is written in another language.’

I looked at the food laid out on the work surface: shiny red peppers, tomatoes, carrots, and raw minced beef. The vegetables were in the brown paper bags from the greengrocer, and even the meat looked as though it was from the butcher, not the supermarket. You must have spent all afternoon getting it ready.

I don’t know what made me spoil it for you. It was something to do with the pride on your face, or perhaps the way you seemed so comfortable, so secure. Too secure.

‘I’m not really that hungry.’

Your face fell and I felt instantly better, as though I had ripped off a plaster, or picked a troublesome scab.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Did you go to a lot of trouble?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ you said, but it was clear you were offended. You closed the book. ‘I’ll make it another time.’ I hoped you weren’t going to spend the evening sulking, but you seemed to shake it off and opened a bottle of the cheap wine you liked. I poured myself a finger of whisky and sat down opposite you.

‘I can’t believe I graduate next month,’ you said. ‘It’s gone so fast.’

‘Have you had any more thoughts about what you’ll do?’

You wrinkled your nose. ‘Not really. I’ll take the summer off, maybe do some travelling.’

It was the first I had heard of any desire to go travelling and I wondered who had put the idea in your head; who you were planning to go with.

‘We could go to Italy,’ I said. ‘I’d love to take you to Venice. You’d love the architecture, and there are some incredible art galleries.’

‘That would be amazing. Sarah and Izzy are going to India for a month, so I might join them for a couple of weeks, or maybe do some Inter-railing around Europe.’ You laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I want to do everything, that’s the problem!’

‘Maybe you should wait a while.’ I swirled the rest of my whisky around my glass. ‘After all, everyone will be off travelling during the summer, then you’ll all be coming back and hitting the job market at the same time. Maybe you should get ahead of the others while they’re gallivanting around the world.’

‘Maybe.’

I could tell you weren’t convinced.

‘I’ve been thinking about when you leave uni, and I think you should move in here properly.’

You raised an eyebrow, as though there might be a catch.

‘It makes sense: you’re practically living here anyway, and you’ll never be able to afford a place of your own with the sort of job you’re looking at getting, so you’ll end up with some grotty flat-share.’

‘I was going to move back home for a bit,’ you said.

‘I’m surprised you want anything more to do with your mother, after she stopped you from seeing your dad.’

‘She’s okay,’ you said, but you were a little less certain now.

‘We’re good together,’ I said. ‘Why change that? Your mum lives over an hour away – we’d hardly see each other. Don’t you want to be with me?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘You could move in here and you wouldn’t have to worry about money at all. I’d take care of the bills and you could concentrate on getting your portfolio together and selling your sculptures.’

‘But that wouldn’t be fair on you – I’d have to contribute something.’

‘You could do a bit of cooking, I suppose, and help keep the house tidy, but really you wouldn’t have to. It would be enough just to wake up with you every morning, and have you here when I get home from work.’

A smile spread across your face. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.’

You moved in on the last day of term, stripping your walls of posters and packing up your belongings into a car you borrowed from Sarah.

‘I’ll get the rest of my stuff from Mum next weekend,’ you said. ‘Hang on, there’s one more thing in the car. It’s a sort of surprise for you. For us.’

You ran out of the door and opened the passenger door of the car, where a cardboard box rested in the footwell. You carried it so carefully back to the house that I assumed it must be something breakable, but when you handed it to me it was far too light to be china or glass.

‘Open it.’ You were almost bursting with excitement.

I lifted the cardboard flap on top of the box and a tiny bundle of fluff looked up at me. ‘It’s a cat.’ I said flatly. I had never understood the appeal of animals, particularly domestic dogs and cats, who leave hair everywhere and demand walks and affection and company.

‘It’s a kitten!’ you said. ‘Isn’t he the most gorgeous thing?’ You scooped it up from inside the box and held it to your chest. ‘Eve’s cat had surprise kittens, and she’s farmed them all out now, but she kept this one for me. He’s called Gizmo.’

‘Did it not occur to you to ask me before bringing a kitten into my house?’ I didn’t bother tempering my tone, and you began crying instantly. It was such a pathetic, obvious tactic that I became even angrier. ‘Haven’t you seen any of those adverts about thinking things through before getting a pet? It’s no wonder so many animals are abandoned – it’s people like you making impulsive decisions!’