her side of our wardrobe was empty apart from mothballs and wire coat hangers.
I felt better already.
Starting to sweat hard, I prowled the house mopping up what was left of her presence. There were all the Japanese prints from her single days. A painting she had bought on our holiday to Antigua when Pat was a baby. A pink razor on the edge of the bath. A couple of Gong Li videos. And a photograph of our wedding day with her looking like the most beautiful girl in the world and me grinning like a happy, dopey bastard who never believed he could get so lucky.
All trash now.
Finally, I looked in the laundry basket. Among Pat’s Star Wars pyjamas and my faded Calvins there was the old Gap T-shirt that Gina liked to sleep in. I sat on the bottom of the stairs holding that T-shirt for a while, wondering what she was sleeping in tonight. And then I threw it into the last rubbish sack.
It’s amazing how quickly you can remove the evidence of someone’s life from a house. It takes so long to put your mark on a home, and so little time to wipe it away.
Then I spent another few hours fishing it all out of the rubbish sacks and carefully returning the clothes, the CDs, the books, the prints and everything else to exactly where I had found them.
Because I missed her. I missed her like mad.
And I wanted all her things to be just as she had left them, all ready and waiting for her in case she ever felt like coming back home.
A bit of a panic attack in the supermarket.
Nothing serious, nothing serious. Just the sudden realisation that a man like me, whose little family had broken into tiny pieces, was daring to do his shopping at the feeding trough of the happy family. I felt like an impostor.
Being surrounded by all the grotesques of aisle eight should have made me feel better – the women with tattoos, the men with earrings, the little children dressed like adults, the adults dressed like adolescents – but they didn’t.
I was shaking and sweating at the checkout, wanting it to be over with, wanting to be out of there, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps, and by the time the semi-comatose teen on the till handed me my change while idly scratching at his nose ring, I felt on the very edge of screaming or weeping or doing both at once.
I burst out of the supermarket into the open air and just at that moment the bag containing dinner for Pat, the cat and me lost its handle, and my shopping haemorrhaged into the street.
Gina’s supermarket bags never broke. We had done our weekly shop together every Saturday for seven years, and I never once saw a carrier bag that she had loaded spring a leak. But maybe Gina didn’t buy as many microwave meals as me. They weigh a ton, those things.
Suddenly there were cat tins and ready-in-one-minute meals everywhere, under the wheels of shopping trolleys, at the feet of a young man selling the Big Issue and skittering towards the road. I was on my hands and knees picking up a box that promised, ‘A Taste Of Tuscany’ when they saw me.
‘Harry?’
It was Marty. And there was a girl with him. Siobhan.
Marty and Siobhan. Holding hands!
The shock of seeing them together cancelled out any embarrassment I felt at being caught with my shopping scattered all over the pavement. But only for a moment. Then my face started burning, burning, burning.
It had been a while since I had seen them, although not that long. I had been out for just over a month. But my producer’s mind didn’t actually think in terms of weeks and months. Five shows, I thought. They have done five shows without me.
They looked good. Even Marty, the ugly little git. They were both wearing dark glasses and white trousers. Siobhan was carrying a supermarket bag containing a French loaf and a bottle of something dry, white and expensive. There might even have been a sliver of paté in there, too. But their bag wasn’t about to break. Two confident professionals doing a little light shopping before returning to their glamorous, high-powered careers, they didn’t look like the kind of people who had to worry about stocking up on cat food.
‘Here, let me help you,’ Siobhan said, bending down to catch a can of beef and heart Whiskas as it rolled towards the gutter.
Marty had the decency to look a little ashamed, but Siobhan seemed glad to see me, if a bit surprised to find me grovelling around on the pavement picking up cans of cat food, toilet rolls and microwave dinners, rather than picking up a BAFTA.
‘So – what are you doing these days?’ she asked.
‘Oh – you know,’ I said.
Pacing up and down my living room for hours every day – ‘Like a caged tiger’, my mum reckoned – after I dropped Pat off at nursery school, worried sick about how he was doing, worried sick that he might be crying again. And waiting for Gina to phone at four o’clock sharp every afternoon – midnight on her side of the world – although I always handed the receiver straight to Pat, because I knew that he was the only reason she was calling.
And what else? Talking to myself. Drinking too much, not eating enough, wondering how my life ever got so fucked up. That’s what I’m doing these days.
‘Still considering my options,’ I said. ‘How’s the show?’
‘Better than ever,’ Marty said. A bit defiant.
‘Good,’ Siobhan said, pleased but neutral, as though she didn’t think the old show’s fate would really concern a hotshot such as myself. ‘Ratings are slightly up.’
I felt like puking.
‘That’s great,’ I smiled.
‘Well – we’d better move,’ Marty said. It wasn’t just me. A few shoppers had started to smirk and point. Was it really him?
‘Yeah, me too,’ I said. ‘Got to run. Things to do.’
Siobhan grabbed me and planted a quick kiss on my cheek. It made me wish that I had shaved today. Or yesterday. Or the day before.
‘See you around, Harry,’ Marty said.
He held out his hand. No hard feelings. I went to shake it, but he was holding a can of cat food. I took it from him.
‘See you, Marty.’
Fucking bastards.
Fucking bastards the lot of you.
* * *
The phone rang when I was in the middle of bathing Pat. I left him in the tub – he could happily stay in there for hours, he was like a little fish – and went down the hall, picking up the phone with wet hands, expecting my mum. But there was a little transcontinental blip as the connection was made and suddenly Gina was in my ear.
‘It’s me,’ she said.
I looked at my watch – it was only twenty to four. She was early today.
‘He’s in the bath.’
‘Leave him. I’ll call back at the usual time. I just thought he might be around. How is he?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Fine, fine, fine. You’re still there, are you?’
‘Yes. I’m still here.’
‘How’s it going?’
I could hear her taking a breath. Gina taking a breath on the other side of the world.
‘It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be,’ she said. ‘The economy is all screwed up. I mean, really screwed up. My company’s laying off locals, so there’s not much job security for a gaijin whose Japanese is a bit rustier than she thought. But the work’s okay. Nothing