‘Which way?’ asked Jimmy.
‘How should I know?’ I snapped back.
He walked back to me then, kinder and more patient than I probably deserved.
‘I know this is hard, Rachel. I really do. But we knew you’d have to face something like this. Don’t give up on it all just yet.’
He was right, of course he was. But I had so wanted this all not to be true.
My key opened the door to the flat: of course it did. We wandered through the rooms, like prospective buyers, not really knowing where we were going. When I opened what I thought was the door to the bedroom and ended up walking into the airing cupboard, we thankfully both found our temporarily lost sense of humour. In the airing cupboard… Isn’t that always the last place you look for it?
I felt a little like a burglar, rummaging through drawers and closets looking for something of value. I recognised very little, but then every so often I would stumble across an item of clothing, or a piece of jewellery, and my pulse would quicken when I recognised it as one of mine. The passport and tax papers all neatly filed in a metal storage box only served to hammer home even more evidential nails in the coffin. I definitely lived here.
And that would have been far from a tragedy to accept in any other set of circumstances; for the flat was extremely nice, very tastefully decorated and about four times the size of my home above the launderette. Even so, my accommodation upgrade gave me no pleasure at all. If this was my home – and how could I refute it when surrounded by such unshakeable evidence – then what possible grounds did that leave me for continuing to insist that this life was not mine?
While I was ransacking the bedroom, Jimmy had made his way to the kitchen, coming out a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of coffee.
‘Black, I’m afraid,’ he apologised, handing me one of the mugs. ‘You’re out of milk. Actually you’re pretty much out of everything; the cupboards are quite bare. I’m guessing you must eat out a lot.’
That sounded logical and it would certainly fit the lifestyle I imagined Matt would have.
Holding onto the mug very carefully, I lowered myself onto a cream leather sofa. I cautiously shifted my weight, anxious not to spill any hot drink on the expensive-looking surface. I was an extremely nervous visitor in my own home.
‘How can I afford all of this?’ it suddenly occurred to me to ask. ‘I know what London prices are like. This place must cost a bomb, surely my new job doesn’t pay that well.’
Jimmy’s eyes darkened for a moment and he looked away from my questioning face before replying.
‘I believe Matt’s family own this flat. Own several, I think, in this building. I guess you get it at a reduced rent, being almost one of the family.’
Ridiculously I felt myself blushing with embarrassment, although I wasn’t exactly sure why. It wasn’t as if I’d done anything to be ashamed of.
‘Oh,’ was my only response. For a journalist, I clearly wasn’t all that articulate.
We finished our inspection of the flat together. And though I kept on looking for evidence that this was not my home, all the clues around me screamed out in contradiction. And if the pile of bills and junk mail in my name weren’t conclusive enough proof, there was a single silver-framed photograph on a small coffee table that seemed pretty indisputable.
Jimmy came up behind me, leaning with his chin upon my shoulder to see what I was staring at so intently in my hands. The image looking back at me from behind the glass was of Matt and me by the Eiffel Tower. He was standing behind me, much in the same way as Jimmy was at that precise moment. Matt and I were both laughing into the camera, and although the day must have been cold, for we were bundled up warmly with coats and scarves, there was such a feeling of warmth exuding from our photographed images that I felt temporarily winded by a kick of shock.
We both looked so happy and carefree and so… so in love. I realised for the first time that what with everything that had happened since I’d returned to Great Bishopsford, I’d been so busy trying to unearth the past that I’d somehow managed to bury all feelings for Matt in the displaced topsoil.
‘I believe that was where he proposed to you.’ Jimmy’s words were devoid of any betraying emotion.
I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off the photo, and a moment later I felt Jimmy step purposefully away from me.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Paris,’ I said reflectively.
Jimmy didn’t reply, just bent down to take our empty cups back to the kitchen, so I don’t know if he heard me finish saying in a quiet emphatic voice: ‘… but I’ve never been there.’