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Finally, there was some urgency. And now this.
Tom reached over and took Esme’s hand, which was shaking
lightly.
‘You okay?’
‘I’m scared, Tom,’ she said quietly. ‘Really scared.’
‘I know. I’m here. We’ll do this together. All of it. Like I said.’
She grasped his hand with both of hers.
‘You’re not in this alone, Es.’
Esme looked down at her feet. She took a deep breath and the
door opened again. The same nurse as before held it open for a
shocked-looking young Asian couple; the man placed his hand on
his partner’s back. In her hand was a small stack of hospital notes.
Something was wrong, Tom knew.
‘Esme,’ the nurse said.
She got up and went ahead. Tom followed and said ‘hello’ to
the nurse, but she ignored him. Esme was led behind a curtain and
introduced to the sonographer, Sue, who would be conducting the
scan. He, meanwhile, found a seat in the corner of the room, and
sat there with their coats and her bags.
‘Now, love,’ the nurse began, a comforting northern edge to her
voice that Tom hadn’t noticed before. ‘You’ve got what we call a
non-viable pregnancy. Now this means—’
‘I know what it means,’ Esme said bluntly. ‘Sorry. I’ve been read-
ing up on it.’
‘Okay. And you know what the treatment is at this stage?’
‘No,’ she said, her voice a little shaky now.
‘Well, at this early stage, we’ll be looking to see if the egg dissolves by itself. If it doesn’t, then a doctor will discuss the options with you.’
The nurse went on to matter-of-factly tell Esme what to watch
out for, and what to do in these circumstances or that, before giving
her a leaflet about explaining what had happened and what she
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should do next. They were both ushered out of the door where another couple was waiting.
Tom led Esme down the corridor and away from the unit, trying
his best to obscure her view of pregnant mothers where possible.
Moments later they were out of the hospital and into the cold
January sunshine.
‘Are you—’
‘I’d like a drink, please.’
Tom checked his watch. It was a quarter to eleven; unlikely that
any of the pubs around here would be open and serving.
‘Es, it’s not even elev—’
‘I don’t care, Tom. Just find me a drink,’ she snapped. ‘You of all
people should be able to do that.’
He took the hit without a word. Now wasn’t the time. He
reminded himself that this wasn’t about him. Indeed, he couldn’t
make it about him, no matter what else was going on privately in
his life.
Instead, Tom took out his phone and quickly searched for the
crap pub he knew nearby. If any was likely to throw open its doors
mid-morning, it would be The George.
‘Okay. I know somewhere,’ he said, taking her arm, leading her up
the hill away from the hospital, to where Pond Street met Haverstock
Hill. As he did, he became aware that she had started crying. Tom
pulled her towards him as a bus stopped next to them with a hiss.
‘It’s alright,’ he said, quietly.
Ten minutes later, they were on two sofas beneath a fifty-two-inch
television showing Sky Sports news. Over at the bar was a drunk
on his first of the day. The fruit and quiz machines flickered and
bleeped in the corner. The barmaid, setting up for the day, turned
on a radio station that was playing ‘There She Goes’ by The La’s. In
front of Esme was a hot chocolate with a dash of rum in it. In front
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of Tom, the straight version. Part of him was envious of her drink.
He tried to suppress it.
Esme took a sip and leant back in her chair. She fixed Tom with
a look of love, exasperation and sadness.
‘You alright?’ he said, to which she nodded. Even though she
wasn’t. Tom meanwhile was asking himself where this left them, and
where it left him, knowing that something else was eating at him,
day after day.
But, again, he said nothing.
The barmaid finished taking chairs off the tables where they were
stacked overnight, and turned the sign on the door to ‘Open’.
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PART 4
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
8 – 9 pm
THE NIGHT BEFORE OUR
10TH ANNIVERSARY
June 2017 – West Hampstead, London
Tom read the rules over again.
Welcome to Our Life in a Day. A new game devised by Esme
Simon, for Tom Murray, to celebrate our ten years together.
Each Post-It note represents an hour. You have to think of
twenty-four of the most significant moments of our life together.
One for each hour of the day.
There is only one rule: the moment had to have taken place roughly during the hour shown on the note. For example:
3–4 a.m. When Esme had to pick me up from Milton Keynes
station because I’m an idiot and fell asleep on a train (March
2011, if you remember?).
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The game is only complete when you have a moment for every note. At which point you will receive your prize . . .
Have fun! Love you, Es xxxx
He looked up at Esme, her face lit by the candle between them and
a broad, satisfied smile. He hesitated for a moment. Then looked
back down at the Post-Its.
The twenty-four most significant moments of their relationship.
Not the best moments, she had been careful to write in her rules.
The most significant. Which meant . . . well . . .
Looking at her, Tom found himself questioning for the first time
if she did in fact know. If she had known all along – ever since it
happened. Maybe someone had been in touch or she’d met them in
the street. Maybe this was her way of twisting his arm behind his
back and forcing him to talk, whether he wanted to or not. Instead
of confronting him directly, she was going to help him bring about
his own downfall.
Tom glanced at the deck again, and then back up at Esme.
‘Ready?’ she said.
Tom said nothing.
‘Tom?’ Esme said, re-prompting him.
‘Hang on.’
‘If you need me to explain—’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Sorry, no. I’m not ready. What is this?’
‘I told you. It’s a game. You write down the twenty-four—’
‘I know what you said,’ he snapped. ‘I mean this evening. First it’s
a little dinner before we go away. Then you’re all dressed up and there are presents and some stupid little game. Now I have to remember
every fucking thing that ever happened to us. It’s ridiculous. It’s like I’m being set up or something.’
‘Set up?’
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‘Yes, set up, Esme. What are you trying to get me to do? Open up to you?’
‘I never thought—’
‘So why put me on the spot?’
Stunned, Esme said nothing. She just sat there opposite him,
staring with the kind of hurt on her face he had only ever seen once
before: early one morning a couple of years ago, when her mum
called to tell her that Tamas had passed away while they were driving
up to see him. Gradually, her eyes began to fill with tears, creating
rivulets down her face, cutting lines through her foundation.
‘A stupid little game,’ she repeated, quietly. And immediately Tom knew that this would be the end of their evening, that no apology
would rescue it.
He was wrong. She didn’t know any of it. She had no idea what
he had done earlier that year and all the things he was suppressing
in himself and keeping from her. Our Life in a Day was bit of fun
to bring some light to an otherwise difficult period of their lives. He could see that now. But knowing it didn’t make him feel any better.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘I’m trying, Tom.’
‘Es.’
‘I really am. After everything it’s amazing I even want to celebrate.
Ten years, and what have we got?’ Esme motioned around her, bat-
tling back tears in a way he had seen her do many times before, when
she didn’t want to openly show that someone had bothered her. ‘A
little flat in West Hampstead and a fucking cat.’
Tom didn’t try to contradict her. He didn’t bother to convince
her of their good fortune to even have each other. Nor did he men-
tion how lucky they were to have the kind of relationship everyone
around them had once been envious of.
‘So what, you agree then? Ten years and we’ve got nothing.’
‘No, Es—’
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‘That game was a bit of fun. That’s all. Just a reminder that we’ve got some nice memories, if nothing else.’ She pushed her chair back against the wall and stood up from the table.
‘Please,’ Tom said, reaching out his hand to stop her. But he knew
he had gone too far and that he would not be able to pull this back,
at least for now.
She ignored him, marching past on her way to the kitchen. He
heard the opening of the oven door, then the crash of a dish, their
anniversary meal, on cold, hard, black kitchen tiles. Then, once
again, came the muffled sobs he so hated hearing, let alone causing,
and finally the slam of the bedroom door.
Alone now, he stared at the basket of bread, to Esme’s miniature
bottle of red wine. The small stack of Post-It notes, ‘Our Life in a
Day’ written across the front – the small drawing of a clock.
Tom picked up the stack and flicked through it again.
As he did, he asked himself which moments he would have
included. The night they met, obviously. Maybe their first annivers-
ary and that disastrous trip to the coast. Esme’s thirtieth birthday.
But what, he wondered, were the other moments that had defined
them over the past decade – those less obvious moments that only
become profound, meaningful or influential with the passing of time;
the conversations that go on to have far wider connotations than is
first apparent; moments that would change the dynamic irrevocably.
What about al the incidents and accidents she had no knowledge
of; his betrayals and mistakes that he had protected with silence? Or
the things he had lied about?
Esme had created a game that she thought would be fun. But
Tom knew that to play it properly meant it couldn’t possibly be.
Now, everything around him was a reminder of something that could
go on one of those Post-It notes. Good or bad. From the photo on
the wall, taken on that ill-fated camping trip in Somerset, to the
mug used to drink tea in their first place together (now a pen pot).
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Tom needed to get out, to think.
He stood up from the table and walked as quietly as he could
through the flat, down the hallway past the kitchen (where Magnus
was happily eating the scattered remnants of the lasagne Esme had
thrown to the floor) and the bedroom door – firmly closed and off
limits for now. He put on his running trainers and a light jacket to
protect him from the rain, and opened the front door.
Just as he was about to step out into the small communal area
that would lead him onto Islay Gardens, Tom noticed that he was
still carrying Esme’s game in his back pocket. He took it out, gave
it one final look and dropped it into the bottom of his battered
rucksack before closing the front door behind him.
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
4 – 5 am
THE HOTEL ROOM
February 2017 – Albert Dock, Liverpool
His phone was buzzing away again on the ugly, patterned carpet
of the hotel-room floor. Face down, having fallen out of the back
pocket earlier that morning, so he couldn’t see the flashing light
came up every time she called. The unanswered phone’s buzzing
stopped, sending her away to voicemail and adding another mark to
the growing missed call tally. Then silence for a few minutes before
she tried again.
The person she was calling was still out cold, dead to the world,
oblivious to everything around him.
He eventually became dimly aware of the noise just after four.
But it still took him another ten or fifteen minutes to reach down
off of the tall, uncomfortable bed and pick it up. Surprisingly, it had lasted the night without having been anywhere near a charger. He
pressed the button on the side to see what had woken him up to
find notifications for sixteen missed calls, four voicemails and nine
unread text messages. Every single one of them from Esme.
Tom unlocked his phone and began to scroll through. Reading
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the first, sent at midnight, up to the most recent, which arrived ten minutes ago.
Tom. When can we talk? I know you’ve been working all day
but you must be finished by now. Did you not even get a
break? xx
I really want to go to bed. Horrible day. Please call me xx
Is everything ok?
Tom this is fucking ridiculous. It’s 1am and I haven’t heard
from you all day.
I’m getting really worried Tom. Please just text.
I can’t sleep. I’m in tears. You shouldn’t have gone. This was a
mistake. Please call me xx
If I don’t hear from you in half an hour I’m calling the police.
I’m really worried Tom. Whatever’s happened please tell me
you’re ok.
I’m cal
ling the police. Please call if you’re ok xx
He dropped the phone and shut his eyes tight.
As he read, he began to feel the familiar, almost nostalgic con-
sequences of last night. The furry, stale-tasting mouth. Aches from
limbs now unaccustomed to such abuse. Prickly heat of skin trying
to sweat it out. A sense that his blood was lethargically sluicing
through his veins. Inescapable nausea and the beginnings of a crush-
ing headache.
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A hangover. Albeit dulled by the fact that he was still a little drunk at the same time.
It was something he’d not experienced in almost ten years, since
that morning he’d woken up in hospital two months before he
met Esme – something he had promised himself he would never
experience again, not wanting to ever let her down. And yet he had
been increasingly aware of these . . . cravings. They had begun again
last month, with more clarity and keenness than he had known for
almost a decade.
With the right tools he might’ve been able to deal with it. But
Tom hadn’t picked any of them up. His own fault really. Again.
Suddenly, he became aware of something else. Of breathing and
twitches and movement – of an arm that was not his own on the
pillow, a sinking in the mattress next to him.
Part of him wanted to shift around. To see if he was right about
who it was and where she was. But the knowledge of her presence
was enough.
‘Fuck,’ Tom whispered. He sat up on the hotel bed. He was
wearing only boxer shorts. His legs felt weak, shaky, as if he was at
the end of a bout of flu.
Looking over at Louisa again, sleeping quietly, he wanted to pull
back the duvet to check what she was wearing; hoping that she was
fully clothed, but knowing that she might well not be. This kind of
thing had happened to him before. A vintage Tom Murray mistake
from an old playbook long since discarded.
Gingerly, he made his way to the toilet – past the desk piled with
coins and coats, above which the television and the stock watercolour
hung on the wall. He could feel the pile and weave of the flat carpet
on the soles of his feet, hyper aware each and every feeling and
sensation he was experiencing. When he turned the light on and
stepped inside the bright, white, clinical bathroom, he was hit by an
overwhelming stench of vomit. There, in the bath, were his clothes