She guessed she wouldn’t be going to Benidorm this year.
Anyway, she’d taken the coins because she hadn’t got any food in the house and thought, perhaps today would be the day she’d be hungry. She might pop into the Asda after. The one off of the roundabout where her mother didn’t work.
‘Are you alright?’ The woman asked again, giving a pointed look at the Hot Drinks Station where Sue realised she was now standing and, from the looks of the dribbling hot water, making a drink.
‘Yes, sorry, I—’
‘Your cup’s melting. You have to double up if you use those.’ When Sue’s response wasn’t instantaneous, the choppy-haired woman bustled her to the side and swiftly shifted Sue’s wilting plastic cup to the sink with a couple of poorly disguised swear words. She reached into the cupboard, took down one of the mismatched mugs that presumably belonged to other call handlers who’d been more prepared, and fixed Sue with an impatient look. ‘Was it tea you were having?’
Sue looked at the mug, then at the hot drinks machine with its array of choices. She usually picked whatever there was the most of because she knew some people really cared if they were out of cortado. Whatever that was.
‘What do you want?’ the woman asked again.
Sue wanted her husband back.
Before she could answer, the woman threw an impatient ‘do you see what I have to deal with’ look over her shoulder, huffed out a little sigh, grabbed a pod from the tower, shoved it in the little pull-out drawer, clapped it shut, then jabbed a button before throwing a look back at the queue with a ‘Don’t worry, I got this’ look.
Normally, Sue would’ve been mortified. She hated causing a fuss. Today she was relieved. She obviously wasn’t up to the task. Thank heavens for the drop-down menu dictating the advice they gave the callers. Otherwise, who knew what she’d end up saying? Don’t ask me, I just muddle along with the crowd. Not entirely reassuring when your child had a fever outside of surgery hours, was it?
Another stream of liquid, brown this time, drizzled down into the ceramic mug.
Why hadn’t he left a note? Wasn’t that part of the whole thing? Making it clear why he’d done what he’d done? If he’d gone out to the pub and not left a note she’d be properly cross with him. And here he was, never coming back and there was nothing. Not even a scribbled ‘out with the lads’ on the stack of unicorn-shaped notelets by the phone. For some reason, her sister-in-law was completely convinced Sue had a thing for unicorns. They were lovely, unicorns, but not necessarily her favoured item for home decor. She didn’t need unicorn notelets, oven mitts and drinks mats. She especially didn’t need a unicorn throw rug. Perhaps Katie thought an abundance of mythical creatures made up for the fact she and Gary had never had children. Perhaps it was easier than thinking about what Sue might actually want when obligatory gift-giving was required. Gary thought the whole thing so hilarious he’d started buying her items, too. As a joke, of course. She particularly liked the bedside lamp that sent dancing unicorns round the room at night. And the toothbrush.
Her sweet, darling, full of life Gar-bear. Had he really meant to see it through? Perhaps he’d hoped she’d hear him futzing about with the rope or cut him down before it was too late? No. He wouldn’t have trusted her on the ladder up to the loft. Never had. She wondered again about a note. If he’d left something in the office. The thought struck that perhaps he’d posted her something. Perhaps the envelope was sitting in the kitchen now, tucked up alongside the post she’d yet to open. A mixture of sympathy cards and bills from the looks of things. She wasn’t a hundred per cent sure what she was waiting for. Not to shatter into a million unfixable pieces, she supposed.
‘Here you go,’ the girl handed her a brown drink that came halfway up the mug then noisily went about popping another pod into the machine making sure everyone knew she would be quick about it, unlike some people.
As she stood to the side, a sudden, searing pain burned Sue’s ribcage. Was there nothing she could do properly? Nothing that made a difference? Gary hadn’t even waited to have his toad-in-the-hole. Not that ending one’s life on a full stomach was standard practice (as if she knew), but it felt like an additional, unnecessary slight on top of a sledgehammer of a message:
I couldn’t trust you with my deepest fears. I couldn’t trust you with the smallest ones. I couldn’t trust you at all.
Definitely not with those final crunchy bits of Yorkshire pudding he knew she loved. Had that been it? His final present to her? All of the toad-in-the-hole to herself? Surely not. She would’ve shared. She always shared. He was her Gar-bear. Lord knew she’d never, ever eat ketchup again.
Perhaps the truth was a more simple one. He’d simply not been thinking about her at all. Not in a selfish way, because that had never been Gary, but … what was toad-in-the-hole when all one could see was darkness? It had been rather good that week. Puffy and crunchy in bits. Doughier in others. The same highly peppered, sagey sausages he’d eaten without complaint for the past … fifteen years now. They’d been married fifteen years ago this May. The same year as the Sainbury’s had opened down the road and, out of some sort of
