And so, over the next month or so, I amend my routine to create space for Wally. Early evenings are spent together, apart from the evenings I spend at Rose’s place. At the end of the night, Wally returns to his van and I go to sleep alone. We both prefer it this way, as it keeps our morning routines intact. And I make up for the late nights by taking naps in the secret cupboard at work every time I get the chance.
For a few weeks, I am lucky enough to sometimes get to see Wally during the day, too, when he pops into the library here and there. Unfortunately, it’s not long before he moves into a coworking space in the city and can no longer visit me at work. I miss him when he’s gone. It’s a curious feeling, missing someone in this way. I feel it in my chest – a curious sensation that feels like a blend of butterflies and indigestion.
I start to loathe dinners with Rose. And it’s not just my recent preference for Wally’s company. Since returning from London, she’s become unbearably interested in every mundane facet of my life – from what I had for lunch, to who I sat with, to what I dreamed about. So when Rose phones and cancels dinner one night – terrible food poisoning, apparently – I feel only minimal guilt at my elation.
Wally is in my doorway when Rose calls, and he appears equally delighted. ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. And I’ve had a pretty good day.’
‘Why have you had a good day?’
‘The video I made for FollowUp has gone viral.’
He leans against the doorjamb. Wally and I spend a lot of time in my doorway. There’s something about the no-man’s-land of it that I like; if he doesn’t cross the threshold, it doesn’t count as a ‘visit’ and as such isn’t a disruption to my routine.
‘Gone viral . . .’ I repeat.
‘“Viral” means lots of people have seen it,’ Wally explains. ‘The connotation is that it has spread, like a virus would.’
‘Clever.’ It’s so rare that new-fangled slang makes sense to me, but this is the kind of slang I could easily get on board with. Having decoded this part of the conversation, I take another moment to process it in reference to his previous comment. ‘And . . . the fact that Rose has cancelled is better than that?’
He smiles, but it is almost as though there is a frown behind it. I have recently learned that this face means I have failed to understand something that he finds perfectly obvious (I know this because I asked him what the face meant, and he confirmed my interpretation). ‘Seeing you is always the best part of my day, Fern.’
I smile.
‘Let’s skip dinner,’ Wally says, crossing the threshold. And, like always, we are entirely on the same wavelength.
In the morning, Wally is gone but the side of the bed that he sleeps on has been disturbed in that way that says he’s been there recently. Watching his side of the bed for a few moments before I start my day has become a part of my routine too. Then I move on to the usual routine: breakfast, coffee, yoga. I have just settled myself in lotus position when I notice the date on the calendar on my wall and a thought comes to me, so clear and fast it is as though it’s been tucked just out of sight, just waiting to be retrieved.
My period is two days late.
According to Google, a period that is up to five days late is normal and a typical part of a healthy cycle. What’s more, cycles can be influenced by a great many things – changes to routine, excessive exercise and travel. This information is a great comfort to me. While I haven’t travelled in recent weeks, I’ve certainly had my fair share of exercise (yoga, karate, sex) and changes to my routine (Wally), so those things combined would certainly explain my late period. And, so, I spend the next few days carrying out my daily routine with almost painful precision, hoping this will rectify things.
Before I know it, my period is six days late.
‘Fern? Come and look at this,’ Rose says. Rose is in the corner of IKEA, hovering by a white BILLY bookcase, inspecting it with what feels like an inordinate level of scrutiny. ‘This will work, don’t you think?’
Rose continues to say something, but I can’t hear very well because I have my earplugs in. I still am not quite sure how Rose managed to convince me to come to IKEA. She knows I don’t like shopping – and IKEA, let’s face it, is the mother of all shops. I do almost all of my own shopping online and, frankly, I don’t understand why anyone would do anything else. Virtually everything, including IKEA, is available online, and pretty much all of the larger department stores offer free delivery and returns. And if there is an item I desperately want but can only get in a big shopping centre, I ask Rose to get it for me.
Ironically, it is exactly this logic that Rose used when convincing me to come.
‘I don’t like shopping!’ I had whined when she asked me.
‘Fern.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘You know when sometimes you ask me to go to the store to get you something?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do I go?’
I roll my eyes.
‘Do I go?’ Rose repeats.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not asking you to understand why this is important to me. I’m only asking if you can do it.’
And, so, here I
