Page 82 of The Surrender

In a convoy of three cars, we drive back to my new place packed to the rafters with home essentials. It was a productive trip and great to spend time with the girls, chatting as we all steered trollies around the store, browsing, throwing things in, discussing the merits of leather versus fabric couches. A headboard? Wood or velvet? King-size or super-king?

Nothing was mentioned about Jude, and I didn’t volunteer anything either. Abbie’s date, however, was a hot topic. She likes him. I can tell. She’s never been on a second date with anyone, and they have one planned for next week.

I let us in through my own personal front door and kick my way through some post, passing the bedroom on the left before emerging into the kitchen that opens up onto the secluded courtyard.

“Oh, I love it,” Abbie says, poking in and out of cupboards.

“Jesus, the height of the ceilings,” Charley breathes, her head craned as she drops a few blue bags in the corner. “It smells like paint.”

I draw the curtains at the bay window in the lounge area. “The landlord recently gave it an overhaul. New kitchen, new bathroom, a lick of paint.” Walking through to the kitchen, I go to the double doors that lead onto the courtyard and push them open. “New patio.”

“Oh, Amelia, it’s perfect.”

“Isn’t it?” I gaze around, totally enchanted. When I viewed it almost two weeks ago, I was not in the best headspace, was finding it hard to appreciate how perfect it was for me when I felt like I was in total turmoil. Now, though, I can see. I’m glad I didn’t let it pass me by.

“I bought supplies.” Abbie magics a bottle of prosecco from her bag. “We can’t build furniture without some fizz.”

“Just a small one for me,” Charley says, producing a toolbox. “I brought supplies too.”

I pout, feeling a little emotional. “What would I do without you two?”

“Sleep in any of the dozens of swanky suites at your stinking-rich boyfriend’s luxury hotel?” Abbie says. “Where is he tonight, anyway?”

“We’re not joined at the hip, you know,” I retort, evasive, going to one of the IKEA bags and finding the box of mugs. “So where’s the next date with Hightower?”

Charley snorts as Abbie works the cork on the prosecco. “There’s one thing bothering me that I’ve not mentioned.” The cork flies out and hits the ceiling. “He still lives with his mum.” She pours into the mugs.

“I did until a few weeks ago,” I say. “Don’t be judgy. Did he give you any context?”

“No.”

“Did you ask?”

“No. Maybe on our next date. Cheers!” She toasts the air, going off to explore.

“Okay, what’s the priority?” Charley asks.

“The bed.”

She whips out an electric screwdriver and aims it at me. “Let’s do this.”

A few hours later, I have a bed, a bedside table, and a rail to hang some clothes on. We’ve stocked the kitchen drawers and cupboardswith various kitchenware, and I even managed to get a Tesco Whoosh delivery for some essentials—tea, coffee, milk.

Charley’s made my bed, and Abbie’s hung some of my dresses up. It’s sparse, but it’s a start. “Thank you,” I say, so grateful, pulling them in for a group hug.

“I should get back.” Charley checks her phone. “It’s nearly ten.”

“Yeah, I have a trip to the wholesalers at the arse crack of dawn, so I’m going to shoot too.” Abbie pushes a box into the corner with her foot as Charley collects her tools. “Will you be okay on your own?”

“Sure,” I say, confident. Truth is, I’ve never lived alone. Before Nick, I was with my parents, and after Nick, I split between my parents’, Abbie’s, and Jude’s. This is new. A novelty. “I’m going to make a cuppa and snuggle up in my new bed.”Alone.

I see the girls out and spend a few minutes collecting bits of cardboard and stuffing them in a box before heading back into the kitchen to make that cuppa. “Fuck,” I mutter, realizing I’m missing something quite essential. A kettle. Pouting, I pick up the bottle of prosecco and hold it up to the light, seeing an inch left in the bottle. I shrug and tip it into my mug, sipping as I riffle through my bag for a fresh dressing before getting some warm, salty water. Then I spend the next fifteen minutes holding my breath as I clean around the wound. It’s red. Too red? I ponder that as I redress it, deciding I’ll give it a couple of days and get it checked out if it doesn’t improve.

Flicking all the lights off and following my feet to my bedroom, I strip to my underwear, pull on a tee, finish the last of my fizz, and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

I’m spitting and rinsing when I hear a knock at the door. I frown and pop my brush in the holder, wiping my mouth on the towel before I go to the window, peeking past the blind.

Jude’s on the doorstep, hands stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders slumped, his head hanging. I feel my shoulders drop too, as I watch him waiting for me to answer the door. It doesn’t even cross my mind not to. Kicking a few bags out of the way, I go to the door and open it,and he looks up. Silent. Waiting for me to invite him in. I breathe in deeply and exhale, releasing the door handle and making my way back to my room, hearing him close it behind him. I’m too tired to debate his transgressions.