Triptych part 1 of 3

Everyone told me it would be fine. My hometown’s a decent size, and although you often bump into neighbours in the street, into people you knew from sixth form, I didn’t think it likely we’d meet. I didn’t think he’d still be around, figured he might have moved to London like he always said he would. I imagined he’d have stopped shopping in the stores we used to go to. I shouldn’t have assumed everything would change after I left.

I only had to see the back of his head to know it was him. The little tuft of hair hanging down his neck that used to drive me mad - it was still there. He’d never let me cut it. Friends thought it was sweet, had always encouraged him to keep it longer. It was only later, once I’d left our place in the town centre and returned to the calm oasis of my room at Estelle’s, that I wondered what she thought of it, if she liked that hairy patch at the back of his neck, if she rubbed her face in it when they were spooning, if she ran her fingers through it as they sat watching TV, abstractedly, without noticing she was doing it.

He didn’t spot me right away. I watched them, partly hidden behind an ugly black and white vase that cost 99.50. Seriously, a hundred quid for a vase! Living in the third world makes you notice little things like that. It brings the bile to the back of your throat. You mentally calculate the number of vaccines you could get at the local Boots for that much money. I bet he liked it, actually. If it had been us in the store, strolling around the sofas and coffee tables with linked arms, he would have stopped and turned that vase over in his hands like an art dealer, making small appreciative noises.

They looked good together. I was relieved to see she wasn’t too pretty. No prettier than I am, in any case. I don’t think I would have hung around if she’d been prettier than me. But their clothes matched, and their bodies seemed to fit together as they moved around deck chairs and curtains, pointing things out.

I wondered what they were shopping for.

I wondered if they lived together.

How long had it been since I’d moved out? Two years? Three? I wondered if he’d met her soon after, or if she’d been a constant feature in his background while we were still together, an office colleague standing beside him, ready to pick up the pieces. I wondered if maybe I was holding the wrong end of the stick and they were cousins. Doubts were laid to rest when he leaned over to kiss her behind a potted plant, where the cashier couldn’t see them.

“Matthew.”

He turned. From where I was, I couldn’t tell if he frowned or if he was just surprised at hearing my voice. I walked over. We stared at each other across a white designer kitchen table.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi. Wow, hey. What are you doing here? I mean, this is a surprise! I thought you hated furniture stores.”

“Still do, but I’m looking for a trendy gift. Think I’ll get that vase over there. What do you think?”

“Ah, yeah, it’s nice. Listen, Clair, this is Melissa.”

He moved over so that I could see her, put his arm around her waist. She didn’t shake him off. It annoyed me, that she didn’t shake him off. It’s what I would have done, and I knew he knew that’s what I would have done, and that annoyed me even more. She smiled at me. Perfect dental work.

“Hi Clair,” she said, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I laughed, tried to come across relaxed and unconcerned, highly amused by the whole situation. I tucked my hair behind my ears. It’s what I always do when I’m nervous. Matthew knew that, so I stopped. I hoped it didn’t show that it hadn’t been cut in a year. The hairdressers in camps are volunteers and it hadn’t seemed worth the risk, split ends or no split ends.

“I can’t say the same but hi, nice to meet you.”

Matthew was shifting from foot to foot. I could tell he was about to make some excuse, so I got in there first.

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but gotta go find that present, and there’s nothing exciting here. Bye Matthew. It was nice seeing you.”

I heard him saying a soft goodbye as I turned and left the shop. I walked up the high street fast, practically speed walking. Images of Matthew flashed around in my head, mental polaroids of him laughing, talking, getting angry, getting excited. His face when he made love to me.

Walking down the high-street, I wondered what stage they’d reached in their relationship - if they’d told each other everything yet, or if they still had those small, embarrassing secrets you keep until the last possible moment, savouring them, like how you had your first kiss in the girl’s toilet at school or how, when you take a bath, you sometimes like to get straight out, not bothering to soap yourself because all you wanted to do was get warm.

Getting into my car, I wondered if they’d reached that level of closeness where you finish each other’s sentences, tell each other every nauseating minute of your uneventful day, because you know the other person will be interested. I wondered if she noticed bits of films or TV programmes he would have laughed at when he wasn’t there and told him about them later; if she knew what movies he’d enjoy, what clothes he liked to see her in.

Getting out of my car and letting myself into Estelle an Brian’s place with the spare key, temporarily vacated by Brian after the mother of all rows over their next holiday destination, I wondered if she had found that spot yet, the one just below the eye of his penis which, if you licked it, made him shudder and come every time. Maybe she hadn’t had to find out - he’d told her about it, asked her to do it. Maybe, after all our experimenting, he was more sexually outright, trying things with her he never had with me.

Putting my bag on the sofa and going into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, I wondered if she was as good a cook as me. Did she make his toast in the morning just the way he liked it, spreading the butter all the way to the edges? Did she even know about his bad digestion? Did she buy enough fruit and vegetables at the supermarket or did she let him eat whatever he wanted? Did they have take-away every night? He’d been easy to please, food wise. I missed cooking for him, missed his satisfied sigh as he put his plate down. There isn’t much scope for originality in camp kitchens, what with the tense weekly wait for the rice delivery. I didn’t even know if they lived together. Probably. I moved in with Matthew a month after we met. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to, had resisted for a few months before committing. I wondered if I would have preferred that. She’d looked the independent, hard-hearted kind, with the perfect smile and killer legs, always in heels, never a bad hair day.

I was sipping my tea, sitting in the kitchen, when I remembered the boxes of stuff I’d left in Estelle and Brian’s basement. It was supposed to have been temporary, until my mother came over to pick them up. As far as I knew she never had.

Once I found the key from the rack in the hall and battled my way through the cobwebs, I found them, stacked in a heap right at the back, next to the boiler. There were fewer than I remembered. Maybe I’d thrown away more than I thought. I carried them upstairs and dumped them on the living room floor. The first was full of clothes and old shoes. I put it aside to take to a charity shop. They were nice clothes, but I have no use for them where I live. The next one I cracked open was full of CDs. The one at the top of the pile, Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, was Matthew’s. Most of the CDs had been mine when we’d been living together, so I never checked them before I moved out, had put everything straight into a box, into the back of the car.

I went through them, finding three others at the bottom of the pile that were his. I held them in my hands, turned them over. I didn’t feel like putting them in the charity shop box. It didn’t seem appropriate somehow, now that I’d found them. I put them in a padded envelope. Estelle always has padded envelopes handy in the office, just in case. She’s that kind of girl. I wrote a little note and slipped it inside - Found these today. Thought you’d like them back. Love, Clair. I thought I’d ask Estelle for his new address when she got back from work. We’d sold the flat after I left, split the proceeds. The money had come in handy for the tickets, the passport fees, the gear. I ended up rooting through her papers and finding her address book. I nipped down to the post office and was just about to hand the envelope to the cashier when I changed my mind. The CDs might not reach him. He’d be angry if they got broken. Estelle would give them to him next time she saw him. Maybe I’d still be in town when she did it, and he’d ask how I was. Will he listen to them and think of me? Will he tell her where they come from?

It wasn’t until I’d turned for home I remembered what I’d gone into town for. Estelle’s hospitality present would have to wait. Maybe I’d give her my old CDs. Brian would appreciate them, when he moved back in.

Read Part 2 now.

Copyright Emily Connes
Emilie Connes is French by birth and learnt English in Africa. She also writes in French and Spanish. She completed a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing at Lancaster University, experimenting with short stories and poetry. It was followed by a Masters in Creative Writing at the same institution, her final portfolio being a collection of short stories entitles Loose Ends. She is currently living in Romania, working for a publishing company in Bucharest and working on a novel.

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