Once Richie had left, I stayed inside the cafe until it closed, contemplating the situation. He was coming back. Despite my relentless optimism that this would all work out, a part of me doubted everything I was doing as I got up to burden myself with his load. The bags were heavy and I had to move slowly and carefully down the steps of the cafe before guiding my extended self through the tables and chairs downstairs which were now stacked, obstacles through which I had to manoeuvre before eventually negotiating skillfully with the space the door allowed, whilst held ajar with my right foot, to twist and turn, using the rucksack on my back as an additional lever to further widen the gap between door and wall, until I was out on the street.

 

He was coming back. But was this it? My lack of joy troubled me.

 

I moved steadily towards the tube station and struggled through the barriers, down the escalators and onto a busy train. I relieved myself of the bags and set up camp next to one of the poles between opposite sets of doors, giving up any hope of a seat for the journey. I brought the bags in close and held on tight.

 

Strangely, the monotonous chugging of the train in between stops allowed me some momentary clarity to think about what had just transpired. Richie was coming back and I should have felt ecstatic, but I felt a sense of unease hovering around my person and the luggage I had newly acquired. Yes, he was coming back, but all of this was on his terms. Wasn’t I owed some sort of apology? An explanation, at least? I thought back to that night with Isabella and how much fun we’d had. How I’d felt safe and secure from the moment she dropped my phone in her bag. I hadn’t thought about him once for the rest of the evening. Alexandre and Juan, the two guys from the office, had been perfect gents, contrary to whatever thoughts Richie wanted to let run wild in his silly little head. They chatted to us, shielded us from unwanted advances from other men who were trying their luck, bought us drinks, let us return the compliment without any macho fuss, but stood in line at the bustling bar with us to ensure that we were served when it was fairly our turn, and saw to it that we were protected from wandering hands. They danced and talked and laughed with us and eventually saw that we got home safely. We had a really fun night: no complications, no anxiety, nothing but fun. 

 

And then, on the Monday at work, the three of them were joking about it all over a coffee in the morning as I arrived. When they saw me, the three of them let out a synchronised muffled cheer. They had broad grins on their faces and kept commenting on little moments from the evening that had me in spasms of giggles. Apparently my elaborate dance moves, the twists and turns each time a new suitor had appeared at my side so that I could shrug them off, were worthy of copyright! This was a warmth I hadn’t experienced for a while now. This was contentment.

 

And then Isabella had handed me my phone back, her hand over her open mouth and eyes ludicrously wide to indicate a mock apology. I pulled a face of light-hearted forgiveness, took my cup of tea and went to my desk and switched on the phone. A torrent of texts. Message after message and missed call after missed call bombarded my phone, rousing it abruptly from rest with each message, each missed call accompanied by pinging sounds that blended into a single, elongated shrill sound, piercing the air around my desk and causing those closest to be startled enough so as to turn their eyes sharply in my direction. I felt my face flushing red, glanced at Isabella whose face was now the embodiment of incredulity, and rushed off to the toilets. I stayed there for about 20 minutes. His messages had unsettled me. Concern had turned to accusations, then to anger and back to mild concern when it must have crossed his mind that perhaps something more sinister was at play. 

 

And though I understand now the early morning visitation - that he was checking up on me, making sure I was in my place, a poundshop Romeo, scaling the woody heights of his parents’ rickety fence to get to his prize - I fell for it. 

 

I fell for it. Those messages I’d read in the toilet, far from convincing me that I was better off without him, made me worry for him, for his desperation, they made me feel guilty that I hadn’t been there for him when he needed me. 

 

The announcement to tell me that I was arriving at my stop jolted me back to the present and the imminent struggle to get off the train and up the stairs laden with his luggage. From nowhere, a smiley, middle-aged man and his son, presumably seeing the anguish in my face as I trudged along the platform, cheerily offered to help:

 

“You look like you’ve had enough for today! Am I right?”

 

I looked at his kind face, smiled and stifled a giggle as they took not only the holdall, but insisted on carrying the rucksack too. It was at this moment that I realised that my torso was at pretty much a 90 angle to my legs.

 

“What have you got in there? The kitchen sink?” he joked as he felt its weight in his hands. His son, who must have been about ten, gallantly tried to lift the holdall, but it was way too awkward and heavy for him. Sensing he was relishing the chance to do a good deed, I offered him one of the handles and the two of us marched up the stairs with the holdall. They saw me through the barriers and to the bus stop outside the entrance and bid me a safe journey, both of them clearly happy to have been of service. 

 

Wow! Some people are just nice, I thought.

 

My bus arrived. I hauled the bags on and stood for the whole journey, figuring that I wouldn’t have the energy to get up if I sat down. It was only four stops and then a short struggle back to his parents’ door, this time dragging his shit behind me. I got in, dropped the bags in a corner by the door and went to the lounge to slump myself down on the sofa. I let out a huge sigh of exhaustion and thought I would fall asleep there and then, but as I shut my eyes, my whole being was  alerted to a sudden, but very distinct craving for some of that gourmet strawberry cheesecake they had at Sainsbury’s and, from nowhere, I found the energy to spring up from the sofa and head straight to the local store to get my fix.