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It wasn’t until about 8pm on the Sunday that I started to wonder what was going on. I’d taken full advantage of the day’s sunshine and the time to myself to wander about the streets, in and out of parks. Later in the afternoon, I felt a wave of tiredness come over me and decided to head back to his parents’ place, which was just as well as they’d set a place for us both at the table to eat the food his mum had prepared. 

 

It hadn’t been a concern that he wasn’t yet back as he’d already messaged to say that he was going to meet another friend at some point to borrow a particular tool he needed to help his dad put up a new garden shed and when I explained this to his parents, they seemed happy enough with this explanation for his absence from dinner. I excused myself from the table soon after eating and they could see I was struggling a bit and agreed that I should go and have a lie down. I just assumed I’d been in the sun for too long. 

 

I must have slept from the minute my body was horizontal and I woke to see that it was dark outside. I assumed it was the middle of the night, but it was only a few minutes to eight in the evening. I checked my phone for messages. Nothing. I looked to see if there had been any missed calls. Again, nothing. I called his number and there was no answer. All of a sudden, I felt the urge to vomit and got up and raced to the bathroom. I wretched, but nothing was forthcoming. Then, just as I was moving to get back up, my body convulsed and this time I was sick. Nothing much came up, but still, it wasn’t pleasant. Was it the sun? Surely not. While the day had been warm and I’d stayed in the sun, this was London, not Madrid! The fish, perhaps? It didn’t feel like full-on food poisoning which I’d had only a year before from fish and which had knocked me out for a full three days. My mind turned once more to Richie’s absence and I wondered whether this was some sort of anxious reaction to this. Where was he?

 

I washed my face and hands and went downstairs. Neither of his parents had seen or heard from him, but they were used to this. I went back upstairs and tried his phone. It went to voicemail again. This time I left a message asking him to get in touch as soon as he’d heard it and texted him similarly.

 

And then the spiral started. Where was he? Had they somehow made up? Had she convinced him not to leave? Apologised for the tirade I’d witnessed only a short time ago and somehow won his heart back? Was I going to be left on my own here again? Maybe they were laughing at me. My voice message, my text, my worry. Maybe I was being cast out once more. I tried to rationalise - maybe he had left his phone while picking his stuff up, or round at his friends when collecting the tools. That must be it. And then 9pm came, as did 10pm, without word. What had I done? How was this happening again? I messaged him and called again. Straight to voicemail this time. Had he switched it off so that I wouldn’t distract them? My head was filled with thoughts of them together, in each other’s arms, giving themselves to one another while the fear and the rage and the panic took hold of me and left me writhing on my bed, desperate to escape my body, my being. I cried hard into the pillows and duvet and, through sheer exhaustion, fell into a deep sleep.

 

I awoke just before 4am with a strong urge to vomit. I went to the bathroom and was sick straight away, though it was mainly liquid that came out. I didn’t feel like I had a fever particularly, I was just nauseous. I went back to the bedroom, got back into bed and reached for the phone. Still nothing. I thought about ringing, but a part of me didn’t want to disturb them in case they were sleeping. Ridiculous, but true. I simply texted the words: “I’m worried” to his phone. There was obviously no way I was going to get back to sleep, so I got up, grabbed my dressing gown and went downstairs, making sure not to make a noise. I made a cup of chamomile tea and sat huddled on the sofa, rocking, while my being seemed to shift from intense anxiety, with thoughts and images darting from every angle of the edges of my head into the centre as if to torture me, with the only respite being a huge wave of nausea which would free my mind of any thought or image temporarily while I focused on riding the wave and reestablishing balance in my body. Then back to the torture. 

 

I remained like this, back and forth, until just after 6am when I noticed his father standing in the doorway of the lounge.

 

“You OK? You don’t look too well. Can I get you anything?”

 

I hadn’t heard him come down the stairs, lost as I was in my cosy little world of torture and nausea. I didn’t want to go into it with him, so I just explained that I hadn’t slept well and was feeling a little under the weather, but that the tea had helped and I was going to go and shower and change. But as soon as I got up, a tsunami hit and I scrambled to the downstairs toilet as my body purged itself of what little there was lurking in the depths of my stomach.

 

His dad was waiting for me outside the door with a plastic beaker of water when I emerged. 

 

“I think you need to come and lie down in here”

 

I said nothing and allowed him to guide me back to the sofa. 

 

“Shall I get you another cup of that tea you like?”

 

I nodded and was struck by his kindly half smile. I remember noticing that the resemblance that he normally bore to Richie vanished in that moment. 

 

He came back with tea and said he would call my work  to tell them I was unable to come in, but was not sure that his English was good enough to have a conversation over the phone with someone he didn’t know. I told him not to worry and that I would do it and was sure they would understand. It was rare that I had time off, but I was annoyed that it was a Monday, a classic day for high absence anyway. I reflected on how lovely the weather had been and wondered who among my office colleagues would have taken full advantage and were perhaps now in that limbo moment of deciding whether to call in sick or to bite the bullet and weather the proverbial storm. Isabella for one! And just as an image of her ordering a round of shots at the bar popped into my head, she popped into my inbox.

 

“Amiga, ugh! Can you take care of me this morning? I’m going to need lots of nursing!”

 

I immediately felt a pang of guilt because I wanted to be that friend but, feeling the way I did, I just couldn’t. 

 

“I wish I could, amiga, I’m sorry, but I’m in a bad way myself. Not sure what it is, but I’ve thrown up twice already this morning. I’m going to have to call in sick.”

 

“Oh no! You poor angel! Sounds awful. But Richie’s back there now, isn’t he? Is he taking care of you?”

 

I didn’t have the headspace to go into the details and, without the full story, I didn’t want to sully Richie’s reputation with her any further.

 

“He has to go to work. But I’m fine, I’ll just curl up here and watch whatever nonsense is on the TV.”

 

“Haha! English daytime TV! It will either cure you with laughter or send you into a deep depression! Wish I could come and watch with you. I’d better run, take care of yourself.”

 

My mind returned to Richie and Rebecca. What would they be doing now? Breakfast, perhaps, or maybe still in bed. I tried to banish the thoughts from my head, but the inability to move made it difficult. Richie’s dad emerged from the kitchen with another cup of chamomile, handed it to me, felt my forehead, frowned, shook his head and suggested he help me back up the stairs to bed. 

 

Up we went, carefully managing the stairs all the way to the top. I steadied myself and told him I was fine from there, went into the room, put the tea on the side table and shivered my way under the duvet and dozed off almost immediately.

 

*

 

It was full-on daytime when I awoke. Residual nausea lingered, but not enough to keep me down. I felt sweaty and desperately wanted to wash so went to the bathroom, showered and washed my hair. It was only once I’d finished wrapping a towel around my head, turban-style, that I realised that I’d forgotten to call work. Panic set in and I rushed to the room, but my phone wasn’t there. My mind went blank for a good few seconds, and then I remembered. Downstairs. I rushed down the stairs, took two long side steps that felt almost ballerina-esque then darted into the lounge and over to the sofa where I could see the abandoned phone. I grabbed it and pressed the button on the front to rouse it from its snooze, but nothing happened. It was dead. My heart sank momentarily, but then a wave of nausea came from nowhere, reminding me sharply that my body needed less drama right now.

 

I took a deep breath and slowly made my way back to the room, padding up the stairs slowly, trying to appease my general malaise. Once back, I plugged in the phone. There was something positively calming about being cut off from everything for the next five minutes while I slowly dressed. No Richie, no work, no way for anyone to contact me. I sat on the edge of the bed and took a few long breaths.