LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER 3

       Hiraeth (n.) Homesickness for a home you can’t return to, or that never was

      Manchester welcomed us home in the way it knew best; grey drizzle kissed our shoulders as we stepped off the plane and it hadn’t stopped raining since. But even the non-existent Indian summer that the weather presenters had predicted couldn’t dampen my spirits. Our non-stop excited chatter on the flight home about where, how and when I’d be saying au revoir took my mind off the impeding task ahead.

      I still needed to move the rest of my things out of my old house to Marie’s spare room, something I’d hoped magic fairies would have sorted for me whilst I was away. There was never an impish elf around when you needed one. Marie had tried to encourage me to stick to my guns and fight to stay in the house that I half owned. ‘Alex should be the one to leave, go live with whatever skank he has these feelings for,’ she’d told me straight one evening over a game of chase the ace. She was probably right, but the thing was I couldn’t bear the thought of living there on my own, going through the front door to an empty house where memories bled through every brick. I’d never lived on my own before and certainly wasn’t strong enough to start now. Plus I didn’t have the energy to fight, to confront him about it, I just wanted it to be sorted so I could move on. Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow. Tonight was all about a bath, an early night and devouring the giant Toblerone that had somehow fallen into my shopping basket in duty free.

      We whizzed through customs and were soon outside Marie’s flat as the surly cabbie chucked our bags onto the rain-soaked pavement miraculously avoiding any puddles. Welcome home.

      With Marie on the phone to Cole I pottered about turning up the heating, chucking out gone-off milk and putting the kettle on.

      ‘OMG!’ Marie burst into the room screeching, her hangover dramatically lifted. ‘My agent just called telling me I’ve been offered a call back on the audition I did!’

      ‘That’s great news. Where, what, when?’

      ‘I leave tomorrow. I have to be away for a few days as the director’s filming on location but asked for me personally to come for the second audition. It’s the one I tried out for ages ago – you know, the stuffy costume drama with an edgy twist?’

      ‘Oh yeah.’ I remembered that there was something she had been getting nervous about around the same time that I’d had to choose between having the DJ start straight after cutting the cake or move the speeches until later. It had been a stressful time for us both.

      ‘They want to urbanise Jane Eyre and film it in Brixton, not the Lake District, or wherever it was the first time. I’ve just got a few lines, but my agent reckons if I get in with the director then it could lead to bigger things,’ she said excitedly.

      ‘That’s brilliant news! Well done you.’

      ‘The bad news is I won’t get to see Cole for a few more days, which is killing me, but Mike said he’d keep hold of him, with his mum’s help, till I get back so FaceTime chats will have to suffice till then,’ Marie said sadly.

      Considering Cole’s dad, Mike, had just been a one-night stand, he really had manned up and between them he and Marie had childcare duties perfectly organised. I often caught Mike’s longing look at Marie when he brought Cole back from a weekend at his house and wondered if they would ever make a go of it, doing the whole parent thing together. From the outside they seemed perfect for each other and both totally adored Cole, but whenever I questioned Marie she changed the subject saying that just one man in her life was all she needed.

      ‘Well, fame comes at a price,’ I smiled, ‘but hey, it’s not too much longer and imagine Cole’s face when he gets to see his mum on the telly.’ Marie shrugged, but secretly I knew how much this childhood dream of becoming an actress meant to her, especially as she has Cole to provide for. She had fallen into mobile hairdressing as a means to pay the bills but her heart lay in drama and plots, not dye and perms.

      She chewed her lip. ‘So that means we need to get your things from Chez Prick this evening as I won’t be able to help otherwise.’ She was right. Damn it.

      I couldn’t ask my mum and dad to help, especially with my dad’s back. I scrolled through my phone contacts list mentally calculating any possible candidates whom I could call to help move my boxes. Skimming past the names of Alex’s friends, distant relations, old schoolmates with whom I hadn’t had contact for years bar the annual Facebook happy birthday posts, I realised that there was nobody.

      Nobody.

      I had never been a popular child, but I had imagined that in my glamorous late twenties I would at least have a circle of friends so close-knit that they would make the cast of Friends look like they were sharing an awkward lift ride. Another thing to add to the travel wish-list – make more friends.

      ‘Sorry, hun. Moving my paltry boxes is the last thing you need to be doing when you should be packing for your new role.’

      ‘Nah, it’s fine. I’ll just chuck a few clean knickers into my case and I’m good to go,’ she smiled. ‘It’s more important that we get you away from that knob. You ready to go now?’

      It took all my strength to nod. I didn’t want to go; I didn’t want reminders, to see our small but sweet house where the kitchen tap leaked unless you jammed a teaspoon under it, the floorboards which squeaked if you stepped on them in certain places and the comforting sound of the central heating when it whirred into action. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the house. But it wasn’t my home any more. It couldn’t be. As much as I wished that none of this had happened, something deep down in me knew I wasn’t going to be the wailing woman scorned, begging for him to take me back. My parents raised me better than that. No, I needed to go grab my stuff and move on with my new life plan. Baby steps and all that.

      It was dark outside when we pulled up. I held the front door key in my unsteady hand as Marie guided me to the door, swearing as she stumbled over a wonky paving slab. No one was home. We walked from room to room in silence. I smelt our smell and felt my resolve slipping.

      ‘So where do you reckon he’s piled up your stuff?’ Marie broke my pathetic thoughts.

      ‘Probably the spare room and under the stairs,’ I guessed. They were always the two places we would dump stuff we didn’t need any more.

       It’s just bricks and stone, Georgia, get a grip. The house represents all the lies that he has spun. The future you can’t have and don’t want any more. Nothing more.

      I opened the door to the box room, surprised to find neatly stacked and packed cardboard boxes labelled with my things. ‘Winter clothes, books, CDs, other,’ Marie read with a similar shocked expression. Alex was messy, disorganised and allergic to cleaning. I’d expected my possessions to be stuffed into bin bags, but this? This was new.

      ‘I’ll get these in the car, you carry on looking around,’ she instructed.

      The smell of bleach and lemon hit me as I slowly walked into the master bedroom. The bed was made, an empty glass lined the dust-free bedside table, and without my things – jewellery strung over the mirror, shoes lined

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