I pause. I should retrace my steps and apologise for even suggesting this had anything to do with David’s final choices. But I find myself turning the key in the ignition and speeding away, digging into my pocket for Susan’s key instead. At least somebody needs me.

Chapter Nineteen

KAT

I peer through windows smeared with thick rain. I fight a quiver in my hand as it prematurely hovers over the bell; I don’t want to ding it till I’m ready, until it’s my stop. Until I’m certain I’m doing the right thing.

Maybe I should ride on by; go full circle, back home.

Pull yourself together. Take control. Breathe.

Fat raindrops bounce off the pavement. The combination of biblical weather and passenger body heat fogs up the bus. Someone wipes a window semi-clean and I lower my head to peek through it. I seek out the shops before the pub: the chemist, the Co-op. My stop.

I’m beaten to the bell and the sound of it hot-pokers my nerves. A few people stand, moving carefully forward as the bus navigates traffic, slowing down, steering left. Those of us getting off take up the wait by the back doors on our double decker. A linen-suited passenger loses his balance as we draw to a stop, knocking into a girl in summer dress and sandals; she mutters under her breath but smiles, despite herself. Another girl looks out the window and down at her ice-white dress, before clutching her handbag in front of her in the hope of some kind of protection, from both the elements and those seeking a quick and easy thrill.

I wait, encouraging others to get off before me until someone finally lets me get off ahead of them. Here I am. Meadowhead. Not far from where I grew up, but far enough from where I now live. Daniel’s stomping ground. When we first got together, he’d pick me up, drop his car back at his mum and dad’s, and then we’d walk here. We’d have a couple of drinks in the pub, a game of pool if the table was free, then wander back. I look over to the empty garage behind the shops and a memory comes back to me vividly. I swear I can feel his touch, the weight of his body as he pushed me against the door. I’d been unable to breathe; I needed him. We needed each other. I remember we ran back to his place that night, knowing full well his mum and dad were out late. The bittersweet taste of that memory is fast replaced by the memory of the first time we split up. That happened here too – pretty much this exact spot. By then I had my flat in town, but he was still living at his parents’. I watched him walk away, back to their house on Little Norton Lane. He never looked back. I bite my cheeks, remembering how I did the same back then, desperate not to call out his name. Two days later he called me. He came around. He told me he’d been an idiot and we agreed he should move in. We were convinced that living together would fix things. We were stupid. We were wrong. We were drunk on the idea of frequent trips to Ikea and a joint Netflix account.