of a soft new pullover in a luscious shade, and how right they are! If you feel the cold, as I do, then it is really the only garment that will keep you comfortable and content from morning till night, in all kinds of seasons, in both the country and in town. The sweater is the grand-mère of the fashion world: warm, loving, and totally forgiving. (Unless, of course, you are afflicted with a very large bust. Then it is in your interest to stick to less clinging fabrics.)
Made from silk for the warmer days and of cashmere when it becomes bitter, a good sweater has no rival. And with a little care and attention, it will last years and years without the slightest sign of age. In these whirlwind times of changing fashions, it is reassuring to know that a camel or navy twin set will continue to be elegant for seasons to come. It is a perfect example of the modern trend towards ease and comfort.
During the first days at Colin’s, I fall into a kind of stupor, going to work in a daze and returning to spend the evening rolled into a little ball on my bed, crying and staring at the ceiling. The garment of choice during this bleak period is, morbidly enough, a worn navy cashmere jumper of my husband’s. For years I’ve had a clandestine relationship with this jumper, curling into its warm, forgiving softness like a child clings to a favourite blanket. I used to sneak it from his cupboard when he was out at the theatre; racing to return it when I heard his key turn in the lock.
I hadn’t intended to steal it and I’m not even sure why I did. It was draped over a chair in the corner of the bedroom and I just slipped it into my case along with the rest of my clothes. It’s his favourite; it will be missed. And maybe that has something to do with it. Perhaps I’m waiting to see which one of us he wants back first.
Then the blue envelopes started to come, letters from my husband.
I’m sorry … I’ve failed you … so sorry.
They go on and on, saturated with regret and remorse, but not one of them asking me to come home.
I had expected something more. A grand gesture: he’d appear in a cab in the middle of the night and insist upon taking me home. Or he might ambush me as I left the theatre, his arms filled with roses. Part of me dreads the idea of spotting him, thin and haggard, smoking on a street corner, waiting for me. But I dread even more the empty corners that appear, with haunting regularity, as the days go by, and the consciousness of the resigned ease with which he’s let me go. The letters are not declarations of love or pleas for resolution or even promises for the future but persistent, miserable apologies to which there is really no reply. He’s letting me know, in his own quiet way, that all the street corners will be empty from now on.
I sit in my room crying, choking and spluttering, rocking back and forth, blowing my nose on roll after roll of toilet tissue. I cannot go back but I cannot bear to be where I am. Colin tries to coax me out with various culinary delights; nearly new bourbon biscuits, slightly crushed chocolate éclairs, and chicken korma made fresh from a jar (special offer, two for the price of one). But I’ve lost my appetite. Instead, I stagger down to the Indian shop on the corner to buy single cans of spaghetti, eating them, more often than not, straight from the tin.
Even Ria, who’s never met me before and who has more than enough reason to be wary of the obscene lack of mental health in her new flatmate, makes a few tentative overtures. She offers to help me unpack my bags and make my bed up with some pretty linen and even lends me a delicate, 1930s lamp from her collection of prized objects. But it’s no use. I don’t want to unpack my bags. My bed is far too small to bother with pretty sheets and as for decorating the room, who cares. It’s over. I’m finished. Over the years I’ve transformed from a budding, young actress into a bitter, disillusioned box office manager, selling tickets to plays I could have been in. I’m thirty-two years old, living in a broom cupboard with a theatre queen and a spinster.
I take a few days off of work. And then a few more. When I do show up, eyes red and swollen from crying, I have the concentration of a three-year-old. The same things must be repeated three and four times before I can take them on board. I make mistakes. My colleagues cover for me, finally delegating simple, manual tasks for me to blunder instead. All decisions seem completely overwhelming, even simple ones, like what kind of sandwich to have for lunch. I side step this quandary by not eating at all. My weight plummets and I can’t find the energy to wash my hair or organize clean shirts. I wear the same dress day after day, like a uniform. But I don’t care. All I want to do is go home, close my bedroom door, and fall asleep in the jumper that still smells of him, feels like him, reminds me of him.
And then, well into my third week of unbridled wretchedness, the jumper goes missing.
One morning it’s where I left it in a loving, crumpled heap on the corner of my bed and by that afternoon, it’s gone. I search frantically throughout the whole of my tiny room, flinging the contents out of my half unpacked bags and tearing the sheets off my bed. Then I expand my hunt to the living room and its environs, overturning sofa cushions and rifling through the laundry basket. It isn’t until I’ve exhausted every possibility and am bordering on hysteria that it occurs to me; I’m not dealing with a simple case of a misplaced jumper, I’m dealing with a kidnapping.
Suspiciously, both of my new flatmates have retired early for the night. I knock on Colin’s door first.
‘It wasn’t me!’ he shouts over his new Robbie Williams CD.
‘But you know about it, you traitor!’ I rage, stamping down the hall to pound on Ria’s door.
‘Ria, I believe you have something that belongs to me and I want it back!’
A tiny, sullen voice answers firmly. ‘No.’
I’m flabbergasted. ‘What do you mean “No”! That’s my jumper! You have to return it!’
‘No. It’s bad for house morale.’
Now I’m stunned. ‘You cheeky, little fart! How can it be bad for house morale? It’s got nothing to do with house morale!’ I rattle the doorknob threateningly.
She opens the door a crack. Five feet tall in her stockinged feet, Ria peers at me like a mischievous elf. ‘It has everything to do with house morale when one person has completely given up even trying to pull themselves together.’
Colin’s head pops out from behind his door too. ‘She has a point, Ouise.’
It’s more than I can bear. My eyes sting and my throat’s so tight, I can hardly breathe. ‘I don’t want to discuss it. Just give it back to me. I’m not in the mood for jokes.’
Ria takes my hand. ‘But, darling, believe me, this … this … over-indulgence is not the way to mend a broken heart. You’re doing yourself more harm than good.’
I pull my hand away. ‘What does it matter what I do, as long as I’m quiet and pay my rent? What difference could it possibly make to you! Why should you care, anyway?’
‘Louise …’ She’s taken aback but I can’t help myself.
‘Don’t! Don’t even pretend you care about what happens to me! Do you realize … have you even noticed that my own husband hasn’t rung once since I arrived? Do you know what that means? Do you have any idea?’
‘Honey, I’m sorry …’
‘He doesn’t want me back!’ I point out to her, tears rolling down my face. ‘He doesn’t even want the fucking jumper back!’
I run into my room
