Page 103 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
I’ve put a CD in here. Hopefully, the songs make sense. It was the birthday present I should have made for you. I even included Barry White’s ‘Love’s Theme’ because I’m a soppy bastard really. And it’s OK if you put it back in the wrong case, because that is all you. And I love you.
All my love,
Will xx
Track Twenty-Two
‘Scar Tissue’ – Red Hot Chili Peppers (1999)
I don’t stick around the next morning. It’s still a strange feeling to wake up from an evening out stone-cold sober and ready to take on the day, so I think about what Joe and I might get up to. I might wash my hair during one of Joe’s naps. Oh, the excitement. I think about what food is in the house and I realise I have Super Noodles and so I suddenly fantasise about being in my favourite hoodie and pyjama bottoms, slurping them out of my favourite orange bowl. I can watch re-runs ofGrey’s Anatomy(I do this a lot now). I’ll put some laundry on. I’ll mooch. I may also read Will’s letter again. Lucy and Dad were right, it was an important read and maybe something I shouldn’t have dismissed so quickly. I read it last night through misty eyes but it deserves to be read and considered again. He just wants to be sure he gets parenthood right. He is sorry. He loves me.
As we get home, I trundle along with Joe in his car seat and hear noises through the front door and I pause, wondering who it might be. It’s either burglars or Will and I’m not sure I’m ready to take on either. I put my keys in the door hesitantly and open it.
Oh.
Of all the people it could be, I see Yasmin asleep on our sofa. She’s covered in one of our posher fleece blankets, her shoes next to the sofa. A head pops out from the kitchen. Will. This is not strange. Not strange at all.
‘Where have you been?’ he whispers.
I could ask him the same question. But I don’t. Instead I put sleeping Joe down next to our coffee table and Will pulls me into the bedroom.
‘What on earth is going on?’ I ask.
‘Why isn’t your phone on?’
‘It ran out of battery.’ This is my default thing. I always carry about twenty-five per cent on a good day and then am surprised when it dies on me. ‘Why is Yasmin King asleep on our sofa?’ I ask. ‘Why are you here?’
There’s also a part of me that wants to tell him I read the letter. I loved the letter.
‘I needed to see you yesterday. It was our nine-year anniversary, did you know that?’ he replies.
I shake my head.
‘Facebook told me. Some picture of that gig came up. And it kinda broke me. So I came round with an Indian at around nine-ish and instead of you being here, there was a model sitting outside our flat.’
‘Yasmin.’
He nods, concerned.
‘I lied and said you were away for the night with your sisters and invited her in. I think she must have thought I was a right pig too. I bought quite a lot of food for just one person. She ate all my tarka dhal.’
‘She would. She’s into lentils.’
I poke my head around the door. She’s lying there in one of Will’s old sweatshirts and leggings, her expression strained even in sleep. I guess I should be worried that my boyfriend was home alone with a model but strangely that doesn’t enter my brain. I plug my phone in to charge in our bedroom and my WhatsApp notifications ping like a fruit machine.
‘And she told me everything,’ he carries on. ‘About that Harry bloke, her pregnancy, how he’s not leaving his wife. How her fella has thrown her out and won’t let her see their dog and yeah…’
I nod. ‘She does this now. She comes round, we hang out. Do you know why she was crying?’
A voice suddenly trails in from the doorway, where Yasmin’s resting a sleepy Joe on her hip. The little man’s eyes light up to see his dad.
‘Harry’s tried to pay me off. He booked an appointment in some fancy clinic for me to get rid of our baby.’
Yasmin hands Joe over to Will and he nestles into his father’s chest, as he hugs him tightly. I watch them for a moment, together. ‘You two should talk,’ says Will. ‘I’ll get Joe changed.’
I nod and lead Yasmin back to the sofa where she was sleeping, urging her to take a seat while I take my shoes off.
‘Yasmin, that’s bloody awful. How?’ I say.
