Chapter Twenty-Five

Monday 24th June

'Played out by the band, Love is a losing hand,
More than I could stand, Love is a losing hand.'

Nikki had promised herself the night of Leo's funeral that from that day on she would be strong. She wouldn't go running to Harry for help, his non-appearance on that day of all days spoke volumes. She'd read his excuses on his emails before she'd consigned them to her junk box. Francis had waxed lyrical about all the help he had been and how upset he was not to be there. But the fact was that he had left her to get through that day by herself. It was unforgiveable.

She'd assured herself that she wouldn't nose dive into any of the destructive behaviours she'd fallen into before when she felt her grip on the controls of life weaken. No random men in her bed, no wallowing in self-pity, no looking back, no medication. She would be the one in charge and it would be a one woman show.

The intentions were good.

Some of them she kept.

But she'd forgotten how debilitating the insomnia was.

She could happily fall asleep at six o'clock when she got home from work, her head so heavy and body so tired she rarely made it passed the first chair in her house. She'd moved the couch just so that it was closer to the door. But then she'd wake a couple of hours later having had nothing to eat, too tired to make anything and too tired to go back to sleep. The downwards spiral was ghastly. The lack of food exacerbated the tiredness, the poor sleep routine aggravated the insomnia.

Then there was: the grief, the anger, the helplessness, the fear.

She talked to Harry then. Called out to him as she lay in her bed in the middle of the night pretending he was in the room next to her. She told him about the day's case, about the police officer she'd torn a strip off, about what variety of chocolate bar Jack had left on her desk. She told him she hated him. But she never picked up the phone and she made sure never to have her computer on at lunch time on Sunday.

She was moving on.

She couldn't go back.

She wouldn't go back.

She'd tried going out, Jack always offered and she'd gone a couple of times, having checked that Clarissa would come too. She liked having her there; somehow she couldn't face the idea of a night out on her own with Jack. Maybe she was afraid she would enjoy it. But with Clarissa with them it was impossible to express her own sense of injustice at the cards life had dealt her; one look at her companion quashed any notion of life being fair. They had all chosen to go to Afghanistan. They'd not chosen the consequences but Clarissa; she'd had no choice about the hand she'd been dealt.

She'd tried the cinema. On reflection Les Miserables hadn't been the best choice.

She'd tried a classical concert, but she'd felt self-conscious on her own and even more so as the tears rolled down her face.

"It's is a moving piece isn't it dear?" The lady next to her had said. "I've always found the cello a magnificently stirring instrument."

Anne had invited her to the summer musical production but she'd declined saying she was on call that weekend.

Truth was she was on call every weekend. The department was falling apart at the seams. The principal had put out job adverts and hired a locum when the work load was ridiculous. But all Nikki was able to do successfully was work, so there didn't seem much point in taking a break. Besides Leo's sofa was the only place she could guarantee a decent sleep.

She'd cleared out his office. Piled his stuff into boxes and driven it round to his house. They had agreed to keep spare keys at the Lyell after Harry had had to break her door down that time. She'd never imagined being in Leo's house by herself. Certainly not in the circumstances.

It was like tiptoeing around in your grandparent's bedroom when they were out.

She made herself a cup of tea, opening the cupboard and revealing the jars and cans of food, pasta, coffee, matches, bin bags. The boring stuff of day to day life. She crumpled to the floor, sliding down the cupboard, her body shaking with violent sobs.

"I can't do this Leo," she'd cried out. "I know you told me not to give up, I know you showed me but it hurts Leo, it hurts."

She'd left the tea in the sink. Thrown out the contents of the fridge. Left the boxes from the Lyell in the middle of the floor and had driven home.

She might be a one woman show, but there were some things she was not strong enough for.

Days, weeks went by.

She no longer needed make-up to create the smoky/ dusky eyed look. She'd got natural black rings above and below her eyes. She'd lost weight too; she needed to make a change. But she just didn't have the energy. The one time she'd gone to an exercise class, the first time she'd stretched down to the floor and rolled up through her spine again she felt the blackness dancing at the edges of her vision. Two tracks later and she'd nearly passed out.

There weren't many letters that still came for Harry. Most of them she recognised. The Letting Agency, bank statements, store loyalty points. She didn't even bother opening most of them. Just chucked them in a drawer. Out of sight.

But there were two different ones this week . The first was a replacement debit card. She'd make sure to hold on to that one. He wouldn't want it sent, would he?

The second was from the Letting Agency, it wasn't the normal month end review. She opened it and felt the slack grip with which she held on to the control of her life weaken and then shatter. The letter was a copy of Harry's instruction to sell his flat when the current lease expired at the end of the month.

"Don't give up on love," she remembered Leo saying. He hadn't been the only one in the past year to say that to her.

But love had given up on her. She'd tried to keep hold of it all these years, retain some semblance that her life was just like anyone else's. But it wasn't. Everyone had left her.

Everyone.

For a while she still held out hope that Harry would return; that somehow things might work out between them but she held the proof in her hand. He was selling his flat. He wasn't ever coming back. It was the end of the line.


'Love Is A Losing Game' Amy Winehouse