Follow You Home by Mark Edwards Read Free Book Online Page A

I said, leaning through the window, fingers gripping the frame.
    She took a long, deep breath. ‘I’m going to stay with Erin a nd Rob.’
    They were friends of ours who lived in Camden.
    I could barely speak. ‘Why?’
    She shook her head sadly. ‘You know why, Daniel.’
    And then she had gone, the taxi accelerating through puddles, soaking an old woman on the other side of the road and vanishing around the corner.
    I stood in the street for a long time, not aware of the rain until it dripped into my eyes and all I could see was a watery veil that at least, though it didn’t really matter, hid my tears.

    I hauled myself off the chair and drifted into the living room, almost tripping over the recycling box that I’d left by the door, all the empty wine bottles inside it rattling and clinking together. This reminded me that I needed to do an online grocery shop. I only had two bottles of alcohol left in the flat, one of which was a litre bottle of Ouzo that Jake had brought back from a holiday in Greece a year ago. Poor Jake had been forced to endure several nights sitting with me while I got drunk and openly mourned my relationship. It was particularly frustrating for him because I wouldn’t tell him what had created the fracture that tore Laura and me apart.
    ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he kept saying. ‘You guys were so good together.’
    ‘I  know .’
    ‘Is she seeing someone else? Want me to kill the bastard for you? Or put him in a song?’
    ‘There’s no one else.’
    ‘Then there’s only one explanation. The two of you have gone stark raving mad.’ He waited for me to respond. When I didn’t, he said, ‘Come on, you can tell me. I can keep a secret.’
    ‘Hah. Come off it, Jake. You’re the biggest gossip I’ve ever met. You can’t resist sharing a good story.’
    ‘I’m offended, Dan. If you tell me it’s a secret, I’ll keep it right here.’ He laid a hand across his heart. ‘I can keep secrets, you know.’
    It had rained so much in the past few weeks that I had taken to glancing out the window expecting to see bodies floating past. While I’m not so egotistical as to think the weather is connected to my own life, it certainly felt appropriate. I had spent many days sitting in my flat watching the rain pummel the windows, people dashing from their cars in the street below, kids splashing in puddles while their soaked parents tried to drag them home. I wanted the rain to wash away the memory of what we’d seen and done. But all it did was cause the damp patch beneath the front window to bloom and spread, and give me a good excuse to stay indoors.
    I entered the galley kitchen. One of the three light bulbs w as de ad but I hadn’t got round to changing it. I had a feeling that when the last bulb finally died I would come to rely on the light from t he fridge.
    I looked at my phone to check the time. Quarter to twelve. Too early to open the remaining Merlot. But I could have a glass with lunch. One o’clock was a more civilised time to have lunch, but noon was acceptable. I occupied myself for fifteen minutes watching a daytime TV item about a woman who believed she’d had a sexual encounter with a ghost, then returned to the kitchen. I wasn’t hungry and there was green fur on the bread. Could I have a glass of wine without food? I knew I shouldn’t but I could taste it, anticipating its bloody thickness on my tongue.
    I poured half a glass, hesitated, then topped it up. Took it over to the sofa and slumped in front of the TV. An item came on about Center Parcs: a family walking through a forest. I snatched up the remote control and changed the channel.
    If I could sleep, could get just one decent night’s rest, I was certain I would feel better, that I would be able to function again. This was one of the excuses I made for drinking, because after two bottles I would pass out. But an hour or two later, I would jerk awake, feeling like a