HarryPotter went to bed in the guest bedroom and I bunked up in Loraine and Philip’s room. I did feel a bit odd and guilty. They asked me to look after the house, not to sleep in it. But I couldn’t ask HP to go all the way back to Glasgow after 8 hours of driving, and I certainly couldn’t take him back to the flat. And I promise I’ll wash the linens and have everything tip tidy before Loraine gets back.
So, I thought I’d fall asleep quickly last night, long weekend and all, but no matter how much I pressed my eyelids shut, or listed the books I’d like to read and the films I’d like to see (a trick I use for falling asleep), I stayed awake.
The problem with staying awake when you should be sleeping is that your mind wanders and all those silly thoughts, the ones that in the light of day do not exist, come rushing forward. You begin worrying about work and friends and relationships and ghosts.
Yep ghosts. LadyBohemia died in that house, and while I’d love to see her again, the thought of her translucent silvery form whisping through the bedroom freaked me out. Then as if almost on cue, I heard noises coming from the top floor, scuffling and shifting. Then I started to imagine a noise on the stairs. Was her chairlift moving on its own?
Like a child, I leapt out of bed, ran down the hallway with one eye shut, and burst in to HarryPotter’s room. I thought he’d wake the moment I entered, but he just lay there snoring, and suddenly I realised that I was being a twit. So I stood there, thinking, ‘I can’t wake HarryPotter up and tell him that I think there’s a ghost in the house, and I can’t go back out there, what if I run into LadyBohemia?’
So, I stood there. And eventually, HarryPotter rolled over, opened one eye and jumped a mile high screaming, ‘What the fuck are you doing? Don’t just stand over the bed, it’s creepy.’
‘I had a nightmare,’ I replied. Not too far off from the truth, and in hindsight it probably wasn’t any better of an excuse than I think there’s a ghost in the house.
He raised up the duvet and told me to get in. He was warm and the back of his neck smelled like soap, and his hair was still a bit damp from his pre-bed shower. He rolled away, with his back to me, and without asking a curled up against him. He pulled my arm across him and I fell asleep holding his hand.
This morning after HP left forGlasgow, I finally went through Fife’s texts from the weekend. They were mostly just running commentary about cute stuff the kids did, and asking when I’d be back. He also said that he ploughed through and got the first draft of the book he’s writing finished. (Not really sure how he spent the weekend writing and hung out with the kids, but he does like to believe he’s super-Dad who can do it all.) The next text then said, ‘Writing’s kept me from thinking about you all weekend. Now that the book is finished I want you back in the flesh.’
What the fuck does that mean?
As I scrolled through the texts, I began to miss him and my anger with him subsided. Perhaps HP is right. Fife was going to ask for a divorce and his wife beat him to it. I shouldn’t hold timing against him. And if HP is giving me advice to stay with Fife, then there’s nothing between he and I, not like it would matter if there was. We’re not going down that road again.
Right, I need to pop off home to get a change of clothes, before returning to the office. And I need to see if my boyfriend is home, and what state our relationship is in. What a way to start a morning.