'You too,' I say, my throat tight.
I don't want him to go. I don't want this to be the end. I feel like suggesting a quick drink. I feel like clinging to his hand and saying: Don't leave.
God, what's wrong with me?
'Have a good journey,' I manage as he shakes my hand. Then he turns on his heel and walks off down the corridor.
I open my mouth a couple of times to call after him — but what would I say? There's nothing to say. By tomorrow morning he'll be on a plane back to his life. And I'll be left here in mine.
I feel leaden for the rest of the day. Everyone else is talking about Jack Harper's leaving party, but I leave work half an hour early. I go straight home and make myself some hot chocolate, and I'm sitting on the sofa, staring into space when Connor lets himself into the flat.
I look up as he walks into the room, and immediately I know something's different. Not with him. He hasn't changed a bit.
But I have. I've changed.
'Hi,' he says, and kisses me lightly on the head. 'Shall we go?'
'Go?'
'To look at the flat on Edith Road. We'll have to hurry if we're going to make it to the party. Oh, and my mother's given us a house-warming present. It was delivered to work.'
He hands me a cardboard box, I pull out a glass teapot and look at it blankly.
'You can keep the tea-leaves separate from the water. Mum says it really does make a better cup of tea—'
'Connor,' I hear myself saying. 'I can't do this.'
'It's quite easy. You just have to lift the—'
'No.' I shut my eyes, trying to gather some courage, then open them again. 'I can't do this. I can't move in with you.'
'What?' Connor stares at me. 'Has something happened?'
'Yes. No.' I swallow. 'I've been having doubts for a while. About us. And recently they've … they've been confirmed. If we carry on, I'll be a hypocrite. It's not fair to either of us.'
'What?' Connor rubs his face. 'Emma, are you saying you want to … to …'
'I want to break up,' I say, staring at the carpet.
'You're joking.'
'I'm not joking!' I say in sudden anguish. 'I'm not joking, OK?'
'But … this is ridiculous! It's ridiculous!' Connor's pacing around the room like a rattled lion. Suddenly he looks at me.
'It's that plane journey.'
'What?' I jump as though I've been scalded. 'What do you mean?'
'You've been different ever since that plane ride down from Scotland.'
'No I haven't!'
'You have! You've been edgy, you've been tense …' Connor squats down in front of me and takes my hands. 'Emma, I think maybe you're still suffering some kind of trauma. You could have counselling.'
'Connor, I don't need counselling!' I jerk my hands away. 'But maybe you're right. Maybe that plane ride did …' I swallow. 'Affect me. Maybe it brought my life into perspective and make me realize a few things. And one of the things I've realized is, we aren't right for each other.'
Slowly Connor sinks down onto the carpet, his face bewildered.
'But things have been great! We've been having lots of sex—'
'I know.'
'Is there someone else?'
'No!' I say sharply. 'Of course there's no-one else!' I rub my finger roughly up and down the cover of the sofa.
'This isn't you talking,' says Connor suddenly. 'It's just the mood you're in. I'll run you a nice hot bath, light some scented candles …'
'Connor, please!' I cry. 'No more scented candles! You have to listen to me. And you have to believe me.' I look straight into his eyes. 'I want to break up.'
'I don't believe you!' he says, shaking his head. 'I know you, Emma! You're not that kind of person. You wouldn't just throw away something like that. You wouldn't—'
He stops in shock as, with no warning, I hurl the glass teapot to the floor.
We both stare at it, stunned.
'It was supposed to break,' I explain after a pause. 'And that was going to signify that yes, I would throw something away. If I knew it wasn't right for me.'
'I think it has broken,' says Connor, picking it up and examining it. 'At least, there's a hairline crack.'
'There you go.'
'We could still use it—'
'No. We couldn't.'
'We could get some Sellotape.'
'But it would never work properly.' I clench my fists by my sides. 'It just … wouldn't work.'
'I see,' says Connor after a pause.
And I think, finally, he does.
'Well … I'll be off then,' he says at last. 'I'll phone the flat people and tell them that we're …' He stops, and roughly wipes his nose.
'OK,' I say, in a voice which doesn't sound like mine. 'Can we keep it quiet from everyone at work?' I add. 'Just for the moment.'
'Of course,' he says gruffly. 'I won't say anything.'
He's halfway out of the door when abruptly he turns back, reaching in his pocket. 'Emma, here are the tickets for the jazz festival,' he says, his voice cracking a little. 'You have them.'
