Sore Spot

N.K. Woods

It’s been a week since we last spoke but when my buzzer sounds I’m sure it’s Zoe pressing the bell. No one else would call round at 1am on a Saturday morning.

The intercom doesn’t wake me – I haven’t been to sleep yet, despite going to bed when the sun was still visible in the summer sky – but I don’t spring into action. There’s no way I’m opening the door to her, not when I’m dressed in a ratty T-shirt and shorts. The days of letting her see me with my guard down are gone. I’d need armour to face Zoe now, andheadphones; after all, she might repeat her I’m so sorry but something has to give speech or I wish things were different but I don’t have time for us right now goodbye.

But why would she bother with a repeat performance? In my head I’ve composed plenty of furious texts, resentful one-liners, sad emails and pathetic letters, but I haven’t made contact with her since she cut me loose. As clean breaks go, it was sterile. She doesn’t haveanything to complain about. And it’s not as if she’s the kind of woman who’d get a thrill out of kicking me when I’m down. She was the one with wet eyes after ending our relationship; I was too stunned to well up or even protest. Instead I flew out of the coffee shop without saying a word.

No, the only reason for her to be here is a change of heart. She must have realised that she needs me in her life. The thought pushes any concerns about how I look from my mind. I bolt out of bed, knocking over the golf bag I’ve been using as a clothes horse. One of the clubs lands on my foot; I curse but don’t stop. Hobbling into the hall, I press the button on the wall panel. “Hello! Zoe, you there?”

All I hear is static. But then the front door opens and Daniel tiptoes in. He flips the light switch and jerks back in surprise when he sees me. After faking a heart attack, he drops his holdall and hugs me.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Thought you’d snoozed through the buzzer.” Blowing one of my curls from his mouth, he goes on, “Sorry for waking you but I thought I’d lost my keys. Found the bloody things as soon as I rang the bell.”

I’m pleased to see him. But I feel foolish; disappointed too. Afraid he’ll see the mixed emotions on my face, I bend over to rub the bridge of my foot.

“You okay?” He sounds genuinely concerned and I wonder if that’s why he’s back from his trip twelve hours earlier than planned.

I limp across the hall, explaining as I go about my collision with his golf clubs.

“Let me get cleaned up and I’ll kiss the sore spot better.” He follows me into thebedroom and shakes his head as he picks up the golf bag and the jeans I’d draped over it.“We’ve got to move. This shoebox was fine when you were on your own, but it’s too small for the two of us. It’s time to get a bigger place. Out of town, maybe? We could afford a house if we went out far enough. One with a garden. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Out of town. The phrase echoes in my head as Daniel strokes my hair and talks about how nice it would be to settle into a proper family home. He says I deserve the world and that he can’t bear the thought of me being sad; he admits, lowering his voice, to skipping the drinks that were scheduled for after the end-of-conference dinner because he wanted to wake up with me rather than with another hangover; and, in a whisper, he swears his job in life is to make me happy. Then he squeezes me tight before going to shower.

As soon as I’m alone, part of me resolves to make more of an effort. I thought I’d been doing an okay job of hiding my blue mood, but obviously not. Living with a mope isn’t fair on Daniel. And having him feel the need to miss a shindig in a snazzy hotel because he was worried about me definitely isn’t on; I don’t believe he craved a night of spooning or a clear head – he never says no to a party. But another part of me is too preoccupied with his mention of out of town to care much about his personality change.

Out of town. The phrase is like an earworm. I sit cross-legged on the bed and picture the place that’s swallowing up so many of my friends. The image that comes to mind is the commuter town where Zoe went a few years ago to be nearer her aging parents. A dull spotan hour away by train. An hour and three quarters when you factor getting from the door of her semi-d to the lobby of her office block; two and a bit when you allow for the crèche run.Little wonder she slept like the dead whenever she crashed here – a fact we both found funny considering the lumpiness of my sofa, the noise from the traffic below my second-floor windows and her claim to have been given insomnia as a thirty-fifth birthday present. 

The hum of the electric shower stops and a minute later Daniel reappears wrapped in a towel. “D’you fancy heading to the farmers’ market in the morning? We could get a box of those coconut muffins you love and eat them in the park.”

I’m too taken aback to answer. He hates the farmers’ market, says it smells of toxic cheese. And he never eats muffins. I’m the one with the sweet tooth. He’s got more savoury tastes; give him a supply of boiled eggs and Worcestershire sauce and he’s a content man. 

“We could go see a film afterwards,” he continues. “There’s a new Ryan Gosling out, isn’t there? You like him.”

His efforts to get me out of my funk make me smile; and the similarity between his tactics and those used by my mother when I suffered my first major heartache make me laugh. 

Daniel brightens at my laugh and asks what’s so funny. I don’t answer but reach out a hand and tug on his towel. He lets it drop but doesn’t move. His expression turns doubtful, as if he isn’t sure sex is a good idea, not now he’s treating me with kid gloves. Cheered by his thoughtfulness, amused too, I uncross my legs and beckon him closer. He doesn’t need further coaxing, although he does draw the blackout curtains before joining me in bed.

Ten minutes later he’s out for the count. I’m more relaxed than before, but my mind refuses to rest. Freeing myself from his embrace, I open the curtains an inch. I can’t see out, but the orange glow from a lamp across the street filters through the blind, which I closed last night instead of the curtains. Unlike Daniel, I don’t need total darkness to fall asleep. I actually prefer a little light – proof the world is waiting for when I’m ready to face it. I lay back down and keep my eyes on the warm strip; I watch it till the sun comes up. 

When it can reasonably be called morning, I slip out of bed, close the curtains in case Daniel stirs, and silently shut the door as I leave the room. I’m no longer hobbling but, to my surprise, my foot still hurts. I stop to examine it; there’s no visible mark but it’s tender to touch. Straightening up, I spot Daniel’s holdall. It’s where he left it in the hall, by the laundry basket that’s too big for the bathroom. I lug the bag into the living room, where it’ll be less of a trip hazard. I love the flat, part of a refurbished Georgian townhouse in the heart of the city,but Daniel has a point; there isn’t enough room for two. I bought it more than a decade ago, when it was marketed by the developer as a haven for the single professional, when the only storage problem I had was where to keep my bike. That was easy enough to sort; I gave itaway and signed up for the public bike share scheme. There’s a pick-up / drop-off station just around the corner – my own transport hub for getting everywhere from the recruitment agency where I work to the pool where I swim most days. Of course, since Daniel moved in I have access to a car – he rents a space in a multi-storey eyesore near the river – but I hardly ever make use of his standing offer to act as chauffeur. While I’m always on the move, everywhere I need to be I can reach on foot or by bike. My world is crowded, in a good way, but also compact. Unfortunately, crowded and compact don’t go so well together when it comes to the flat. 

“Someday your floor’s gonna give way and land downstairs,” Zoe had once joked while transferring boxes of Daniel’s catalogues from the sofa to an armchair.

I wallow briefly in the memory before pushing her from my mind. Think of other things – I tell myself, starting with what it would be like to live in a bigger place. Leaningagainst the breakfast bar that separates the galley kitchen from the living room, I open my iPad to look up houses for sale. I start with the city centre but apart from a fire damaged cottage near the canal, I can’t find a single house in our price range. Expanding the search to include apartments and flats with a parking space gives more results, but no winners. I consider trawling through what’s on the market in the suburbs but quickly dismiss the idea;there’s no way I’m moving to the no man’s land that’s part of the city without being properly urban. That leaves the commuter belt in the neighbouring counties. Town and country. How bad can it be? Awful is my first reaction but I force myself to keep an open mind. Tons of people make the move each year. There have to be benefits to relocating that I haven’t considered, like easier access to the great outdoors and less chance of being mugged. And it would probably suit Daniel. It would certainly save him time; he’s a sales rep for the whole province and spends half his week visiting clients outside of the city. 

I’ve known for a while that I need to make some changes; maybe starting over in a new area is the way to go. A strange feeling bubbles up inside me at the prospect of upendingmy life. I convince myself its excitement and carefully go through the search results.

It’s shocking to see what we could afford an hour up the road. If I sold my flat, which has doubled in value since I bought it during the crash, and ploughed the profit into a new property, we could trade up to a detached house. The mortgage would be much bigger than the one I have now but it’d be manageable with two incomes.

I skim through the photos of the show house in a new estate. Four bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms. “And a partridge in a pear tree,” I murmur, studying the floor plan while daydreaming about having space to breathe and stretch.

The pictures of the house and its professionally decorated interior stick in my mind even when I click off my iPad and begin transferring clothes from the basket in the hall to the washing machine in the kitchen. By the time the load is sudsy and spinning, I’m imagining doing laundry in a house with a utility room and places to dry clothes out of sight rather than on a rack blocking the TV. By the time the cycle is done, I’ve decided on my next step. I don’t bother unloading the machine but return to the bedroom and open the curtains and the blind. 

“Whoa, someone’s really desperate for a coconut muffin,” groans Daniel. He covers his face with a pillow.

“Change of plan.” I grab the pillow and bop him with it. “We’re going on a road trip. I’ll be ready in twenty minutes so you need to get a wiggle on.” Before he can ask any questions I tap my non-existent watch. “Nineteen and three-quarters…. Tick tock!”

By 9am we’re strolling through the streets on our way to pick up the car. The city is quiet and the air fresh. This is the best time to be out and about – after the cleaners have been at work but before the shoppers and brunch brigade descend. We stop at a deli and buy a warm chocolate croissant for me and hash browns for Daniel. Sustenance for our mystery tour, as he’s dubbed it; I’m keeping our destination a surprise. We eat as we walk, playfully jostling each other’s elbows while enjoying the luxury of empty pavements on a sunny Saturday. 

Once we’re in the car Daniel looks expectantly from me to the satnav. 

“Nice try,” I say, clicking in my seatbelt. “Just take the motorway north.”

He tugs a lock of hair and sets off.

Traffic is light and it doesn’t take long to reach the motorway. Every time we pass an exit Daniel glances at me for guidance and I signal for him to keep going. Meanwhile I keep track of our progress on an app on my phone. After fifty minutes, I begin issuing instructions. 

“Take the next exit…. Turn left…. Straight through the roundabout…. And the next one…. And the next one…. Right at the T-junction…. Under the railway bridge.”

Between the T-junction and the bridge, doubt creeps into my voice but Daniel doesn’t notice. He may not know exactly where we’re going but I think he’s guessed my game. Heseems delighted. So far, he’s pointed out a golf course and a train station with an express service into the city. But the area is more rural than I expected. There are patches of road with no markings and I haven’t seen a streetlight since the last village. With no shops nearby or even a footpath to follow, you’d need a good reason to trudge along these dreary roads, especially as every driver who passes seems oblivious to the speed limit.

Finally, after skirting the edge of a small town, we reach our destination. It’s marked by a billboard advertising the first phase of an exclusive development and a flag promoting the Open House event I read about on the property website. 

There’s no denying that the detached houses with their spacious plots are impressive, but I can’t tear my eyes from the land surrounding the estate. There’s nothing to see but grass.

Daniel whistles. “Wow! This place is amazing. It’s so peaceful.”

Dead is a better word, but I keep the thought to myself. 

I tell him why we’re here and suggest waiting in the car – we’re slightly early for the viewing – but he wants to explore.

There are twelve houses in all, set in a horse-shoe. One is already occupied, judging by the vehicles and toys on the drive; seven, including the show house, are finished; and the rest look to be at the kit-out stage. By the time the woman running the Open House appears, Daniel has settled on No. 8 as the best of the bunch. It’s situated in the widest point of the curve so doesn’t look directly at another building, and is furthest from the road.

A few other couples have arrived and are milling around the site but we’re first in the queue. The estate agent greets us, notes down our details, hands us a brochure and ushers us into No. 7 – the show house.

Up close, I hate it. The plush carpets. The over-abundance of soft furnishings; there are twenty cushions in the main sitting room. The lack of cornices. The chrome kitchen that makes me think of a science lab. The mood music. The windows that open out instead of down. The recessed lights. The fake fire in the second sitting room. The ensuite with no window. The weird proportions; the main bedroom is huge while two of the spares are too narrow to fit anything more than a futon. The samey view. The only thing I like is the main bathroom, but Jack and Jill sinks aren’t enough of a selling point for me to uproot my life.

“Cool, isn’t it?” Daniel beams at me, our initial sweep over. “I mean, all the fussy stuff is brutal but the bones are good. And it’s not like we’d be buying the show house.”Thankfully he doesn’t wait for me to answer but disappears to investigate the attic.

I retreat to the smaller sitting room, the one with the fake fire, and plonk onto an unyielding ottoman. Other potential buyers pass through. They all seem as enthused as Daniel. Everyone has their phone out. Not so long ago I’d have had mine out too, to text Zoe. If she could see me now she’d be gobsmacked. I can’t help myself. I dig my phone out of my bag and scroll through our last exchanges, which are nearly all texts from Zoe apologising for cancelling on me at the last minute. 

Her baby was sick. Her mother needed to be brought to a hospital appointment. Her husband couldn’t make the parent-teacher meeting so she had to cover it. Her boss needed her to fly to London. Her boss’s boss needed a report PRONTO. Her father wanted her to drive him to a funeral in the middle of nowhere. Her daughter’s soccer coach had messed up thetraining schedule. Her babysitter was double-booked. Her daughter’s teacher had roped herinto helping set up the school hall for a bake sale. 

My replies were all the same: no worries and a smiley face. Scrolling further back, I realise that before the nightmare coffee date, the last time we managed an actual meet-up was when she crashed at mine after a crisis at work kept her in the office till midnight.

There’s no record of our older history, of when we shared a flat in college, danced every Friday night, slept in on Saturdays, shared secrets, pooled resources, plotted adventuresand travelled the world after graduation – six months with backpacks and limited access to showers and laundrettes, and a pact, made in Vietnam, to forget about shaving till we got home. Those versions of us pre-date mobile phones but I remember them vividly. I prefer the old Zoe; she does too, I think. I’ve changed less than her, but still. The old me would not be considering relocating to a field with only my boyfriend of eighteen months for company.

I hear her whisper run, and smile. I have other friends, newer friends I’ve met through work and socialising, but none of them is as honest as Zoe.​

I don’t run, but I do go outside and sit on the low wall in the front garden. 

More people arrive but no one leaves. No one emerges from the lived-in house either.It’s like the Bermuda Triangle of estates.

When Daniel finally escapes, he takes one look at my face and laughs. “Not a fan?”

It’s ridiculous but I feel like crying. “I shouldn’t have dragged us out here. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m just over the moon that you’re open to the idea of upping sticks. And it was useful. Now we’ve a better idea of what we don’t like. I mean, the house is ten out of ten. It has it all, but the location is wrong. Too remote. I want to be able to stroll to the pub.” He pulls me to my feet and grins. “We’ll do better next time. Home now, though.”

As we head for the car, he asks what put me off, the house or the area.

“Both. The house has no soul and I wouldn’t last a day so far from-”

Before I can say civilisation, Daniel interrupts. “From your friends. I get it. It’d be hard moving someplace where you have no one. But how’s this for a plan? We shift the search to towns south of the city, you know – places close to Zoe.” I stop abruptly but he keeps talking. “She’d be as good as a ready-made support network. And a fair few of your other friends are out that way too, right? You’d have a ball.”

By the time he realises I’m not following, Daniel has the driver’s door open. With the sun in his eyes, he squints at me and asks if I’m okay – the same question he asked last night when he came home early, when I thought he’d twigged about how upset I am about Zoe. 

“Why did you skip the drinks after the conference?” I demand.

There’s a pause before he answers. “I told you. I wanted to spend time with you.” He adds sheepishly, “And I’d downed enough on the first night to pickle my liver.”

“And what? You screwed up?” With the sun at my back, I can see clearly; there’s no mistaking the guilt on his face. His thoughtfulness makes horrible sense now. “With who? A rep with an epic sales technique?”

A glammed-up couple scurries past, carefully averting their eyes before climbing into their SUV and shooting away. 

Daniel rushes towards me, almost tripping in his haste. “I didn’t cheat on you. I would never do that.”

An engine roars to life behind me. I briefly consider asking the latest Open House escapees for a lift to the train station, but decide I’d prefer to risk my life on a road with no path than deal with curiosity or concern. I let the car, a people carrier, pass and then set off.

“But I did screw up,” blurts Daniel. I ignore him and keep walking. “Hear me out! Please. Look, I got poached. A rival company got in touch a while ago but I knocked them back. But their Head of Sales was at the conference and we got chatting in the bar. You wouldn’t believe the package he’s offering. Bigger salary, more holidays, health cover – for you as well as me, pension. The works.” I’m on the road now but he’s following, talking all the time, the words coming faster and faster. “The only snag is location. I’d be lead rep for the whole of the south. I couldn’t do it if I stayed living in the city. I was going to talk to you about it but I got excited, said yes. I’m due to sign the contract on Thursday. I should have war-gamed it with you first, I know, but I was afraid you wouldn’t want to move. I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

I believe him but inside I’m in bits so I keep walking. I only stop when the pain in my foot flares up. The strap of my flip flop is rubbing against the sore spot, where the beginnings of a bruise has appeared. I gaze at it, shocked by how much it hurts. 

Daniel stops beside me. We stand awkwardly on the verge but don’t touch. Neither of us is good at confrontation or its aftermath. While we often bicker, this is the first time either of us has stormed off during an argument. He says he’s sorry, again. I say nothing; I don’t think I could keep it together if I tried to explain that I’m gutted because my recent wretchedness made so little impression on him that he actually forgot what happened with Zoe. So I keep my eyes fixed on the bruise and imagine it growing bigger and uglier. As the silence drags on, I sense Daniel bowing his head. Then he sighs.  

“Those bloody clubs,” he mutters to himself, before suggesting I stay put and rest myfoot while he goes back for the car. 

I nod, desperate for a minute to myself. He sprints so a minute is all I get.

We’re both subdued for the first part of the journey home. Mostly I stare out the window. There’s no need for me to issue instructions. Daniel knows the lay of the land now. 

It isn’t long before we hit the motorway. The flow of traffic heading into the city is surprisingly heavy but then I remember there’s a big match on this afternoon.

“I’ll tell them I’ve changed my mind,” announces Daniel, switching lane to let a minibus by. The driver hoots and a few of the passengers, rugby fans based on their jerseys, wave.

I take a deep breath and say no.

“No?” repeats Daniel, his voice full of hope. 

“You should take the job. It sounds brilliant.”

“And you’ll come?”

I hesitate. The word no is hard enough to say once. I struggle to get it out a second time, but manage it, eventually.

“No?” he repeats.

“You were right about today being useful. I’ve figured out where I want to be.”

He doesn’t ask any more questions. I’m grateful for that. The conversation about where our relationship is going can wait. I doubt he’s ready to hear that I don’t want a family home, or a family life; and he’s definitely not ready to hear that long distance might suit us, weekends together and weekdays apart, loved-up time plus all the room we need.

It’s the perfect solution. I knew it as soon as he mentioned not being able to make it work if he stayed in the city, the way I knew the flat was the one for me before I’d seen every room, the way I instinctively knew Daniel would be coming home with me the night I met him at a comedy club.

Despite the traffic, we make good time. When the quays are in sight, Daniel turns away from the river, bypassing the carpark. I tell him there’s no need; I lie and say the pain has eased. But he insists on driving me the whole way home. It’ll take him ages to negotiate the one-way system to the multi-storey and then trek back but he doesn’t complain.

After making my way slowly up the stairs and into the flat, I open the windows and kick off my flip flops. The relief is immense. The bruise is darker now, the flesh swollen. I fetch a bag of peas from the freezer and press it against the sore spot. It stings but I stretch out on the sofa and wait for the pain to fade. Gradually the area goes numb and other things come into focus: buses rumbling past, buskers in the distance, the terrier upstairs – he always barks when left alone for too long. Covering myself up with the rug I use when watching TV, I close my eyes. 

An hour later I wake, achy still but less raw. Tossing the now mushy peas onto the windowsill, I wipe my foot dry with the rug and stretch out again. Daniel should be in shortly; he might even be on the stairs. I listen but there’s no sound of his footsteps. He might be dragging his heels, though, worried he’s about to be dumped. I take out my phone to reassure him. I consider texting him the dove and olive branch emoji, but instead opt for a heart.

Once the message is sent, I start a new one, for Zoe. I keep it short and emoji free and press send before I can change my mind.

It’s alright I understand Xxx

A silence settles then on the flat, one of those odd lulls you experience occasionally in

the city, but it doesn’t last long as seconds later my phone beeps.