Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts.
I nearly get out of bed and call my mum, or my sister, or Michelle back in Bucklebury, just to hear some familiar voices and familiar feedback, but I haven’t spoken to them properly in weeks. I nearly send Janie a message to see if she’s up, but I can’t bring her in on any of it, not since she would be so closely involved.
Still, more than anyone else, the person I really want to speak to is Gerwyn. The guy who knows Ant better than anyone. That’s not just it, though – and the rush of affection that zips through me tells me that in a heartbeat. Gerwyn is my friend now as well as Ant’s. I almost get my phone, almost, but again, a thought cripples me.
I can’t go behind Ant’s back and talk about him with Gerwyn. No matter what the intention. I’d do anything to hear Gerwyn’s voice and his take on the topic right now, but I can’t do that. Vodka gate nearly destroyed our fledgling friendship once already.
So, yeah. Shit. I’m alone.
I don’t know how much sleep I get, but it’s not all that much as I hear the birds outside begin to chirp at the first hints of daylight. I must drift off for a while at least, as there is no sign of Ant when I open my eyes. His side of the bed is empty and cold.
I sit up in a flash, because it’s like our very first night in a hotel room, but this time there is no champagne hangover, just me on my own, here in our bed.
I’ve never felt so lonely in my life as I feel at the thought of losing Ant. I know my brain is tumbling illogically, but it’s more instinctive than that. More of a primal fear than anything with any grounding.
How long has he been gone? Can I call him, or is he in Birmingham at his meetings already?
I grab my phone and fuck. Crap. I’m late for work. It’s almost 10 a.m., and I’ve got a text from Janie asking if I’m ok, and Ant will definitely be in meetings, or close to them by now.
I’m more fragile and panicked than before when I grab some clothes out of the wardrobe. I hop along as I pull my tights up, then dash along for the bathroom to brush my teeth. I barely put on any makeup, and only drag a brush through my hair as a token gesture before I’m off as quickly as I can be, trying to get my butt to work before Dawn Owen’s consultation at 10.30.
I’m tugging my shoes on by the front door when I hear an electronic tune ringing out from somewhere. It’s distinctive, but I’ve never heard it before. A phone chime with a tweedle dee kind of tone.
I know Ant has a landline here, and I wonder for a split second if it’s him trying to get hold of me or something crazy like that, so I follow the sound as I try to find the thing, managing to locate it on a shelf high up in the kitchen. I have to jump to take it down.
“Hello?” I ask, praying for some bizarre reason that Ant’s voice greets me with a hey, baby in his warmest voice, but no.
There’s a stutter. A woman’s voice with a hello? Hello?
“Hi,” I say again, and the woman takes a massive breath before she speaks next. She sounds so shocked at my voice it’s unreal.
“Is Anthony there? Please? Is he there? Is this his number?”
“Yeah, it’s his number, but um, no, he’s out right now,” I say. “Can I tell him you called?”
“Please do,” she says, and it’s clear she’s holding back sobs. “Please, please tell him I called, and beg him. Please, beg him to call me back.”
“Ok, no problem,” I reply. “Who shall I say called?”
The sobs come. Her voice so choked she can hardly breathe.
I listen with my heart racing, wondering who on earth this woman can be.
“Hello,” I say again. “Who shall I tell him called?”
She’s struggling, and I’m panicking, wondering just whose voice it is on the other side of the line.
“His mum,” she tells me, then lets out another sob. “I’m his mum.”
Cass
I struggle to get my thoughts in order, because the woman must have got it wrong. She must be trying to reach the wrong Anthony.
“I’m really sorry,” I tell her. “I think you must have the wrong number.”
She’s still sobbing, so it takes her a few seconds to answer. I don’t know why I feel so panicked that the world feels wobbly.
“But Anthony lives there, with you?”
“Yeah. I live with an Anthony, but I think you must have the wrong one, I’m really sorry.”
“Anthony Bradstone?”
My instincts knew it before my rational mind did. The woman is telling the truth. I don’t know how the hell to react, or what to say to her, or what to ask her, or what the fuck I should be thinking. I’m on autopilot as I dig a pen and my little notebook from my bag, putting on my wedding planner voice.