32. Casey, London

Iround the corner and slump against the side of the end terrace, the deep pang of regret anchoring me to the spot. How could I fuck this up so badly? I'm desperate to roll back time and tell Holly the truth that first night. It would have been so easy. As soon as she closed the space between us, all I had to say was, ‘There's something I need you to know.' She would've stepped away, looked out over the river, asked questions, and I would've said, I don't love Eva. It's over between us. I need to call her right now to tell her, but once I've done that, please give me a chance because you've always been in my heart and now here you are.

I lean my head back against the brick and choke out a sob.

‘You all right, love?' a man says, approaching me.

I wipe my face. ‘Yeah.'

‘You're not hurt?' He stops in front of me. He has kind eyes and a gentle voice like my dad.

I shake my head. ‘No, all good.'

‘If you're sure, then?'

‘Yeah. Ta.' It's the push I need to keep going, and I walk up to Essex Road, pass by the green to Upper Street and head home. The bars and restaurants are alive, crowded with people, laughing and drinking. Holly and I should be among them enjoying her first weekend in London, sitting side-by-side, bodies pressed together, exchanging loving glances, eager to fall into bed and wake up entwined, naked and content.

Back in the flat, I toss my keys on the table in the foyer and head into the lounge where Jaz is in the same position as when I left her – cross-legged on the sofa, tapping at her laptop, working on a big presentation for Monday, telly loud, wine on the side.

‘Hey, mate,' she says, staring at her screen. ‘How'd it g—' Her sentence stalls when she looks up. ‘Oh.'

I drop beside her and bury my face in my hands. ‘I'm so fucking stupid.' When I drop my hands, she's staring at me, her mouth a tight line. ‘Don't say it.'

‘I didn't say a word,' she says.

‘You didn't have to.'

She sighs and places her laptop on the coffee table. ‘Well, what do you want me to say? Fuck's sake, Casey. I gave you enough warnings.'

I throw my head back against the sofa and let her rant.

‘You never fucking listen. You know what Eva is like. Did you think she'd act any other way? Why did you tell her about Holly anyway? You should've just ended it and left it at that.'

I give her a side glance, my head still resting on the back of the sofa. ‘I told you, it was the only way to shut her down. She would've kept at me to stay together. I couldn't handle it.'

She gives me an unimpressed look as she hops up, then leaves the room, returning with a bottle of lager. ‘Here,' she says.

‘Ta.' I take it and give it a good swig.

She gets comfy on the sofa again. ‘Right. I've said my bit. What happened just now, then?'

I give her the rundown, that I repeated everything I told Holly yesterday at the pub, but with more cohesion and detail, and tell her about Holly's mum. When I'm finished, I say, ‘I thought I was getting somewhere. She didn't pull away when I held her hand. She wanted to believe me – I could feel it. But when she told me what happened to her mum, I knew she had to go. Her family is too important to her.'

Jaz frowns. ‘I'm sorry, mate. That's rough.'

‘I can't hassle her when her mum's not well, can I. A stroke? That's serious, innit? What choice does she have but to go home?'

‘Yeah, she has to,' Jaz says.

‘If I had handled things differently, I'd be with her tonight, supporting her. She must be hurting so bad and feeling so alone. She needs me, you know? I could've taken her to the airport in the morning. Called her as soon as she arrived home. Fuck, I could've even gone with her.' I close my eyes, the pain of missed opportunities washing over me.

‘I don't know what to say,' Jaz says, ‘other than you're going to need to give her some space and maybe some time, yeah?'

‘But she'll be so worried and desperate to get home, and that kills me. I know she still cares. We kissed. That means something.' I reach for my phone.

‘Don't,' Jaz says. ‘Just leave it. At least for a bit.'

I look at her, then back to my phone, unsure what to do. But since making my own decisions has gotten me into this mess, I hand over my phone. ‘Tell me if she messages though, yeah?'

She takes it from me. ‘Course I will.'

It's Monday morning, 8 am and I'm already at my desk. I'm never at work this early, but I woke at five, wondering where Holly was at that precise moment. Lying in the dark, I checked departures, arrivals and flight paths, trying to figure out which flight she was on. Then I remembered the time difference. She would've already arrived, back with her friends and family. Back to the handsome lad called Tom.

I bite into the ham and cheese croissant I grabbed on the way. Flakes of pastry stick to my lips and fall onto my desk. I wipe my greasy fingers on a napkin and check my phone, hoping a message from Holly has appeared since I checked five minutes ago – a change of heart, a desire to talk – but the only new message is one from Eva late last night asking if we could meet. I delete it, then open my work emails and scan the long chain of messages I still need to get to from last week, and the incoming ones from the weekend.

Deciding where to start is too hard, so I grab my coffee and head into the gallery. It's grey outside, and the space is still in darkness. I flick on the display lights for the artwork and immediately my energy shifts. Being in here alone gives me perspective sometimes, helps me organise my thoughts. Slowly, I walk from piece to piece, losing myself in stories told through vibrant paint, brushstrokes, subject matter, photographs. How many of these artists created these while heartbroken or full of regret over a bad decision?

I stop in front of one of my favourites – an oil painting of a woman partially submerged in the ocean. A sheer white dress clings to her body, stark against her black skin. She stares at the viewer, raw emotion in her dark eyes, lips painted red and parted like she's about to speak. Is she about to duck her head under? Does she want to say one final word? Or is she emerging from the water? Opening her mouth because she's found her voice?

Every time I look at this painting, I see and feel something different. This is why I love art; it's about reflection and relatability. I step back to fully absorb it, let myself feel the ache spreading through my chest, close my eyes as the tears build. When I open them, I see a woman trapped, overwhelmed and half drowning.

My chest feels hollow and my vision is blurred, but I continue through the gallery, taking in the rest of our summer display. It will come down in a couple of weeks to be replaced by the autumn exhibition we planned months ago. Work is all I have now, and this needs to be my focus.

I head back to my little office, gaze up at the Jamaican beach on the wall, let the serenity of it wash over me, then get to work on putting together a cracking winter exhibition.