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Authors: Jane Costello
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She’s lying fast asleep on her back with her mouth wide open,
so I gently remove her flip-flops, pull the sheet over her and roll her onto her side. She’s not the type to read the pregnancy manuals that warn against lying on your back, but I pored over
them so enthusiastically when I was expecting Florence I could’ve passed a degree in obstetrics.
I pull on my pyjamas and am about to climb into bed when I spot a notepad and pen on the desk. Addressing a sudden urge to put them to use, I pick them up before returning to sink into bed.
‘Amore mio
. . .’
It was Roberto who first used the Italian for ‘My darling’, in a text exchange we had soon after we moved in together:
While you’re at the supermarket, could you pick up some bin bags? *xxx* I promise my next text will be more
romantic!!
I should hope so! xxx
And some toilet paper xxx
Er . . . what happened to romantic?! xxx
Apologies. And some toilet paper, AMORE MIO xxx
Ho bloody ho!
Somehow, despite previously considering pet names the preserve of half-wits and the stars of 1970s sitcoms, it stuck.
I don’t write to Roberto regularly but, sometimes, usually when I’m drunk, the need engulfs me. I know it’s stupid – it’s not as though it makes me feel any better
about what happened. And I try not to think about the fact that I never actually send them.
‘I’m writing while on my first full week’s holiday since the last time you and I went away with each other. It hasn’t exactly got off to a
relaxing start.
I must admit it feels odd being away without you. It’s so different from our last trip together. You have to admit that the Greek Islands were blissful, even if you were initially
pissed off that my burgeoning overdraft prevented us from going long haul. I’d just assumed that Thailand could wait until the following year – which goes to show how presumptuous I
was, even until the end . When I fell pregnant I knew things would change, but I had hoped that we would simply go on family holidays from then on – you, me and Florence, together.
Clearly, that wasn’t meant to be.
I sound bitter, don’t I? I know I do. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since I last saw you; I can’t shake the feeling that you should still be in our lives,
bringing up Florence with me.
I never wanted to be a single mum, Roberto. Not because I can’t cope on my own, but because, quite simply, everything would’ve been better if I was doing it with you. Is it
totally pointless for me to say that I’m certain we could have had an amazing life together? Probably.
My hand hesitates over the page as I contemplate my next words. He’s never going to read them, so what does it matter?
I still love you, Roberto. Rightly or wrongly, I always will.
Imogen xxxxxxxxxx
I swallow back a lump in my throat and fold away the letter. Then I glide between my beautiful sheets, desperate to submit myself to slumber.
‘GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .!’
My eyes ping open as Meredith’s snores reverberate around the bedroom with such force that the cocktail shaker vibrates.
I close them again and try to block out the sound.
‘GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .’
I get out of bed, pad over and gently nudge her until she makes a few gerbil-like noises before stopping.
I get back into bed. I close my eyes. A minute passes.
Tension drifts away from me as I descend into a rapid, deep and blissful sleep.
‘G N N G H – h e r r r – G N N G H H H – h e r r r GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .’
It suddenly feels like it’s going to be a long night.
Day Two
Chapter 8
I finally stumble into sleep some time after 5 a.m., having spent most of the night attempting to block out Meredith’s snores by lagging my ears with two torn-up panty
liners.
In the process, my mind drifts to the issue of the
Daily Sun
and those unreturned phone calls. Having relaxed about it while I was tipping red wine down my throat, by the
so I gently remove her flip-flops, pull the sheet over her and roll her onto her side. She’s not the type to read the pregnancy manuals that warn against lying on your back, but I pored over
them so enthusiastically when I was expecting Florence I could’ve passed a degree in obstetrics.
I pull on my pyjamas and am about to climb into bed when I spot a notepad and pen on the desk. Addressing a sudden urge to put them to use, I pick them up before returning to sink into bed.
‘Amore mio
. . .’
It was Roberto who first used the Italian for ‘My darling’, in a text exchange we had soon after we moved in together:
While you’re at the supermarket, could you pick up some bin bags? *xxx* I promise my next text will be more
romantic!!
I should hope so! xxx
And some toilet paper xxx
Er . . . what happened to romantic?! xxx
Apologies. And some toilet paper, AMORE MIO xxx
Ho bloody ho!
Somehow, despite previously considering pet names the preserve of half-wits and the stars of 1970s sitcoms, it stuck.
I don’t write to Roberto regularly but, sometimes, usually when I’m drunk, the need engulfs me. I know it’s stupid – it’s not as though it makes me feel any better
about what happened. And I try not to think about the fact that I never actually send them.
‘I’m writing while on my first full week’s holiday since the last time you and I went away with each other. It hasn’t exactly got off to a
relaxing start.
I must admit it feels odd being away without you. It’s so different from our last trip together. You have to admit that the Greek Islands were blissful, even if you were initially
pissed off that my burgeoning overdraft prevented us from going long haul. I’d just assumed that Thailand could wait until the following year – which goes to show how presumptuous I
was, even until the end . When I fell pregnant I knew things would change, but I had hoped that we would simply go on family holidays from then on – you, me and Florence, together.
Clearly, that wasn’t meant to be.
I sound bitter, don’t I? I know I do. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since I last saw you; I can’t shake the feeling that you should still be in our lives,
bringing up Florence with me.
I never wanted to be a single mum, Roberto. Not because I can’t cope on my own, but because, quite simply, everything would’ve been better if I was doing it with you. Is it
totally pointless for me to say that I’m certain we could have had an amazing life together? Probably.
My hand hesitates over the page as I contemplate my next words. He’s never going to read them, so what does it matter?
I still love you, Roberto. Rightly or wrongly, I always will.
Imogen xxxxxxxxxx
I swallow back a lump in my throat and fold away the letter. Then I glide between my beautiful sheets, desperate to submit myself to slumber.
‘GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .!’
My eyes ping open as Meredith’s snores reverberate around the bedroom with such force that the cocktail shaker vibrates.
I close them again and try to block out the sound.
‘GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .’
I get out of bed, pad over and gently nudge her until she makes a few gerbil-like noises before stopping.
I get back into bed. I close my eyes. A minute passes.
Tension drifts away from me as I descend into a rapid, deep and blissful sleep.
‘G N N G H – h e r r r – G N N G H H H – h e r r r GNNGH–herrr–GNNGHHH–herrr . . .’
It suddenly feels like it’s going to be a long night.
Day Two
Chapter 8
I finally stumble into sleep some time after 5 a.m., having spent most of the night attempting to block out Meredith’s snores by lagging my ears with two torn-up panty
liners.
In the process, my mind drifts to the issue of the
Daily Sun
and those unreturned phone calls. Having relaxed about it while I was tipping red wine down my throat, by the
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