Read Online Weak at the Knees by Jo Kessel - Free Book Online

to do. She just told me not to worry. I’d work it out.
     
    I’d gone home that day, sat in front of the mirror with a pair of kitchen scissors and Hugo’s razor. My hair’s thick and skirts my waist. I split my mane in two and plaited each side. Then I took the left plait and placed it between the open scissors in my right hand. I examined my reflection, trying to imagine how I’d look bald, daring myself to squeeze the blades shut. I thought it might help me move on. If I shed my hair, started afresh, things would perhaps slot into place better. Only I couldn’t do it. Not only because I was scared to, but because I’d promised Amber to do it as long as she pulled through, to keep her company. If she wasn’t here to see it, it would only accentuate her absence, make it more unbearable. I was looking for inspiration, a thread – a focus to make things shift. It’s taken a while, but now I’ve got it. I know exactly what it is I need to do to move on, to force a change in my life. There’s no other way and my mother is mortified, but this is my life, not hers. I’ve decided Amber was right. Hugo’s not enough, can’t ever make me happy enough, so I’m taking heed of her advice. After eleven years on off, shall I shan’t I, I’m doing the deed. I’m leaving him.
     
    *****
     
    It amazes me how little of the stuff in Hugo’s flat is actually mine. Everything of any worth or substance is his. None of the kitchen crockery is mine (except for an old-fashioned set of scales with iron weights which Amber bought me for my last birthday) and all the high-tech TV, DVD, CD player paraphernalia is his too. Only ten measly CDs belong to me and I hardly ever play any of them. Most were presents I just added to the rack. The Beatles/ Abbey Road (from Hugo, really for Hugo, but I’m keeping it); Coldplay/ Viva la Vida (from Hugo and again, for Hugo); Susan Boyle, Michael Bublé, Olly Murs and One Direction CDs were all joke presents from Amber, but the latter has actually become one of my prized possessions. I’m loath to admit it, but I love One Direction, Harry Styles in particular, whilst Amber had a crush on Zayn Malik. If only I had a little niece or nephew who could accompany me to one of their gigs. Going to one at my age, unaccompanied, might look a tad sad.  
     
    A whole deep boxful of books is mine. Hugo works too hard to read and when he does have time, sticking his nose into another book (even if non-legal) is the last thing he wants to do. All the furniture - tables, chairs, sofa suite, bed, chests of drawers-belong to him. A red, green and yellow Mexican hammock from the Yucatan I’d insisted (much to Hugo’s chagrin) on putting up in the far end of our (I mean his) extensive lounge is mine. He’d strongly objected, its ethnicity sticking out like a sore thumb in his white, minimalist modern décor, but I’d insisted. The ‘love swing’ as I liked to call it is one thing Hugo will definitely not be sad to see go. The rest of my stuff which I’ve packed into a mixture of suitcases and boxes is mainly clothes and toiletries. Oh, and shoes. I’m addicted to footwear. I tossed fifty-eight pairs into the biggest box the local Tescos had to offer.
     
    I should feel saddened by the paltry possessions my twenty-six years has acquired to pack into cardboard boxes, but I don’t. I just feel numb. I’m neither sad to be leaving Hugo, nor happy. Perhaps I’ll never feel happy again. Perhaps when your best friend dies you can never, ever feel that lightness of being or pleasure at living, ever again. Who knows? But something in me is telling me I’ve got to do this, so do this I am, even though it means going back to live with my parents for a while, until I get another job. It’s hard to believe I’m twenty-six and am going back to my childhood home because there’s nowhere else to go.
     
    I can drive, but I don’t own a car. I’ve either used public transport or Hugo’s silver Saab