Isolde arrived at my flat for a brunch and for us to go over the plans for our Mexican holiday. She was dressed the way she always dresses. Torn jeans, a faded black T-shirt, Doc Martens. Like she was in her teens rather than in her mid thirties. But that's part of her charm. We were escaping just as the book was being published. I didn't want to be in the country when Carlyle read it. Yet I was hoping that he would read it. I was certain that it was the only way he'd ever understand why I left.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you won't get in touch with him?" Isolde asked. She breezed that question across the table as if it was everyday conversation. But we both knew what was really the reason why I ran. Why I was still running. And why I was in such an agony every day I spend without him. I didn't respond, I just tried to meet her blue eyes but she was looking out the window, avoiding my gaze.
“You can't shit a shitter, as they say," she goaded me when I still wasn't saying
