nothing, I’m staying right here.’
Which is fair enough. I don’t blame him. Given the choice, hiding under the bed is how I would have chosen to spend my New Year’s Eve.
Giving him one last tickle, I’m about to get up when something else in the shadows catches my eye: a cardboard box. I pause. I’d almost forgotten about it.
Almost. But not quite. Like Flea, it’s been in hiding.
I feel my chest tighten. I know I should leave it there. Ignore it. Get back up and watch TV as if I never saw it.
But then, doing what’s right for me has never been something I’m very good at. Pulling it out from underneath the bed, I sit cross-legged on my sheepskin rug in front of the fire and place it in front of me. From the outside it’s nothing special. There’s no ta-daa-daah moment. It’s not like Harrison Ford and Raiders of the Lost Ark . I’m not going to lift off the lid and discover the key to human existence. It’s just an old Nine West shoebox.
And yet . . .
And yet inside it holds something just as important to me. Something even more valuable. Because inside is my relationship with Seb.
Maybe it’s just me being some silly, sentimental idiot, but I used to save things from when we were together. Not big stuff, like expensive jewellery or long flowery love letters – just little, random things. To anyone else the contents of this box would look like a jumble of nondescript items, nothing special, just a bunch of worthless junk. But to me it’s a box full of memories, of special moments shared, of snapshots of our life together.
Like, for example:
A pair of cinema ticket stubs
These were to see the first film I ever watched with Seb. Star Wars . We saw it at the British Film Institute as part of some festival. We had such a lovely time snuggling up in the back row.
I start going through the contents one by one.
Driftwood
From West Wittering beach. It was a freezing cold day in January and on impulse we wrapped ourselves up in scarves and hats and drove down to the coast, and he went paddling in the frozen sea. I stood watching him from the shore while he called me a chicken.
Concert wristband
Seb was a huge fan of all these American indie bands that I’d never heard of. To me it sounded a bit like a load of shouting and clashing guitars, but it was fun to go to our first-ever concert together.
Wine cork
Still with the red wine stain on it, I angle it to the light and read the name on the top: Stanly Ranch Pinot Noir. It was from the bottle of wine we drank at his flat; it was the evening we first spent the night together; the first night we ever had sex . . .
Card with a picture of a snowbunny on the front
Seb adored snowboarding and wanted to take me away to the Alps for a weekend, but we never ended up going. That was my fault. I’ve never snowboarded in my life and I suggested a spa break instead . . .
Opening the card, I decipher his awful handwriting: ‘ Can’t wait to see you on the slopes and enjoy some après-ski with you. Seb xx ’.
I feel a lump in my throat and hastily stick it back in the box and pull out:
Matches
Turning the small box over in my fingers, I trace the inscription on the front. Mala . Seb adored spicy food and this was his favourite restaurant. He took me there once as a surprise and ordered all these amazing dishes.
At the memory a tear unexpectedly spills down my cheek. Quickly I wipe it away with my sleeve. I wasn’t going to cry, remember?
Plectrum
Seb played the guitar and he had dozens of plectrums scattered around his flat. He once joked I should keep one for when he was famous one day and I could sell it for a fortune on eBay.
Barack Obama’s autobiography
This book is so thick it takes up most of the box and, picking it up, I thumb through the well-worn pages with the corners turned down. This is Seb’s copy. He used to rave about it, told me reading it would change my life, yet I never got round to it. Feeling a thump of remorse I put it
Justine Dare Justine Davis