I once read that the end of a relationship is like being involved in a road traffic accident. Which is quite fitting really, given what happened. Only you’d probably think of an accident as something sudden, out of the blue, and I suppose breaking up is like that for some people. For me, though, the road had been rocky for some time and I could see all too clearly what was about to happen: a multi-car pileup. People screaming and car-horns blaring. And here we were, me and Larsen, gliding towards it, the wheels beneath us slipping and spinning out of control.
It was Spring 1992, a typical blustery April afternoon. The streets of Cambridge were gloomy, the pavements wet and the turrets and spires of the city in the distance were lost in a sepia haze. A strong gust of wind and a smattering of chilly raindrops assaulted me as I jogged across Parker’s Piece and crossed the road at Gonville Place to cut through to the red and grey brick building on the corner that housed the College of Arts. Even after over seven years of living in Cambridge, it still surprised me that such an ancient and architecturally stunning city could be cocooned within the boundaries of what was, on the outer fringes, a perfectly modest late twentieth century town. But this very building, of course, was where it all started for me; this was what had brought me here, to Larsen’s home, and into his life. It suddenly seemed a very long time ago.
I cut through the cemetery behind the college and paused for breath, ignoring the droplets of rain that were dribbling over my forehead. I looked back again at the brick and glass building behind me and the strangest of feelings washed over me, something that I could only describe as homesickness. But - for what? I had my own home - a pretty two-bedroomed Victorian terraced house in Vinery Road - and a stable life with Larsen. I had friends. I had a budding career in broadcasting. My life was full and busy and I had no reason to feel insecure. And yet, something was missing.
I shifted my swimming bag on my shoulder and set off again down Coldham’s Lane, breaking into a jog, and a few minutes later I pushed through the revolving door into the swimming pools complex. I was met by a welcome wall of heat and the familiar scent of chlorine. I picked up my ticket and walked into the changing room, hot steam from the showers rising up to greet me. I didn’t in fact much feel like taking off all my clothes and immersing myself in cold water; I was wet and cold enough already. There was also a knot in my stomach and a heaviness in my chest that was more than the predictable outcome of having drunk the best part of a bottle of wine by myself and smoked numerous cigarettes the night before. I knew that I should have talked to Larsen long ago about the way I was feeling, about the thing that had come between us. But I couldn’t name it; I didn’t know what it was. So I carried on as if nothing was wrong. Because even thinking that I could lose him made me hold my breath till it stopped short in my lungs and nothing came back out again. Because saying it would make it real for both of us and I didn’t know how or why it had come to this.
My heart sank even further as I exited the changing rooms onto the pool side; there were no lap lanes marked off. The pool was packed full of dive-bombing eleven-year-olds and elderly people doing widths. (“You’re going the wrong way!” I always wanted to shout). It wasn’t the tranquil haven I had expected; it was one big wet free-for-all. I sighed, pulled on my goggles, took a deep breath and plunged in, fighting my way in a frustrated crawl down to the shallow end. A girl on her back clipped me on the right ear as she meandered past me in an aimless kind of circle, then carried on regardless, while I wobbled around in her slipstream. I could feel the tension creeping up my shoulder blades and setting into my jaw. A length and a half later there was a huge splash to my left and an elbow jabbed painfully into my hip. I was in mid stroke. I