by Lily Morton
I don’t immediately return to my file. Instead, I spin my chair around and gaze out at the street. It’s quiet in the late afternoon sunshine, the peace disturbed only by a few people walking past on the pavement. My bones are tired, and I’m reminded that I’ve been here since four this morning. I run my fingers through my hair and sigh. I could have been tucked up with Laurie all night.
When we got back last night, I’d had every intention of steering him into my flat and having sex. He’d smirked at me when we’d arrived at my door, so I knew his intentions had aligned with mine. So it was a shock to both of us when I wished him a prim good night and left him in the corridor.
I rub my temples where a headache pulses. What is happening to me?
A little voice tells me that I know well what is happening to me. I’ve known since he surprised me in Nottingham. I’m attached.
“Fucking hell.” I say out loud, but cursing can’t help the fact that I’m falling for Laurie and doing it hard.
I like everything about him. He’s clever and funny and doesn’t let me get away with anything. But I also sense that he’d be incredibly loyal to anyone he loves. Yet while I’m becoming attached, he’s planning his return to France and still happy with a casual arrangement.
It’s ironic and probably big-headed to admit it, but I’ve always thought that if a miracle occurred and I fell for someone and wanted more, then that person would be very much in favour of it and welcome me with open arms. Not be blithely unaware and unconcerned.
It seems fairly typical of Laurie that he appears to have subverted my life entirely without any strong desire or reason to do so.
Endof jumps off the sofa and wanders over, thrusting his head under my hand as if the only thing I was planning to do with my evening was stroke him.
“What shall I do, Endof?” I ask. “How to solve the problem of Laurie.”
At the sound of his name, the dog whines softly, and I sigh.
“It’s similar to the song, ‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria’ in The Sound of Music but hopefully comes without us wearing curtains and being chased by a load of Nazis.” I shake my head. “Although with Laurie, something like that might easily happen.” I stroke him, looking at his warm brown eyes. “You’re going to be devastated when he goes home,” I say. “You’ll miss him a great deal.” The dog stares at me, and I roll my eyes. “And yes, I am quite aware that I’m projecting my emotions onto you. Thank you for not pointing it out.”
I pat him again and click my fingers. “Onto the sofa,” I command. “I need to work. There isn’t anything in life as important as work.”
And I do my best for another couple of hours to live up to that maxim. I stay in my office buried in my files, making notes and organising myself. My thoughts become serene and focused, and I revel in my return to normality.
However, I celebrate too soon, because when I get home, all my thoughts about Laurie come roaring back, and I’m consumed with seeing him.
Maybe being with him and hearing his voice will return me to normality, I try to reassure myself. He’ll irritate me, and all my feelings will fly away and never be seen again.
I knock on his door, waiting impatiently to hear his footsteps. They’re much more sure after the exercise he’s been doing. The door swings open, and he appears. “Mags,” he says in a deliberately sad and downbeat voice and then cries excitedly, “And Endof! Hurrah!”
I sigh heavily. “I spoke too soon,” I inform him sadly. “It’s all still there.”
“What’s still there? Your brain? Because I’ve got news for you. You’re standing in my doorway talking in riddles.”
I push past him. “Never mind. There’s no hope. What are we doing tonight?”
“Are we doing something? I didn’t know we had plans.”
“Of course, we do. Your list is our plan.”
He shuts the door and follows me into the kitchen, where I open the fridge and look disconsolately at the interior. “Why do you never have anything nice in here?”
He rolls his eyes. “Because I do not employ the saintly Mrs Sinclair.”
“She’d be a lot less saintly if you did.” I grimace as I pluck a mug from the fridge. “Why is there a cup of mouldy tea in here?”
He brightens. “That’s where I put it,” he exclaims. “I’ve been looking for that. It’s actually a good thing it’s just in the fridge because last time I lost track of my tea, I was using it to wash my brushes in.”
“Go and get dressed,” I instruct him. “Wear something from this century rather than something you procured from a tramp, and let’s go out and get some food. I’m starving.”
“You know, Mags, I’m never in any doubt how you pick up your men. It’s your silver tongue.”
“Well, you’d know all about my talented silver tongue,” I say. I smile slowly at him, loving the way his eyes darken. For all his flippancy, he’s just as affected physically as I am by the attraction between us.
He shakes his head. “I’ll get changed. I’ve left the list on the counter. Pick something.” He nudges me. “But make sure it’s God’s Own Junkyard in East London. They collect all these beautiful neon signs, and they’ve got a café called The Rolling Scones Café. That’s epic.”
I laugh. “So, actually, just pick what I’m instructed to do. You artists and your determination that everyone have free will.”
He laughs and heads into the bedroom. “I’ll get changed, and we’ll go,” he shouts.
I remove a carrot from a bag in the fridge and inspect it warily before crunching into it. I reach for the sheet of paper with his messy scrawl over it. My elbow catches the teetering stack of mail, and after weeks of threatening to fall, it succumbs to gravity and cascades all over the floor.
“Shit,” I mutter and crouch to scoop up the papers and letters. As I pick up one by the fridge, I catch sight of the heading and frown. Why does he have a letter from Moorfields Eye Hospital?
Despite knowing that I’m crossing many, many lines, I scan it quickly. With my heartbeat pounding loud in my ears, I come to the letter’s end and then read it again. And once more. Usually, I can read a document and absorb the information at a rapid speed. Not this time. My heart is hammering, and I feel sick. A cold sweat breaks out over my body.
“Mags.” I hear Laurie’s call, but I can’t get up. I stay there crouched, holding that fucking letter in my hands as if it’s welded to my fingertips.
He comes into the kitchen. “On your knees already?” he says cheerfully, and then his smile dies as he sees my face, and he stops dead. “Mags,” he says. “What’s wrong?” I raise the paper and watch as he goes white.
“What are you doing?” he asks warily.
“Why—” I stop to clear the hoarseness from my voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t I tell you what?” he asks, trying for lightness, but we both know there’s no point.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re going blind?”
An incredible look of pain crosses his face. It’s quickly replaced by anger. “What the hell are you doing reading my mail, Magnus?”
I stand up, still holding the letter. He snatches it from my hand and cradles it protectively against his chest.
“I wasn’t,” I say quietly. “I knocked over your post, and I caught sight of that as I picked everything up.”
“And you just decided that you’d read it?” he says, his face clouded with rage.
I spread my hands helplessly. “I’m a quick reader, and it’s automatic for me to scan any document that I have in front of me. It’s an instinct from all my years as a barrister.”
He moves away, and something about the tight way he holds himself hurts me. I watch him, and then, unable to bear the silence, I blurt out, “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“That you might lose your sight.”
He turns to me, all the usual lovely vivacity drained away from his face. “It’s true,” he finall
y says in a low voice, his face pinched.
“Why?”
He rubs his temples. “The car accident. I banged my head on the side window and detached my retina.”
So many things suddenly make sense. “That’s why your eye is bloodshot and why you have headaches? Why your eyesight is so bad?”
He nods. “The headaches started pretty much immediately after the accident, but I thought it was just the concussion at first and ignored them. I finally went to my doctor last month for some painkillers and ended up being sent to see a specialist who told me I was going blind. Not exactly the packet of paracetamol I was anticipating.” He takes another few steps away, putting a lot of effort into not looking at me.
“So, what is the solution, Laurie?”
He moves to the shelves and runs his finger along the book spines. The silence lengthens, but this time, I gather my composure and wait him out. Finally, he gestures almost angrily. “They want me to have an operation.”
“Well, that’s good, yes?”
“Is it, Mags? Really? Do tell me how good it is in your relevant profession of a barrister,” he snaps.
Anger stirs, but I push it back. We don’t need to argue. “I know that the operation can be very successful. Someone at work had it done a few years ago.” He runs his hand through his hair, still avoiding my eyes. “Laurie, look at me,” I say forcefully. He turns almost reluctantly. “That letter said—” Anger crosses his face, but I plod on. “That letter says you haven’t agreed to the operation?”
“That’s because I haven’t,” he says coldly.
“But why? The specialist states very clearly that if you don’t, you will more than likely go blind.”
“I know that.” His shout echoes through the flat. He takes some deep breaths. “I know what he said,” he says more calmly. “But I might not go blind. You never know.”
I want to quote the letter’s contents, but I stay quiet.
After a few seconds, he says, “The trouble is that the detached retina is in my good eye. The right one. My left is very long-sighted and blurred normally so I usually wear contact lenses to correct it. Without my right eye, I’ll be as good as blind anyway.”
“I don’t understand.” Endof whines, pushing his head into my leg. I pet him gently, still staring at Laurie.
He sighs. “The operation isn’t a hundred percent guarantee of success. It may damage my good eye irreparably, and then I’ll be blind.”
“But it’s worth trying,” I say passionately. “You’ll lose your sight anyway if you don’t have the procedure. You’re an artist. Don’t you want to take that chance?” He’s not making sense to me, but I’m not sure how to get through to him.
“Take a chance on an operation that has gone wrong before,” he says hotly. “What if I have the operation and end up being one of the ‘failure’ statistics? Then I go blind, Mags? Maybe I shouldn’t take that chance. Maybe this is as bad as my eyes will get?”
“This is bad, though,” I say, gesturing at him. “You suffer from constant headaches. Your balance is starting to become affected. You’re in pain all the time. How is that better than taking a chance?”
“Because if the operation fails, I will lose everything,” he shouts. For a few moments, the only sound is the sawing of our breaths. “And what am I without my art, Mags? Tell me that? What use am I?” he says bitterly.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” I growl. “You’re everything, Laurie. You’re funny and clever and kind. You’re like sunshine to be with, and only a tiny portion of that is connected with your art. Without your art, you’re still you. Laurie. And he is a man worth knowing.”
A spark kindles in his expression, but then he turns away, killing any light. “And what if the worst happens, Mags? What do I do then? I’ll be an unemployable blind man. Hardly a good prospect.” His voice is precise and cold. The voice of a man who is not reachable. A man who is his own island again.
“You’ll always be a good prospect,” I say stiffly.
“I’ll be alone and blind with nothing,” he says with a quiet emphasis dulled by hopelessness.
“You will never be alone. I’m here—”
He interrupts me with a harsh laugh.
My heart starts to pound heavily. “What’s so funny?” I ask slowly.
“Mags, what are you actually saying here? That you’ll be with me? You?” His tone is filled with disdain.
I rub my chest, feeling like he’s just punched me. But I persevere. “Yes, me. You have me.”
“For how long?” He gives a humourless laugh. “I’ll tell you, shall I?”
I swallow hard. “Why not? You appear to have all the answers.”
“You’ll hang around with me until caring for the blind man becomes inconvenient, or the next pretty twink crosses your path. And then you’ll be gone faster than a bullet.”
“And you know that, how?”
“Because you’ve told me.”
“I have never said that,” I flare.
“Every word and every action you make shows me a man who hates responsibility in his personal life.” He gestures angrily, talking over me, his words tumbled and unconsidered. “You don’t want a dependent lover. You want freedom. You make a virtue out of superficiality. You’d be like a shark in a paddling pool, and I’d be constantly waiting for the moment you chewed your way out.”
He stops, breathing heavily and looking wild.
Some part of me knows that I shouldn’t take his words to heart. This is the first time he’s spoken about his condition, and it’s only because I’ve forced him. I’ve pressed where I shouldn’t. I can tell from his face that he’s heartsick and worried. But that doesn’t stop his words from hurting like he’s run a sword through my heart, and I rub my chest again.
“You know, Laurie, I always knew you were honest, but I never thought you’d be cruel,” I say softly.
The anger and wildness drain from his expression, and is immediately replaced with regret. “Mags,” he says. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
I step back as he reaches out for me. “It’s fine,” I say, pulling my armour around me. It seems to take longer than usual, and I curse him because that’s his fault too. He’s opened me up and exposed all my nerves and then grabbed and twisted them until it hurts. I make myself look at him. His eyes are glistening wetly.
“Please, Mags,” he whispers, stepping towards me. “Please. I need to say—”
“You don’t need to say anything,” I say softly. “You’ve made your opinion very clear about me. I thought you knew me, but obviously not if that is the way you see me.” I go to the door, hearing his halting breaths and pause. “If you had told me, I would have been there for you. Not from pity, but because I thought you were my friend.” I fist my hands at my sides. “I thought we were more, and that’s my fault, Laurie. Be well. Please do something about this. Don’t leave it.”
I leave him standing alone in the flat. But that’s the way he prefers it.
Chapter Sixteen
Two Days Later
Mags
I sit morosely on my sofa in the dark—the lights of the city twinkle in the background. The flat is empty. It’s been this way for the last two days. I cancelled Mrs Sinclair’s visits just after I rang in sick. Jane’s reaction had been stunned silence, which wasn’t surprising as I never miss work. I’d even turned up the time I’d had a grumbling appendix. Although I’d thought that had hurt, it was nothing compared to the way Laurie had casually gutted me.
It’s an unavoidable fact that I am not invulnerable anymore. My whole body hurts, and my eyes feel sore. I pull the throw around me and snuggle into the sofa, my temples pulsing from the alcohol I consumed last night. The empty bottle of whisky sits on the coffee table.
I’ve been here since I left Laurie’s flat apart from intervals to walk Endof. It’s where I was sitting when I heard his knock on the door on the first day and his plaintive call of my name. It happened seven times, and then
he went silent.
I cannot bear to look at him at the moment. Everything I feel is too close to the surface. And the thing is, I know he is sorry. He was sorry as soon as he said it. And I know that he was just lashing out at me. I had done something unforgivable and read a secret that wasn’t mine, and I would have felt exactly the same.
I forgave him immediately for his anger. I’d been in the wrong too—making our argument all about myself. But what I cannot get over is the utter incredulity on his face when I said that I would be there for him. And that hurt, because I would have put him first, ahead of everything and everyone.
The root of the problem, though, is that I’ve done a ridiculous thing. I’ve fallen in love with Laurie, and he patently doesn’t feel the same. He doesn’t see the real me, and I thought he did. That is what I cannot forgive.
I rub my eyes. They’re sore from lack of sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I hear his words again, and snap back to being wide awake.
Coming to a decision, I stand up and shuffle towards the kitchen with the blanket held over my head and shoulders. I rummage around in the kitchen while Endof sits watching me, his head cocked to one side.
“I shall make silky milk with honey,” I inform him. “It can’t be that difficult, and it worked last time.”
It turns out that it is that difficult, because the coffee machine appears to need someone with an electrical engineering degree to operate it. Ten minutes later, after much swearing and cursing, I finally have silky milk, and I’m facing the prospect of murder at Mrs Sinclair’s hands for the state of the kitchen. Milk is everywhere, along with sticky patches of honey and sugar. Even as I watch, a syrupy dollop detaches itself from the cupboard and plops down over the coffee machine.
I slump on my barstool and look at the mug in front of me on the counter. It doesn’t look the same as when Laurie made it—it’s a strange grey colour. I take a cautious sip and wrinkle my nose. It doesn’t taste the same either. I take another sip and sigh. It’s horrible, but that’s mainly because he isn’t sitting next to me dipping his biscuits in my cup because he says he doesn’t want crumbs in his own.
