I grab the envelope, rushing through to the kitchen, stretching up to a cupboard so high that I know Becky won’t be able to reach it. Tired Tupperware and half-eaten chocolate bars fill the dark space. Standing on tiptoes, I place the envelope behind the chocolate; a secret behind bars.
Running into the darkness, I can finally breathe. I fix my eyes forward and run. I run and run and run, feeling the impact of my feet on cold, hard concrete. I don’t look back, leaving our flat and this evening and the letter behind.
Dad wrote to you. He actually wrote to you. He’s sober. He’s back . . .
Blood pumping, heart surging, legs racing, I try to untangle my thoughts as the streets of north London blur by. So, he says he’s sober. That he wants to be my friend, be in my life. Maybe he could be. We used to be best friends. And there have been moments, days even, when I’ve wished I could talk to him, share an article, a story, a song.
I force my legs to run faster, my body to tilt forward, pushing my panic to the pavement as I turn the corner towards Primrose Hill. Maybe I have missed him some days. But then there were other days, better days, where I felt in control. Where I felt level-headed and clear-minded and like I had a handle on my life in a way he never did. Note to self: you don’t need him any more. Maybe you never did.
The thoughts come thick and fast, but with every pace I force them to the floor, running faster, leaving them behind, beginning to reclaim the control I’ve worked so hard for. Just think of something else, Eve, something better. I fix my eyes forward; I just have to keep moving.
I run a mile, and then another, then another, until I stop counting, time suspended. In Search of Lost Time. The book title races through my mind and I can’t help but think of Tom, a sickness washing over me as I do. Why the fuck am I thinking about him again? Note to self: you were messaging him as Becky, it’s only fun as Becky. To be myself, to let someone see every part of me, is something else entirely. My dad taught me that. To love is to be vulnerable. That’s what he sobbed the night my mum left. I push the thought down, stamping it to the floor.
Pushing my body forward, I lean into the moment. All this emotion, all this feeling: it’s nothing but fuel for creativity. Every writer who has ever made their mark has written from a broken heart. Into the silence, I let the ideas rise, my tired legs begging me to stop.
Maybe I could write about this? About the impact of relationships in forming your identity. About how addiction can make someone forget what really matters. But no, it’s too raw. It’s too soon. Maybe I could capture something of this feeling in someone else’s story. I wonder what human-interest stories Tom has heard at the gym, when people are there trying to process their pain. I could just message him. No. He’s with Becky. But for a second, pretending to be her feels simpler than being me.
Breathing in, breathing out, I lose myself in the moment, feeling the pain in my heart force its way into my legs. It feels better there; at least this pain is productive. Pressing forward, my mind is finally stilled. Arms tensing, calves cramping, I keep going, running on and on. Turning the corner out of the park, I savour the silence, tracing my way back to our flat, back to my home . . .
‘Becky?’ I breathe, surprised to see her petite figure tottering along in front of me. How long have I been running? ‘Becky?’
‘Eve!’ She turns around, beaming. ‘You’re out late.’ She looks from my sweat-wet face to my workout clothes.
‘And you’re back early,’ I pant, looking down to my phone, still tracking my run. How the hell have I been running for two hours? I study my stats, aching but satisfied. ‘And alone.’ Even after our chats about taking it slow, making him wait for something more than a one-night stand, I’m still surprised.
‘Left him wanting more,’ she says proudly, before adding, ‘I hope.’
‘I’m sure you did!’ I give her a little squeeze.
‘Get off,’ she laughs, though she holds my glistening forearm tightly. ‘I’m meant to not be getting hot and sweaty tonight.’
‘So . . .’ I elongate the word, falling into step beside her to walk the last stretch home. ‘Tell me everything.’ I want to hear all about it. Probably so I don’t have to think about my dad.
‘Oh, I will,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘But first, did you have a nice evening? I thought you were planning to write?’
I want to tell her about the letter. That I didn’t write because someone else wrote to me. I’ll tell her eventually, as soon as I’ve decided what the hell I’m going to do about it.
‘Writer’s block.’ I shrug. It isn’t technically a lie. ‘Thought I’d run it out.’
‘You’re an inspiration to us all.’ She squeezes my sweaty hand in hers.
I laugh, letting the praise soothe me. ‘Okay. Tell me about your date.’
‘It was good.’ She grins. ‘He’s fitter than his pictures.’
‘How is that even possible?’
‘I know, right?’ She laughs. ‘He was shyer than I expected, though, and I struggled with some of his book chat. He definitely had an agenda for the topics he wanted to talk about.’
‘Paywalls?’
‘Had to channel my inner Eve for that one.’ She winks.
‘Sounds like you remembered your lines, though.’
‘I accidentally let slip that I’ve been watching Love Island reruns, though.’
‘Oh?’ I say. If I know Tom, which I feel like I do, he won’t like that.
‘But I saved the situation by describing it as a social experiment exploring gender stereotypes.’
‘I’ve never been prouder.’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘So, second date?’
‘Well that’s the thing.’ Her face falls a little. ‘I don’t know. I want to, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘He didn’t actually ask for one.’ She shakes her head.
‘Do they usually?’
‘Yeah, over breakfast.’ She raises her eyebrows. To be honest, I’ve witnessed a fair bit of that. ‘But we didn’t talk about it, and we didn’t kiss, and he didn’t come home with me.’
‘No?’ I pretend to look for a six-foot-something male smuggled in her leather jacket.
‘No!’ she echoes. ‘So what should I do, should I text him?’
I’m focused on Tom, feeling further and further from my dad’s letter. The strategy of dating. A safe distance from getting too invested, from getting hurt. I think back over Becky and Tom’s messages, so many of which I wrote myself. From the books he reads and the films he watches, he seems romantic, longing for the thrill of the chase. The kind of guy who loves a strong woman but values the opportunity to show some strength himself.
‘Yes . . .’ I say.
‘Right.’ Becky reaches for her phone.
‘. . . but not yet.’
‘Oh?’ she asks, confusion written across her face.
‘Yeah, for now I think we should let him sweat.’
Her eyes linger on my Lycra as she stuffs her phone back in her pocket. ‘I swear you won’t be content until we all do.’
Chapter Eleven
Max
‘It’s Amy.’ Her voice on the other end of the line isn’t warm and bubby like usual, but cold and flat. Panic surges through me and a numbness fixes me to the spot. Please not Peggy, please not Peggy. ‘I’m calling about Peggy. She’s . . .’ Oh shit. I close the door of the flat behind me, longing to shut out the world. A silence stretches on as I throw my book onto the sofa, perching myself on its edge. Please don’t say dead, please don’t say dead. ‘. . . taken a turn for the worse.’ Relief washes over me, then a new kind of panic sets in.
‘What kind of turn?’
‘She’s had some problems with her breathing, developed a fever . . .’ Amy’s voice chokes up. I know she loves Peggy as much as I do. ‘So we took her into hospital. It’s pneumonia.’
‘She’s stable now,’ Amy goes on. I can barely hear her over my thoughts: I should have been there. I should have been there.
‘Oh thank God,’ I breathe. ‘I should have been to see her. I’m sorry, it was just so hectic. I should have put her first. I should have—’
‘You were just doing your job,’ Amy says, as if subtly reminding me that visiting the care homes and befriending the patients is above and beyond my remit. But she doesn’t know about my grandma. How she wanted me to visit her one last time and I was too wrapped up in my own life to realise that it would be my last chance. I remember reading something about grief being the thing with feathers, but it sure as hell doesn’t fly far enough away. ‘She’s stable now,’ Amy repeats, but now I feel anything but, my legs chattering all the way down to my feet.
‘Okay, thank you,’ I say, my voice a little shaky too. ‘I’ll go and visit her now.’
‘Max.’ Amy sighs down the line. ‘Visiting hours are over until tomorrow.’
I look down at my phone, a notification from Tom flashing across the screen: Made it, mate, she’s gorgeous. He sent it almost an hour ago; they’ll be well into their date by now. I thought I’d be in my book. I never saw this coming. But I should have, I categorically should have.
‘Are you okay?’ Amy asks. ‘Do you want some company?’
‘No, no, it’s all right.’ I look around our living room. It feels too big without Tom here. ‘I think I just want to be alone.’
‘Okay.’ The silence stretches for too long. ‘But Max? You do know you being there wouldn’t have changed anything?’
I hang up the call, shards of our conversation suspended in the air. She’s stable now. You being there wouldn’t have changed anything . . . Maybe not for Peggy, but for me it would have, for me it would have meant everything. I can’t help the guilt from rising all over again.
The calls from my mum feel like just yesterday. The one where she told me my grandmother was ill. The one where she told me Grandma was moving back to Mumbai to be closer to her siblings. The next where she asked me to go and visit her . . .
Mum, I’ve told you, I can’t this summer – work is too busy and I’m going away with friends, I can’t afford it . . .
So many excuses. Then the call that changed everything. Max, I’m really sorry. It’s Grandma, she passed in the night. Passed in the night. Like she’d passed a parcel or passed a test. But no, she had passed. My smart, vibrant, funny grandma – the woman responsible for so much of who I am – was now in the past. Along with my chance to say goodbye. I won’t let that happen again.
At least I do something that matters now, Grandma’s death making me reassess everything: my priorities, my work at the bank. Now I have a job I love, where I can spend time with people like Peggy. To actually be there this time.
I think I just want to be alone. I replay my final words to Amy. I’m pushing everyone away, keeping them at arm’s length. But I’m just too much of a mess right now to let anyone in. Maybe that’s the real reason I won’t go online. Not because I won’t find a great girl there, but because I’m just not that great a guy. How can I even contemplate letting someone in when I’ve let so many people down?
I’ll make it up to Peggy tomorrow. Be there whenever she wants me to be.
But who will be there for you? The thought comes from nowhere.
And then another: I want to message Becky.
God, Max. Keep it together. I push the thought away, deep down with my grief. But now, with Tom out of the house and thoughts of Peggy and Grandma taking up space in my mind, I’m not just alone. I feel lonely. I feel really fucking lonely.
‘Oh shit.’ Tom’s whisper is as loud as his normal voice. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘And I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’ I clear my throat to speak my first words in hours.
‘Big night?’ Tom comes to sit on the end of the sofa I’m lying across, picking up my discarded novel.
I look at him, not knowing whether to say anything, knowing that if I speak the words they’ll begin to mean more than they should; signalling the beginning of the end for Peggy. Tom’s brow crinkles in concern as he notices my bloodshot eyes.
‘Just tired, I guess,’ I say.
‘Max?’ Tom says my name seriously, probing me to say more.
‘How was your date?’
‘Max?’ he repeats. His eyes narrow, as if to say: you’re not changing the subject, mate.
‘Peggy’s in hospital.’ I try to keep my voice under control.
‘Oh shit, dude.’ Tom’s frame stiffens. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Amy says she’s got pneumonia.’
‘Oh shit,’ Tom says again, worry etched on his face. ‘And? Is she okay now?’
‘She’s stable.’ I repeat Amy’s words, still on a loop in my mind.
‘Well that’s good.’ Tom sighs, bending down to take off his shoes before moving across to the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out two cans of beer. He offers one to me and I accept, only then realising that I haven’t really moved since I arrived home, since I got the call from Amy. ‘But how are you?’
‘I’m . . . yeah . . . I’m okay.’
‘Max.’ Tom says my name again, eyebrows raised. ‘You can be honest with me.’
‘Okay, yeah, I’m pretty shit, to be honest. It’s just brought back lots of stuff . . .’ My sentence trails into nothingness.
‘Grandma stuff?’ Tom asks. I used to talk to Tom about my grief before I started sounding like a broken record. I should be starting to mend by now.
‘Yeah.’ I shrug, not really knowing what to say next.
‘I guess that’s probably to be expected.’ Tom isn’t sure what to say either. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Yes.’ I smile at him. ‘Tell me about your date with Becky.’
Tom’s eyes linger on me for a moment and I know he’s wondering whether to press me further, whether he should probe at the places that right now hurt like hell.
‘What do you want to know?’ He surrenders, grin growing wider.
‘I don’t really know.’
‘That’s not like you.’ He looks at me with his head on one side.
He’s right. I’m usually the one with the questions, but I just feel tired, thrashed around by the week. The phone call this evening was the final blow.
‘Quick statistics and then more tomorrow?’ he asks, clocking my puffy eyes.
‘Deal.’ I want to hear all about Becky, but right now I’m struggling to stay awake. ‘Conversation?’
‘A strong seven. She’s so cute and funny – not as quick-witted as some of her messages, but kind of endearing.’
‘So lots to talk about?’
‘Yeah, managed to navigate all the book stuff, I think.’ He grabs my novel and gives it a little wave. ‘She’s proper into that kind of thing,’ he adds. ‘You’ll love her.’
I laugh, but for some reason it’s a little forced.
‘Attraction?’ Tom asks, and answers his own question. ‘At the start of the date, another seven; she’s not my usual type,’ he explains. Yes, I know. His usual type is Yvonne. Before her, it was easy-going girls who were just a bit too easy. ‘But getting to know her boosted it to an eight and a half.’
‘AL?’ I have to ask about the Awkwardness Level, but he wouldn’t be smiling like that if it was high.
‘I’d say a two; there were some moments at the beginning. And then I fumbled on some French movie chat and I think she was, like, trying to dumb it down for me
a bit, but apart from that, I’d say it was a solid first date. And, well, the sex?’ My eyebrows climb upwards. Tom smiles. ‘The only person I’m sleeping next to tonight is you.’
‘You would be so lucky.’ I force another laugh. ‘So date number two?’ I ask, surprised that we’ve got to the end of our statistics without a single mention of Yvonne. It’s the first time that’s happened since before they met.
‘Yeah, I er . . . sort of need your help with that, bro.’ He looks a little sheepish. ‘I bottled it when we were saying goodbye. I was going to go in for the kiss, but then I remembered that Becky isn’t like Ruby or Dami or the other girls I’ve dated lately . . .’
‘I think her name was Dani . . .’
‘That’s not the point,’ Tom says, but the look in his eyes tells me he feels bad for dating so many girls that he’s started forgetting them. ‘I just don’t know the rules of romance.’ He looks at me like I do, like I’m some sort of dating Yoda.
I glance at my novel, lying next to me on the sofa; at the stack of others building up in the corner of the room. I guess I know the theory.
‘Need to sound like a knight in shining armour like you.’ Tom laughs.
‘Just be yourself,’ I say for the thousandth time, trying to ignore his comment.
‘Okay, I’ll ask her to come over tomorrow to watch a movie.’
‘Just be yourself but slower,’ I amend. ‘Let’s sleep on it and message tomorrow.’
As Tom leaves the room, my thoughts return to Peggy. She’s stable now, I remind myself, glad of Tom’s distraction. Tomorrow is for stabilising things with him and Becky.
Chapter Twelve
Max
Light cascades into my room, dancing along the patchwork quilt my grandma stitched to life. I stretch my limbs to the four corners of the bed, and then I remember: Peggy.
As I move around my room, pulling on a hoodie, threading my legs into a pair of crumpled jeans, I imagine her small frame nestled in the corner of a too-big hospital bed. She’s a fighter, I try to tell myself. And I am too. A fighter for families losing their loved ones long before they’ve taken their final breaths. I need to visit her before it’s too late. I promised I would be there.
What Are Friends For?: The will-they-won't-they romance of the year! Page 10
