If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  But we mainly talk about you. Well, I do and he listens. I wish I could tell him the truth. It may help. It feels like I’m always destined to carry a guilty secret.

  We talk about Dale sometimes too. He kept calling me after that night. Asking if we can meet. Saying he needs to apologize. That he loved me, needed me. Once, I saw him standing below the flat, though I didn’t let on. Then it all just stopped. Never heard a peep from him again. Except I did see him. When I collected my stuff from the house. Not face to face, thank God. I’d arranged it with Mr Papadopoulos, who was pissed off at me because he had to box everything up and put it in the kitchen in order to let the room again. I went early. Got the taxi to wait on the other side of the road. Watched, waited for Dale to leave for work. Which he did, as clockwork. Although he looked different. He had some kind of beard arrangement going on. And he wasn’t alone. He was with a girl. Pretty, she was. Blonde. Didn’t look anything like me. They were chatting, hands animated, but it didn’t seem like they were together. It was more friendly. At least, it looked like it was from her side. And it dawned on me that she was probably the new occupant of my room.

  It was weird being in the house. Familiar, yet I felt a complete disconnect to the place. It wasn’t long before the strangeness became discomfort and I couldn’t wait to get out.

  When returning my key to Mr Papadopoulos, he made some comment – ‘There’s a new girl . . . nice girl . . . This one I trust’ – and so I told him. What happened. About the pictures of Anna. Added that he needed to sort out proper locks, as a landlord should. Then as I was leaving, I stopped outside my room, scribbled a note on the back of a receipt I had in my bag and slipped it under the door. It was the right thing to do, yet part of me still felt bad for doing it.

  Anyway . . . there is some good news. Firstly, Edward’s doing great. And he told me I mustn’t worry about you or Mum anymore. Because he remembers everything. Going into cardiac arrest. ‘That big lump of a man’ doing CPR, trying to bring him back. All of it. But most importantly he remembers being dead. He died for just over four minutes in total. Can you believe that? To be dead then not be dead? I often go over the fact that if I wasn’t such a coward, if I’d stayed and seen the outcome, that all would have been different. But Dr Franco says you can’t live like that. A life full of ‘what if’s. ‘It’s about what is,’ he says.

  Edward insists there was a light. I thought he was talking rubbish at first – ‘Jesus, couldn’t you come up with something a bit more original?’ I said. But he swore he wasn’t bullshitting. Reckons he hovered over his own body, watching them at work. Is that what happened to you? Did you see me, standing over your distorted body? Crying, before fleeing?

  I started to truly believe when I saw the change in him. When he’d talk about Amy, his anger, sorrow, was replaced with what I can only describe as enlightened joy. She was there, you see. Sat on the stairs. Waiting for him, he says. But what confirmed it was that he saw me too. Praying before running away. So it must be true. He knows he’ll see her again. And in turn I know I’ll see you. And Mum. And possibly Dad.

  Edward will never let me live it down, of course. ‘You owe me at least fifty cups of tea for abandoning me.’

  ‘As if I don’t make you fifty cups of tea a week anyway,’ I told him.

  It’s made the whole concept of death less frightening to me. Appealing even. Knowing I’ll be with you again. Her. Knowing you’re both there. Somewhere. Waiting for me.

  I’ve decided I don’t want her to see me sad anymore. It must have been breaking her heart watching me. I can’t imagine anything worse than seeing your child suffer. I’ve been working with Dr Franco on it for a while, and he thinks it’s about time that I read the diaries, or more specifically her last one. The last entry. He thinks it will help me move on with my life. By not avoiding it. That facing it will stop it weighing me down. So tonight’s the night. I said I would, once I’d finished this letter. This exercise. I’m nervous but ready.

  As you can see, things are getting better for me. Like I said at the start, I’d intended to join you both soon after that night, but I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready and didn’t want to leave Edward. I hope you understand. Though he won’t be here forever. I can’t believe how much I enjoy looking after him. He looks after me too, in his own way. Teaches me stuff, makes me feel safe again.

  And thank goodness I didn’t. Because the other good news is, it’s not just me now. There’s a little us growing inside me. Please don’t be annoyed but I never took that last pill. Though I honestly just forgot initially, with everything that went on. But then, after you’d gone, I wanted to see if part of you was meant to stay with me. And it was. It’s a girl. Eighteen weeks now. Angie I’m going to call her. But she won’t have the same fate. I promise. I won’t let her. I’ll do it right. I’ll make her right.

  ‘This must be my last bacon butty, Constance. Only healthy stuff now, so I get to be a granddad,’ says Edward all the time. Though it never is.

  He can’t wait for Angie to arrive. He’s discovered online shopping, which is a disaster, as we have more stuff arriving constantly. A beautiful cot turned up unexpectedly this morning. And some toys. He loves me, you know. Edward. And Angie. I feel it, and it’s nice. I love him too. But my God, he’s a pain in the arse. I’ve told him he mustn’t spoil her.

  I’ve sewn a new eye onto Blusha. So that’ll be her favourite toy. It’s not as good as it was before, but as fixed as it can be, and Angie won’t mind. She’s loveable even if a bit damaged.

  You’ll never guess but I’ve become a book addict. Well, I needed something to replace the fags now I can’t smoke. That and biscuits. I’m reading Wuthering Heights again. Did you ever read it? I’m presuming not or you wouldn’t have described the card as ‘psycho’. Oh, and you really should have finished Great Expectations. It’s very good. What a shame.

  I think I’ll write again. It makes me feel closer to you. Helps me keep you alive for Angie. But before I go . . . Hang on. Can you hear? I’m playing it for you. I play it all the time. And I’ll always play it for her, so she knows. Our song. ‘At Last’.

  The moment we fell in love.

  My beautiful Constance,

  I’m so sorry to leave in this way. You’ve no idea how much it hurts to know that when I’m gone, I won’t be the one to make you feel better. My baby girl.

  I fucked it all up, Constance. Everything. Apart from you. You were my one perfect thing.

  You were my life, but when I’m gone, you mustn’t make me yours. I know it’s going to hurt. And if I could stay, I would, but the thing is, I’m holding you back, baby girl. You mustn’t follow in my footsteps. I am weak and foolish, and you are not. You are strong and clever and special, and I need you to know that. To always remember that.

  Yesterday, when I sat in his chair, I realized how stupid I’d been. What a waste it all was. The reason his chair was empty was because he didn’t want to sit in it. If someone doesn’t want to sit in your chair, Constance, you let them go and sit where the fuck they like, because you’re better off without them – they don’t deserve you, do you hear me? Promise me you’ll never let a man take away your happiness.

  Whether I’m here or not, you have all the love you need. It doesn’t disappear. No one can love you as much as I do, and I’ll always be there. Following you, getting on your nerves. I won’t be feathers, because as you know birds terrify me, but I’ll be something. I’ll be snow.

  Thank you, my baby. For everything. This isn’t goodbye. We don’t do goodbyes. But there’s no need to write more because we know it all anyway. Nothing could be more than us.

  Mum x

  Acknowledgements

  I’ll start with my wonderful agent Jo Williamson of Antony Harwood. Thank you for randomly seeing a tweet, messaging me and then actually liking the book. I am so grateful for your honesty, kindness and support. I know I am blessed to have you as an agent.

  Thank you to my publisher Wayne Brooke
s. For not only having such belief in the book, but for eradicating every fear I’d had about the publishing process by being so approachable and hilarious and warm and lovely. I lucked out big style and I can’t thank you enough.

  So much thanks to my editor Alex Saunders whose insight, hard work and enthusiasm helped make the book the best it could be. I suspect he’s never had so many conversations with an author about contraception and car sex. But the fact those conversations weren’t utterly horrendous says everything!

  Much gratitude to my lovely desk editor Samantha Fletcher for all her help and hard work, Mel Four for the fantastic cover design, and Hannah Corbett in publicity, Emma Draude of EDPR and Sarah Arratoon in marketing for all the brilliant ways in which they’ve promoted both me and the book. Thanks also to the copy-editor Laura Collins, proofreader Karen Whitlock and anyone else at Mantle and Pan Macmillan who has been part of getting this book out into the world.

  For all the joy that having this book published has brought me, there’s also huge sadness that my mum and dad never got to witness it. The last time the novel was discussed with my dad, he said, ‘When’s it going to be finished? It’s taking longer than Gone with the Wind.’ I hope he somehow knows that it’s now complete, and that it took me one year less than Margaret Mitchell. My mum believed in me my whole life and supported everything I wanted to do, presuming that I was perfectly capable of doing it (even if I thought the opposite). They both died only months apart in 2015, and it was after my mum’s death that I dug out a terrible abandoned version of the book, and rewrote it from scratch, with a totally different angle. Then when my dad died, I had no choice but to channel all my grief into writing. How bittersweet that the best thing that has happened to me has come out of the worst thing that has happened to me. I love you Mum and Dad and thank you for everything.

  Huge thanks to Gavin Towers who, with the non-existent spare time he had, read the manuscript and helped enormously by highlighting its awfulness and guiding me towards improvements. The biggest accolade being when he read the final draft and said, ‘It’s actually pretty good. I’m genuinely surprised.’

  I must also include Victoria Towers and Martin Serene. Mainly because I just must include them, but also for being family and supporting me throughout this journey.

  To Edward Knight, my dearest friend and business partner, for being someone who always believed in me and shaped my creativity in my adult life. Without him allowing me the freedom to write whilst I should have been doing the day job, there would be no book and for that I am eternally grateful.

  To my amazing friends, Sian Hall and Sarah Keller, for being there as support whilst both writing and negotiating grief. Especially Sarah for helping me get out of ‘the wedding dress pickle’. And Angela Feely for being there throughout the rollercoaster of submissions and edits, and Grace Feely for being its first reader and making me believe that people may actually like it.

  Thank you to the people who have encouraged my writing along the way. Especially, Lisa Davies et al at the West London Writing Group. To Ali Harper, my mentor-turned-friend. It’s highly likely I wouldn’t have finished the book had it not been for her.

  A big shout-out to my Twitter friends who helped with umpteen research questions and have been a surprising but wonderful source of love and support. Especially Rob Palk for answering all my annoying queries. To the CBC and Savvies Facebook groups. The former for the support and the latter for being a guiding light during this weird process.

  And last and least, my gratitude to the men throughout my life who have treated me in a less than acceptable fashion. Without them I wouldn’t have been able to create such shitty male characters.

  But I really must end on a more important note than that – so thank you to my cats.

  If I Can’t Have You

  Charlotte Levin has been shortlisted for the Andrea Badenoch Award, part of the Northern Writers’ Awards, and for the Mslexia Short Story Competition. Charlotte lives in Manchester and If I Can’t Have You is her first novel.

  First published 2020 by Mantle

  This electronic edition first published 2020 by Mantle

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  The Smithson, 6 Briset Street, London EC1M 5NR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5290-3240-6

  Copyright © Charlotte Levin 2020

  Cover Design by Mel Four,

  Mantle Art Department

  Author photograph © Angela Feely

  The right of Charlotte Levin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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