Because She Loves Me

by Mark Edwards

  Despite leaning forward, he didn’t see the lorry that swerved in front of us out of the slow lane until it was too late. All I remember is Dad yelling, Mum trying to grab the wheel, Tilly screaming and a great jarring screech of metal and smash of glass as the car flipped over like a toy.

  Dad was killed instantly.

  Mum died in the ambulance on the way to hospital.

  Tilly was crushed beneath the overturned lorry, her legs shattered beyond repair.

  The lorry driver emerged with a single scratch, a bead of blood tracing a line from his forehead down to his lips.

  And me: somehow, my corner of the car escaped the lorry. I suffered some bruising, mild whiplash, and I pissed myself with terror. But physically I was all right.

  The lucky one.

  On Boxing Day, which we spent eating leftovers and staring at the TV in the traditional manner. I went on a bit about my money worries and my need to find more work, but Tilly appeared preoccupied. She kept drifting off and though she smiled when she was talking to me, a couple of times I caught her reflection and saw she was frowning, anxiety creasing her brow. But she denied that anything was wrong so I left it.

  Shortly before I was due to leave, Tilly’s personal assistant, Rachel, arrived at her flat. Rachel was the woman who helped my sister do the things she couldn’t manage by herself, a person who helped her live an independent life. There had been times when I had wondered if that person should be me and had even volunteered. Tilly had point-blank refused, saying that it would ruin our relationship, that she wanted me to be her brother, not her carer. I was relieved in a guilty way.

  Rachel rode a huge black and silver Harley Davison and, according to Tilly, treated it like her baby, taking it to conventions, spending every spare minute polishing and tinkering with it. She was tall with sharp cheekbones and short black hair. She looked a little like she should be the guitarist in an early-eighties all-girl rock band and had well-developed arm muscles, from lifting Tilly, that I was envious of.

  She came into the flat and dropped her crash helmet on the side, handing Tilly a wrapped bottle before noticing me.

  ‘Hi Rachel,’ I said. ‘Good Christmas?’

  She half-smiled, her hand moving towards her lips. She had a habit of concealing her mouth when she spoke, like she was ashamed of her teeth, not that I could see anything wrong with them. ‘Pretty boring, actually. Mostly sitting around listening to my mum and dad bickering. Parents, they’re such—’

  She went pink as she realised what she’d said. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Tilly said and I smiled in agreement.

  Rachel looked at my bag. I was going home by train. I wouldn’t drive on motorways. I didn’t really like driving at all and avoided it wherever necessary.

  ‘Do you need a lift to the station?’ she asked.

  ‘What? On your bike?’

  Behind me, Tilly made clucking noises. ‘You’re such a chicken.’

  ‘I’ll need a helmet,’ I said and Rachel smiled behind her hand. ‘There’s one here. I got it when I took Tilly out for a ride.’

  ‘It was awesome,’ said Tilly, grinning at my surprised expression.

  ‘I guess I’ve got no excuse then. Actually, I’ve always wanted to ride a Harley.’

  I bent to kiss Tilly’s cheek and said goodbye.

  ‘Relax, Andrew,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll enjoy it.’ She waved me goodbye. ‘Good luck finding work. You can always come and stay here if you can’t pay your mortgage.’

  ‘Thanks, sis.’

  I straddled the monstrous Harley, all gleaming silver chrome and black rubber, and held on to the sides of the seat. The bike accelerated away without warning and for a moment I thought I was going to fly off the back, so was forced to cling on to Rachel as she roared through the traffic, heading into town, breaking every speed limit like the rules were designed for other, mere mortals. My heart was in my mouth, my mouth was dry, but it was exhilarating and strangely sexy, even if it was Rachel I was holding on to. I imagined what Charlie would look like wearing the leather outfit Rachel had on; pictured us racing along American highways with Charlie’s arms wrapped tight around me, the wind whipping her hair . . .

  ‘What did you think?’ Rachel said, flipping up her visor as I disembarked outside the station.

  I was still shaking off the images off Charlie in black leather. ‘Yeah, it was fun. In a terrifying way.’

  ‘You can’t beat it,’ Rachel said. ‘When we all go out riding together, it’s the best feeling in the world.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Yeah, I mean me and the rest of the chapter.’

  I recognised the terminology. ‘You’re a Hells Angel?’

  ‘No, we’re not Angels. Not proper ones, anyway. It’s just a motorcycle club – we call it “the chapter” as a kind of joke.’

  ‘I see.’ I pictured the kind of men Rachel hung out with: long hair, beards, tattoos, attitude.

  ‘Andrew . . .’ She looked at the ground.

  Uh-oh, I thought. When someone says your name like that it’s rarely good news. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you got five minutes for a chat before your train?’

  ‘Um.’ I checked my watch. ‘I’ve got fifteen, actually. What is it?’

  She got off the bike. ‘Let’s go get a cup of tea and I’ll tell you. It’s about Tilly.’

  She bought two cups of tea and we sat down at a greasy Formica table in the station cafe. Rachel’s expression and tone of voice had me worried. Was there something wrong with Tilly that I didn’t know about?

  Rachel fidgeted with the zip on her leather jacket. When she spoke to me, she avoided eye contact, her focus slipping around the room. ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while. But I need your word that you won’t tell Tilly I’ve spoken to you. She’d freak out and fire me.’

  Now I was really concerned. ‘It depends what it’s about.’

  She fidgeted some more, her hand straying repeatedly to her mouth as she spoke. ‘I’m really worried about her. I’m sure you know that she’s always been prone to black moods, days when she is snappy and down and, to be frank, feels sorry for herself. But recently it’s been getting worse and worse. The good days are less common than the bad days now.’

  I was shocked. I didn’t know that Tilly suffered from black moods, beyond the occasional grump that everyone in the world suffers.

  ‘I think the doctor has put her on a different antidepressant, but since Jonathan dumped her . . .’

  I raised my palms. ‘Whoa. Hold on. Antidepressants? And who’s Jonathan?’

  She appeared genuinely shocked, meeting my eye for the first time. ‘I didn’t realise you didn’t know. I thought you and Tilly were close.’

  ‘Obviously not as close as I thought.’

  ‘I’m sorry. OK, the crux of it is this: about a month ago she started seeing this guy who she met at the pool. I take her swimming a couple of times a week.’

  ‘That’s Jonathan? Is he disabled too?’

  ‘Yes – he’s an ex-soldier, lost his leg beneath the knee when he stepped on a mine in Iraq. Anyway, Tilly was completely smitten with him. She talked about him all the time.’

  Not with me, I thought.

  ‘He dumped her a couple of weeks ago. Out of nowhere. She thought everything was going brilliantly. She’s been distraught ever since.’

  I drummed my fingers on the table. The pub was empty and silent apart from the burbling fruit machine in the corner and an old man talking to his dog.

  ‘Are you sure this is nothing more than her being heartbroken?’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m not saying heartbreak isn’t serious. But everyone gets down after they split up with someone they really liked.’

  ‘It’s more than that,
’ Rachel insisted. ‘She keeps talking about how she’s got nobody, how shit her life is, saying she’s got nothing to live for. I think you should talk to her.’

  What she had told me turned the blood in my veins to ice.

  ‘But without giving away that you talked to me?’

  ‘That would be ideal, yes. Like I said, she’d be really angry. If you could do something to cheer her up . . . show her she has got something to live for. What with you being so far away—’

  ‘I’m only up the road in London.’ It was seventy miles away.

  ‘I know. But you don’t see each other very often, do you?’

  If I hadn’t been so concerned about Tilly, I might have felt affronted by this woman, whom I barely knew, hinting that I was neglecting my sister. Instead, along with the chill of concern, the main emotion I felt was guilt.

  ‘I need to think about what to do,’ I said, after contemplating Rachel’s words for a while. Part of me wanted to go straight back to Tilly’s and talk to her, but I agreed with Rachel’s planned approach. It would be better to be subtle. Plus I was so surprised by what I’d heard that I needed time for it all to sink in.

  ‘That sounds wise,’ Rachel said, displaying a rare smile. ‘Thanks, Andrew.’

  ‘No. Thank you. Tilly’s lucky she has someone who cares about her so much.’

  Rachel picked up her crash helmet and ran a palm over its smooth dome. ‘If only she realised that.’

  Back in London, I stopped for a coffee then headed for my connecting train.

  My phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognise. My hopes surged – was it her?

  ‘Hello?’

  The call disconnected.

  Annoyed, I switched my phone off. I needed to forget her. Get over it. I hadn’t been dumped, like my poor sister. It hadn’t even begun.

  My flat is on the fourth floor of a Victorian terrace. Once upon a time, I guess it would have been an attic. It was cramped and the climb up the stairs was exhausting, but the view was fantastic. I could see the shining great transmitter in Crystal Palace, plus, in the other direction, I had a clear view across the park towards the Gherkin. The neighbours were nice. And it had been all I could afford. Both Mum and Dad had been insured and the money was put into a trust for Tilly and me. On my insistence, most of the money went to Tilly, to buy her apartment, but I’d had enough to put a deposit on this flat and pay for my education.

  I carried my luggage up the stairs, chucked it on the bed and ran myself a bath. I thought about calling Sasha, see if she wanted to meet up, but remembered she was in Cornwall visiting her family. So I had a typical boring evening: I surfed the net, watched some TV, nuked something out of the freezer, played a bit of online poker.

  At around eleven, I got undressed, ready for bed. My phone fell out of my jeans pocket and thudded on the floor. It had been switched off all evening.

  As soon as I turned it on, it vibrated twice. I had a missed call and a voicemail. Both were from an unknown mobile number, though not from the number that had hung up on me earlier.

  I listened to the voicemail.

  It was her.

  ‘Hey, Andrew . . . just going to wait a sec in case you’re screening. No? Or maybe you are and you don’t want to talk to me because I’ve been such a flake. Or maybe it was the kiss. Maybe you didn’t like it. Though I thought it was a good one. Very good, actually. Oh God, I’m rambling.’

  A smile spread across my face.

  ‘So, yes, this is what happened: I lost my phone. I know, I know. Sounds like the oldest excuse in the book. But it’s true, I swear to God. I lost it and didn’t have your number because it was saved to my phone and not the thingy. I don’t know the technical word for it. The cloud, or whatever. So, anyway, I thought that was it, that you’d hate me forever, or maybe be hugely relieved that this annoying girl who picks fights in pubs was leaving you alone. And then I was back at work today – no rest for the wicked – and did something a bit naughty. I looked up your details on the NHS database. Um, hope you don’t mind.’

  Mind? I was ecstatic.

  ‘Give me a call. If you want to. I had fun the other night. Lots of fun. I’ll probably be up late so call me whenever. Wake me up, I don’t care. Bye!’

  I punched the air.

  Four

  Charlie had arranged to come round at six. ‘Don’t worry about cooking me dinner or anything like that,’ she said when I called her back. I probably should have waited till the next day, or even the day after. Make her sweat a little. But I’m not very good at playing it cool.

  I wished I was cooking for her, even though I am hopeless in the kitchen, because it would have given me something to do to distract me. Instead, I spent the day prowling like a polar bear at the zoo, watching the minutes tick by. I showered, agonised over whether to clean shave or trim my stubble, spent ages trying to decide what to wear, tidied the flat three times, tried to work out what music should be playing when she arrived.

  I had never acted like this before. Halfway through the afternoon I sat down and gave myself a silent talking to. This was ridiculous. She was just a girl. I’d only met her once. Then I started worrying. What if we didn’t get on? What if she saw me and realised she didn’t like me after all? Or vice versa, though that seemed highly unlikely.

  The doorbell rang at five minutes past six, after I had convinced myself she wasn’t coming.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, beaming at me and stepping forward to give me a hug. She smelled of expensive perfume and looked delicious, wearing a soft black dress and knee-high boots. ‘It’s freezing out here. Are you going to invite me in?’

  ‘Of course. Come in.’

  ‘If I was a vampire, you’d be screwed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if you were,’ I said.

  ‘Well, if you want me to bite you . . .’ She laughed. ‘I feel a bit hyper. Sorry, I’m not normally like this.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  A look passed between us and I knew that any fears I’d had about awkwardness or not liking each other had been foolish. People talk about chemistry, about sparks flying between people, and that was exactly what was going on here. I had been strongly attracted to other women before, even thought myself in love, but I’d never experienced something as intense and fast as this.

  I led her up the four flights of stairs and into my flat.

  She handed me two bottles of wine. ‘One white, one red. I wasn’t sure which you prefer.’

  ‘I’m easy. But you’re red, yes?’

  ‘Hmm, yes please.’ Her eyes had gone over my shoulder, taking in the room. I left her to look around while I went into the tiny kitchen to open the wine. I grasped the worktop for a moment, telling myself to get a grip. Be cool.

  When I returned she was looking at the computer, scrolling through my playlists.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  I handed her the glass of red and took a sip of mine. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘In the old days – or so I’ve heard – you could go round someone’s place and rifle through their record collection, take a look at their bookcases. Now you have to scroll through their iTunes or click on their Kindle. It’s not the same, is it? I’m pleased to see you have some real books though.’

  She stepped over to the bookcase and ran a finger along the spines. A lot of my books are graphic design tomes and photography, with a small collection of novels.

  She took out an Ian McEwan book, flicked through it and said, ‘I love this. I can’t bear people who don’t read. I think they must have something wrong with them, don’t you?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Books, music, art, films.’ She held up her glass. ‘Good wine. It’s what life’s all about.’

  I held up my own glass. ‘To books, music, art, films and wine.’

  She had missed something of
f that list, but I decided not to mention it. It was in the room with us already.

  We clinked and she crossed to the window. ‘Amazing view.’

  ‘I know. It’s even better from the bedroom.’

  I realised what that must sound like but before I could speak she laid her hand across her breastbone and said, ‘Andrew. I’ve only been here five minutes. Oh, are you blushing?’

  ‘I think I might be.’

  ‘Quick,’ she said. ‘Change the subject before it gets awkward.’

  She sat down on the sofa and I had a moment of indecision. Sit next to her or in the adjacent armchair? I sat beside her and we turned towards each other, knees almost touching. I groped for something interesting to say.

  ‘When are you going back to work?’ I asked.

  ‘That is a change of subject. I’ve got a whole week off. Bliss.’

  ‘So you’re a project manager?’

  She pulled a face. ‘Boring, huh? I just happen to be very good at organising things and people. It’s not exactly what I want to spend my life doing.’

  I waited for her to continue.

  ‘I did an art degree. That’s what I really want to be doing. Painting. But there are thousands of us out there and the world needs more painters like it needs more politicians. So at the moment I do it in my spare time.’

  We talked for a little bit about her art, about how she was trying to get some of her paintings shown at a big exhibition that was coming up, and then we talked a little about graphic design, though I didn’t have that much to say about it. I mainly wanted to listen to her talk, to hear her melodic voice as she skipped about from topic to topic. She knew a lot about literature and music as well as art, and when she spoke, her passion for these things, for culture, for life, was infectious. She was funny too, and unusual. I had never met anyone like her.

  I refilled our glasses.

  ‘You must be doing okay from being a designer,’ she said, ‘if you could afford to buy this place.’