I needed to talk to Chiara.
The Mile End flat was empty and had the feeling about it that no one had been there for some time. It took me several tries to get Chiara to answer her phone and when she did she told me she was in the pub with the gang. I fed Pepper, kissed him and then ran down the stairs and along the Mile End Road to the Wetherspoon’s where we always met.
I was so relieved to find Chiara and the others I almost cried. I squished up next to her on one of the leather sofas, and she leant across and spoke into my ear. But what she said wasn’t comforting after all.
‘We were supposed to be shopping together this afternoon. Did you completely forget? I’ve been texting and phoning you and in the end I gave up.’
I put my hands to my face.
‘Shit!’
‘When I realised you weren’t coming I asked Louise instead.’
‘Oh.’ I felt a pang of juvenile jealousy. Louise wasn’t her closest friend, I was!
‘I completely forgot about shopping with you,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry, Chiara. Things have happened, stuff . . .’
‘And your mum’s been on the phone wanting to talk. You mustn’t leave your phone on silent! She’s been ringing me since midday asking where you are. She wants to talk about your Aunty May’s house.’
‘I had to go down there this weekend. But my mum knew that, didn’t she say?’
‘Something’s up,’ Chiara said. She was looking at me with concern but I could tell she was still resentful that I’d let her down. ‘Tell me what’s going on with you. You look petrified. As if you’d seen a ghost. I haven’t got long.’
Finn and Louise and Guy were on the other side of the large table, and with the background noise of the pub couldn’t possibly hear our exchange.
I nonetheless spoke as quietly as I could.
‘I’m honestly so sorry, Chiara. The fact is, I got a bit . . . involved with someone. I met him down at May’s. I didn’t want to get in touch with him, or tell you until it was well and truly over with Finn.’ I was glossing over the truth again.
‘I see.’
I told her he was a man who as it turned out spent weekends in Southwold but lived in Wapping but that it was far more complicated than I’d realised.
I wondered what Chiara would say if I told her, ‘He’s the one I ran over!’
I wanted to say, ‘And I just found out he’s married!’ but that would put him in a bad light when it was me who had deceived him, while he, poor man, had had no memory about anything that had happened before I had appeared at his bedside.
He was the vulnerable one. It was me who had taken advantage of his amnesia! Me who had veiled the truth from him! What on earth must he have thought I was doing, visiting him in hospital, taking him home, behaving as if I was someone he was close to? I’d lain with him on the bed, for goodness’ sake! We’d kissed! I’d let him believe we’d met before and were lovers. My deception was a thousand times worse than I’d imagined!
‘Well that sounds exciting,’ Chiara was saying, her voice clipped. ‘You can fill me in when I’ve got more time. But I have to tell you’ – she lowered her voice – ‘Finn wants to speak to you again.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He wants to give you some advice about your commission. He’s afraid it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there in New York . . . that you don’t quite know what you’re letting yourself in for. With the commission you’ve taken on.’
‘Chiara, I need to move on . . .’
‘He simply wants to support you.’
‘He thinks he’s supporting me, but do you see why I find it stifling?’
‘I can see he’s a little over-protective of you, yes. I always have. But he cares. I said I’d let you know that he’d like to talk. There. I can’t do more than that.’
‘Thanks, Chiara.’
She looked at me. ‘I’ve got to go. Oh, we’re viewing the flat tomorrow. The survey’s been done and Liam wants to measure up for curtains and so on.’
‘Exciting!’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes it is.’
But my heart dipped at the prospect of her moving out. All the heady fantasies of the last couple of weeks were proving to be just that – fantasies. Patrick was married. Finn didn’t think I could deal with the New York art world. May’s house was full of trinkets that gave me an uneasy feeling. I was still living in a stifling flat in Mile End and unless I pulled myself together and got on with my painting I wouldn’t ever earn enough to move somewhere nicer. Worst of all I was possibly the culprit in a hit-and-run incident in which a man had lost his leg. I had told lie after lie.
‘I’m going to miss living with you,’ Chiara said. ‘I’m a bit nervous, truth be told, to be committing at last.’ She patted her swelling belly. ‘It’s all this little one’s fault! I’ll miss our chats. Our nights in.’
I hugged her. And felt her slipping away from me.
‘How’s the commission?’ Louise asked, the minute Chiara had gone, shouting to be heard across the noise of the pub.
‘It’s going well, thank you.’ I had hardly done any work on it.
‘I hear you’ve been working on the sitting-room floor. Is that working out?’
‘It has to, for now.’
‘I’d love to see what you’re doing sometime.’
She, Guy and Finn all shuffled round the table towards me. ‘Have you been to the Turner exhibition?’ Louise asked. ‘Finn, Guy and I thought we might go next week. If you fancy joining us? It would be good for your inspiration.’
‘Thanks, I’ll see.’ I didn’t want to think about work now. I wanted to go home, nurse my misery. I was relieved when my mobile went and I could make an excuse to get away.
‘I’ve just got to pop outside,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a weak signal in here.’
I stood on the hectic street, police sirens wailing and traffic rumbling past.
Patrick’s name had flashed up on my screen.
I stood for a moment staring into the ringing phone. Had Patrick realised that I knew nothing about him? That I was an imposter in his life? I needed to know. I picked up.
‘Hi.’
‘Why did you run off like that?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘I’ve no idea. You left me so suddenly, I was afraid I’d offended you!’
‘You’ve got a wife, Patrick!’
‘I thought you knew. You must have known.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were married!’
‘I thought I had! I’m dealing with such a lot. Please, bear with me. It was only when I saw the photo I realised I might not have told you before.’
‘About your wife?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry if I didn’t, but I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’
‘Isn’t it a bit late? After arranging to spend a weekend with me! After letting me kiss you and drive you home?’
‘Oh, Ellie,’ he said. ‘I was sure I must have said. My wife’s dead.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Although it was late, I found myself calling a cab and going back to Patrick’s.
He let me through the main entrance when I rang the bell, and I pushed open the door to his flat, which he’d left ajar.
I found him sitting in his wheelchair looking out over the little balcony, a bottle of champagne in front of him, from which he immediately poured a second glass.
He looked up at me, held out his hand, pulled me towards him and kissed me on the lips. I felt my hand go instinctively to him, stroking his head, loving the feel of his short glossy hair.
‘I was so afraid when you ran off like that . . .’
‘I’m sorry. I was shocked. You’re married . . . there’s so little I know about you.’
‘Was married, which I would have explained, if you hadn’t bolted like that!’
I ran my hand through his hair again, no longer able to hold back. I bent down and kissed the top of his head.
‘I’m back now though.
’
‘I know, and I’m glad. Here. Sit down, have some of this Cristal. You need it after that shock.’
We sat side by side, our fingers intertwined, looking out over the river.
‘How did she die?’ I whispered, after a while. ‘She wasn’t . . . she couldn’t have been in the accident that night? Was she?’ I knew this was a crazy question – it would have been mentioned on the news – but the thought would haunt me unless I asked.
He put a hand to his forehead, closed his eyes, frowned.
‘No. No, it was two years ago. I was so sure I must have told you.’
‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s OK. You don’t have to say anything. I’ve got over it now. More or less.’
‘What happened?’
‘Do you want me to tell you?’
‘Yes. But only if it’s not too painful.’
‘It was an accident at sea,’ he said.
‘Oh! I’m so sorry . . .’
‘I don’t really want to talk about it too much.’
‘Of course. I understand. How awful for you.’
There was a silence. I tried to take in what he had told me. I wanted to ask so much, what kind of accident, when, where. How appalling for him, to have lost his wife, then to be dealing with such a devastating injury.
‘It must have been ghastly,’ was all I could say.
‘Yes it was,’ he said. ‘We both loved the sea.’
He paused, stood up awkwardly with his crutches, leant on the balcony and gazed out over the river. After a little while he turned and smiled at me, the dimples that I found so irresistible appearing in his cheeks.
‘It’s OK though, Ellie, it was a while ago now and I’m ready for a new relationship. Come here.’
I went to him, and he put his arm around me, pulling me to him, and kissed me again, long and hard, and as he did so I had an overwhelming urge to heal everything he’d gone through.
‘The trouble with having this blasted leg to get used to is I won’t be able to go out on the water,’ he said at last. ‘It’ll feel like my wings have been clipped. I’m determined to get back out there just as soon as they’ve signed me off at the clinic. I’m no good without a boat to muck about in.’
‘Even after what happened to your wife? What was her name?’
‘Stef. But it hasn’t changed how I feel about the sea. It’s where I feel closest to her. Oh, sorry, Ellie, that’s probably a bit insensitive of me, telling you that. Forgive me.’
‘No, it’s OK. It’s fine.’
‘Look, what you have to understand about me is that the sea’s in my blood, it always was. Her accident doesn’t change that.’
‘What exactly happenned?’
I couldn’t help it, I needed to know more.
Little lights had come on all over the river and high above it too. The sky was alight with a million tiny beacons like fireflies. Boats passed, lit up, music blaring, you could hear laughter from the decks where people were partying.
‘I can’t believe I didn’t tell you. But then I guess we don’t know each other that well. It’s so hard to get it all straight in my head. How long we’ve known each other. What you know and don’t know about me. It’s ghastly. I still feel I’m sliding about on ice trying to get a foothold – that there are these fragments floating about in a vacuum that need putting together but just keep eluding me.’
‘I hardly know anything about you,’ I said.
At least this was true.
‘No, it was one of our first dates, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, hating myself for lying.
‘That night in the pub in Blythburgh,’ he said, ‘was to be the beginning of the first weekend we’d spend together. We were going to go sailing.’
‘Yes.’ I wanted him to tell me more, without appearing to probe.
‘When I first saw you, we fancied each other immediately, didn’t we?’
‘We did.’
‘You know what though? You’re much prettier than I thought at first. You are a million times more gorgeous than I remember. And sweeter. We were going to have such a romantic time in Southwold. But those guys in the pub didn’t like the idea, for some reason, I think they felt they had some kind of hold over you, being a local girl. And gorgeous with it. And then that one got a bit heavy with me. And I remember leaving, and you told me not to. But the old drink got the better of me. You were right though, Ellie. Look where it got me, walking off like that!’
‘It was a pretty big mistake.’
‘It was.’
This was the moment I should tell him we’d never met before I came to see him in hospital. This was the moment I should say I was pretty sure now that my car had hit him on the road that evening. But that I intended to make up for it by being there for him.
‘Patrick, I—’
‘And you were the only one who came when you heard. Even though you hadn’t known me very long. You have no idea how much that means to me.’
He took my face in his hands, and looked into my eyes. His own eyes were so intense. So full of feeling. Then he kissed me and the kiss was long and deep and lovely.
‘You’re the one I need, Ellie, you can’t imagine how grateful I am to you,’ he said at last, holding me close to him.
How could I disillusion him after all? When he’d been through so much?
He sat down again, and I leant over the wheelchair, wanting to leave, unable to, wanting to stay. He put his hands up and began to unbutton my shirt, peeling it off.
‘You’re so lovely,’ he said.
His hands on my skin released a warmth that infused my whole body.
I knew now nothing mattered, nothing else in the world. Even if I found out after all that I had had nothing to do with Patrick’s accident and owed him nothing, I couldn’t have walked away any more.
I would stay with him whatever happened. I would help him learn to walk. I was mesmerised by him. His courage. His determination to get up and get on.
The tragedy in his past fascinated me. The vulnerability in him that was there, just beneath the surface, intrigued me.
I was falling for him.
I moved my hand down to his stump and caressed it, gently, through the bandage, asking him if it hurt.
‘Not the way you are touching it,’ he whispered. ‘I think you’re healing it.’ And then he pulled me onto his lap.
I could still feel Patrick when I left, on me, in me, his hands, his mouth, I could still smell him. I could feel the way his bandaged leg grazed mine. I couldn’t get him out of my mind.
‘Come back soon,’ he called as I left.
And of course I did go back.
I went back every night the following week. I learnt more and more about Patrick. It was becoming crystal clear that he was right when he said no one else had bothered to visit him. That I was the only one who cared. So I continued to let him think that I was a girl he’d arranged to meet to go sailing with in Southwold. It really seemed immaterial now since in reality we were getting on so well.
We found out we shared musical tastes. It was mostly romantic, mainstream. Ed Sheeran, John Mayer. He liked Beyoncé too, and Adele. I could hear Finn scoff, but it didn’t matter. I hadn’t realised how freeing it would be to break away from that relationship, how set in our ways we had become. How set in my ways I had become. There was another way, there were new roads ahead and life felt full of promise and a broadening-out that would encompass things I’d never done or dreamt of doing before.
I found out that, in addition to cycling and sailing, Patrick had circles of friends for each of his interests, distinct groups who he had always met on certain evenings; his golfing buddies, his poker buddies, the guys he met for drinks. ‘I’ll pick up all those things again once I get used to the prosthetic,’ he told me. ‘For now, all I need is you.’
He told me that after the sea, his great love was for the Thames, that he had worked on it for
a few years before he went abroad and made a fortune getting involved in fish futures, glass eels and other things which were, apparently, now fetching almost as much as gold in futures markets. He explained that he dealt these things online, it didn’t involve actually touching or holding or even seeing any fish. ‘It’s like a currency,’ he said. ‘We buy and sell, watch the markets, do deals.’
‘How strange. To get rich on fish.’
‘Strange but true,’ he said.
‘So that’s how you can afford a penthouse apartment in Wapping.’
‘Indeed.’
‘What did you work as, when you were on the river, Patrick?’ We were lying on our fronts on his bed, looking out of the window over the Thames. Pepper was on the floor chewing his favourite rubber bone.
‘I was a lighterman.’
‘What is a lighterman?’
‘A lighterman, my dear, is authorised to carry cargo on the river, whereas a waterman carries passengers.’
‘Goodness. I never knew that distinction before.’
A light breeze blew through the windows.
‘Anything you want to know about the river you only have to ask me.’
I found his cookery books and he revealed that he was a good cook and liked Pacific rim dishes which he made quickly and efficiently, sitting at the table in his wheelchair, or holding a crutch under one arm. He would text a list of ingredients which I bought on my way back to his after painting all day.
‘Can’t remember where I put the wok,’ he said, one evening. ‘Actually I’m not even sure I have one.’ He sounded irritable. It sometimes affected him like this, the aftermath of his accident. He was in the kitchen rummaging through a cupboard, which was tricky for him with one arm on the crutch. I looked for it for him, telling him to sit and rest, but there was no wok to be seen and we made do with a frying pan.
‘I’m sure I had one,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ve always preferred cooking in a wok.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Patrick, it’s delicious anyway,’ I said, scooping up mouthfuls of gingery stir-fry, wondering in what other ways his amnesia would rear its head.
‘What I want to know about you, though you must have told me before,’ he said, ‘is, where do you do your painting?’
A Trick of the Mind Page 13
