by Marian Keyes
‘I wasn’t expecting to feel so sad,’ I said.
‘I was.’
‘Were you?’ I was very surprised. ‘Just out of interest, why did you agree to meet me?’
‘I was curious, I wanted to see if you’d changed. And I missed you,’ he added jokily.
‘And have I? Changed?’ I asked, skipping over the jokey tone.
‘Seems that way.’ He nodded. ‘I’d have to take you for a test-drive to know for sure, but it looks like you’ve kept all the good bits and shaken the bad bits.’
That made me proud.
‘You don’t look that much different,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Your hair is shorter but you’re still a babe.’
And you’re still a ride.’ I managed to grin, yet I felt like my stomach was being torn apart.
There was no passionate clinch, no frantic lunge across the table. The purpose of our meeting was to douse the last few embers of the fire, not to rekindle the flames.
‘I’d better get back,’ I said. I hated leaving him, but I couldn’t bear any more staring at the destruction I’d caused.
‘OK,’ he said, standing up, ‘I’ll walk you home.’
I was desperate to know if he had a girlfriend. As we strolled, I tried to ask.
‘Have you…?’ I attempted, then stopped.
‘Have you…?’ I said again, not getting any further.
Perhaps it would be better not to know. It would be agony if he was going out with someone else.
‘You know,’ he said casually, ‘I haven’t had a girlfriend since you left.’
In that moment, I believed in God.
‘Take care of yourself,’ he said, as we stood awkwardly outside the hostel.
‘You too,’ I said, wishing I was dead, waiting for him to go.
‘Mind yourself.’ He still lingered.
‘I will, you mind yourself too.’
He moved his arm just a millimetre in my direction, an infinitesimal twitch, and the next thing, as if propelled from a cannon, we were in each other’s arms. His legs were pressed against mine, his arms were hard around my back, my face was buried deep against his neck as I inhaled his scent for the last time. I wanted it never to stop. Then I pulled myself off him and ran inside, not looking at him again. I almost broke my neck tripping over Brad who’d been watching the whole proceedings with narrowed eyes. I didn’t think she was going to be my friend anymore.
I knew the grief would pass, that I’d get over it.
The thing I found hardest was that I’d waited until it was finally finished before acknowledging how much I had loved him. But I knew that would pass too.
I’ll never meet someone like him again, I kept thinking, twanging with grief.
But I would, I reminded myself. Operation Harry.
It was impossible not to wonder what would have happened with Luke if I hadn’t been off my head throughout a lot of the relationship. Or, if we had just met for the first time, if we had no shared past that stopped us from having a future. But I knew there was no point thinking that way, you can’t change what’s happened. The best thing I could do was accept things.
And even if I hadn’t won the main prize, I did have some consolation prizes to take away with me. Hadn’t I found out he’d loved me once? Hadn’t he forgiven me? Hadn’t I behaved like a responsible adult? Hadn’t we parted as pals?
The sadness I felt was as much healing as it was pain. I’d gone back and faced the messiest part of my past. I’d looked my misdemeanours in the eye and I’d found the courage to apologize to Luke. I no longer needed to feel ashamed every time I thought about him.
The ghost was finally laid.
I just wished it had been me.
But I was so proud of myself.
I was Rachel Walsh. A woman, an adult. A heifer, a babe, a lost sheep, an addict.
A found sheep.
A survivor.
EPILOGUE
I was just getting ready for bed when I heard the racket down in the hall.
It was two weeks since I’d seen Luke and I was still waiting in vain for the heartbreak to dissolve. A mature adult was a very hard thing to be. But I took a crumb of comfort from my agony. Maybe it would make me a stronger person.
I sometimes believed it.
About two seconds a day.
The rest of the time I spent roaring crying, convinced I’d never get over him. I cleaned the loos and laid the tables and hoovered the stairs at Il Pensione, tears coursing down my face. Nobody minded, they were Italian, comfortable with raw emotion.
When I heard the raised voices in the hall of the hostel, I was just wrapping up a good cry, and absolving myself from the need to officially remove my makeup.
So little happened in the way of drama there that I rushed out for a look. The noise seemed to be coming from the ground floor. I leant over the railings, and down into the hall, where a terrible scuffle was in process. Brad was wrestling energetically with a creature.
A creature that on closer inspection turned out to be Luke. My heart almost stopped.
‘No men in here,’ Brad was shouting. ‘No men.’
‘I only want to talk to Rachel Walsh,’ Luke was protesting. ‘I don’t mean to cause any harm.’
I knew, I was utterly certain, that this was no casual visit. There had been far too much finality about our last encounter.
Then he looked up and saw me.
‘Rachel,’ he called, holding my eyes, despite the funny angle he was in because of Brad’s headlock. ‘I LOVE YOU.’ Brad let go of him abruptly, clearly revolted by what he’d said. Luke was sent staggering to the floor.
I couldn’t believe what I’d heard, yet I could. After all, I loved him.
‘Say it again,’ I called down to him in a shaky voice, as he clambered to his feet.
‘I love you,’ he bellowed joyously, spreading his arms beseechingly. ‘You’re amazing and beautiful and I can’t get you out of my head.’
‘I love you too,’ I heard myself say.
‘We can work it out,’ he urged, looking up at me. ‘I’ll come home to Ireland and get a job. It was good with us before and it can be even better now.’
All the other girls were out of their rooms now, some in their nightdresses.
‘Way to go, Rachel,’ one of them called.
‘Uf she doan wanchew,’ Wanda the Texan shouted, ‘Ah dee-ooo.’
‘I love you,’ he called again, advancing up the stairs. There was a burst of cheering and clapping and one or two whoops.
‘And I love you,’ I murmured, as I stood outside my doorway, paralysed, watching him get closer.
Down the landing he strode. Girls pulled themselves back into their rooms as he passed, then came out again to admire his departing bum.
‘Rachel,’ he said, when he finally reached me. To my disbelief, I watched him get down on one knee. And the crowd went wild! He took my hand. ‘I suppose,’ he said, looking deep into my eyes, ‘a ride is out of the question?’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Cloisters doesn’t exist. Around the world there are many different treatment centres that deal with addiction. The living conditions, treatment methods and psychotherapy employed vary from establishment to establishment. Some are harsher than the Cloisters, some are gender. In fact, some really do have jacuzzis!
During my research the one common thread I found was the recommendation that recovering addicts attend the appropriate ‘Anonymous’ meeting. Therefore I found it necessary to mention Rachel attending Narcotics Anonymous meetings, while at the same time taking care to preserve the confidentiality of the meetings’ procedures.
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