Abi said that in between the things you want to accomplish, the goals you set and the dreams you want to achieve, is a little thing called life. She asked me why that wasn’t enough. I couldn’t answer her.
I thought about that for most of the night as I cradled my arms around her waist and listened to her deep breaths, comforted knowing that for a few hours, she had an escape from the pain that I had caused. She was right. Life was the point. The bits in between were far more important than career development and a chance to succeed in a job I loved. The bits in between that people took for granted were life. The morning alarms, holding hands on the way to the local for a Sunday roast, the mundane tasks you complained about but would do anything to repeat over and over with the person you’ve lost. Life was love, and I couldn’t be there to make the end of Mum’s life as wonderful as possible if I stayed with Abi.
That thought alone killed me.
For the next few weeks, Abi and I carried on as normal. We talked about how we would fill the time we had left. We planned a final weekend away. We went out to bars and restaurants after work, either just the two of us or with friends. I would watch her dance like she didn’t have a care in the world, which, strangely, made me happy. We didn’t have time to accept the sadness of the situation because that wasn’t how our minds worked. Maybe we were just delaying the pain.
We often sat on the embankment and talked, or she would lie on my lap as I read. I cherished those times the most because I felt like she was soaking into me so that she would be a part of me forever. It was easier to cope if I believed that.
We became silent communicators through our bodies. I couldn’t get enough. Sex had always been a huge part of us. It pulled us back together like a magnet when one of us was wavering. It spoke for us. It blared our feelings out like a loud speaker. It realigned us. I’d never wanted to be a part of someone more. We craved each other as if we knew that we had to make every moment count because soon, we wouldn’t have the intense physical connection.
I fucked her hard and fast on every surface in every room. I made love to her slow and steady on the bed, in the shower, anywhere where I had the time and space to adore every inch of her. I noticed I was marking her more, leaving trails of tiny bruises, purple circles where I had bitten, kissed and sucked my way across her skin. I needed to feel that she was mine and when I saw the marks, they reassured me. I stupidly wished they would be permanent parts of her body, like a scar or a tattoo, so that anyone who tried to touch her knew she belonged to someone else.
The only time she cried was when I left my flat. She helped me pack, but the day the space was empty of furnishings, of belongings, of me, she broke down. She always had to show strength. She found it hard to show her vulnerable side. She kept it hidden, securely locked away.
I cradled her head to my chest. We were surrounded by emptiness that screamed loudly all around us and I wondered if she would find it hard to keep her vulnerabilities securely hidden once I was gone.
Time had run out, and although I loved that we didn’t focus on the shittiness of our situation, I also hated that we were both avoiding the impending end of our relationship.
I had a plan, selfish and completely ridiculous. As we counted down to the day I would leave, it became more real to me that I couldn’t make a clean break, a break I had been the strongest fucking advocate for.
Chapter Twenty
Abi
Then.
When the day finally arrived, I agreed not to go with him to the station. He said it would be too hard to say goodbye
Choosing to ignore the agreement, I ran through the station and down the concrete steps to the platform. Tiny specks of mirror shone in the evening streetlights from the huge windows above and the bright Christmas lights flashed all around me.
I saw him before he saw me. He was sitting with his bag at his feet, his legs outstretched. He looked lost and lonely. I wanted to pull his head back and cradle it in my arms against my chest so that he could hear my heartbeat. Two steps before I reached him, he turned as if he knew I was there, which only made my heart drop further.
‘You didn’t have to come,’ he said, lifting his eyes to mine and pulling his lip under his teeth. I was still trying to catch my breath, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the run or because of the moment unfurling before me. ‘It makes it harder.’
His nervous energy always screamed out so clearly.
‘I’m hoping coming here will make you stay.’
‘I’m hoping you’ll come with me.’
‘We’re only in this mess because you can’t stay and I can’t come with you.’
Reality overtook whimsical. I couldn’t leave. I shook my head as I thought about who the bloody fuck would rein in my mother if I left.
‘Listen, Abi, we’ve got something here, and I believe in fate. If we’re meant to be, we’re meant to be. You know we’ll find our way back to each other, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ I knew. Somehow, I knew, but I didn’t understand that assurance when we were saying goodbye.
‘It’ll be the right time next time. I promise,’ he said, curling my head into his neck.
‘Why are we doing this?’ I cried.
‘It’ll make a great story to tell our grandkids. Let’s make this a great story. Fucking Oscar worthy,’ he whispered.
‘How?’
‘We’re meant to be.’ Our love was anything but painting by numbers. He surprised me by suggesting we didn’t have to have such a clean break. He asked if I would be willing to write. No phone calls. No texts. Just letters. ‘I’m not going to text or ring. We’re going to write to each other. Old fashioned love letters. If we can find the time to do that, keep it going with everything that’s going on, we’ve got something. We’re meant to be.’
‘I need to hear your voice,’ I pleaded.
‘You will. Through my letters. They can be raw and heartfelt, magical and wonderful, sad and full of angst. Funny even. You can’t cover all of that in a phone call. Trust me, Abi. I’ll write and we’ll keep the connection. Then, when it’s the right time for us, we’ll know.’
I slowly nodded my head as the train pulled up. He held me, pushed his forehead to mine and kissed his favourite places. He ran his fingertips across my collarbone and dug them into the cheeks of my behind. We were trying to push every fibre of ourselves into each other so that we wouldn’t forget.
He climbed the steps and entered the train. I watched his beautiful arms, the wondrous planes of his back and shoulders, until he slouched into a seat by the window, touching the glass with his fingers and smiling sadly. I stood still, never believing that I would move from that spot, hoping that he would change his mind and get off, pull me into his arms and whisper that he was sorry and couldn’t live without me. But he didn’t. He stayed slouched in his seat with his fingers on the glass, mouthing always as the train pulled away.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jamie
Then.
Dear Abi,
I got your letter. Thank you. It came at a shitty time and cheered me up. I had to smile at that infinity symbol you signed off with. So typically you, Abi Sinclair. No need to go the traditional route of a signature when a heartfelt doodle will do. Seriously, though, I loved it.
It’s been a manic week. I finally got my own desk after hot-desking for a week. Awkward to say the least. People get very territorial about Formica. I thought I was safe with a desk that looked like it hadn’t been used since Blair was Prime Minister, but the next day, I found a Post-it with an angry scrawl telling me that someone else needed to use it as it was exactly the right height from the floor to suit their back complaint, so if I sat there again, I’d be reported to HR. I swear I’d never missed my desk with you sitting smiling at the other end of it more than I did at that second.
Mum’s not doing great. She’s had another round of chemo and now she can’t feel the tips of her fingers. I went with her to the hospital. We sat in a room surrounded by
people all hooked up to what could only be described as medicinal poison. They were from all walks of life, all ages, sizes, shapes, hair colour, eye colour. The list goes on and on. All I could think to myself was ‘fuck’. Cancer doesn’t have a preference. It’s not picky. If you have a beating heart and blood in your veins, you could be next.
I have a love-hate relationship with chemo. I know it’s going to give her more time, but when she can barely hold up her own head, I can’t help but wonder if it’s fucking worth it. It’s going to give her a few more months, a year if she’s lucky, but for the most part, she’s going to be so ill she has no quality of life anyway.
She asks after you. Every bloody day she has to remind me that you are better than her at sudoku. You do realise that in Mum’s book, you’re akin to Justin Bieber for a pubescent girl? You’re a sudoku legend, Abi Sinclair.
We talk about you all the time. She asked me to tell you that her son is a ‘complete bloody fool’—I think that’s how she put it. That’s nice, isn’t it? I’m putting in extra care work shifts and all she can do is make offensive comments…I have to say, though, I agree with her completely.
What are we doing? That whole bullshit ‘if we’re meant to be’ crap really doesn’t make any sense to me now.
I need to hear your voice. I need to hear you say my name. I want to hear that whimper you make when I stroke my fingers across your collarbone. And I’m desperate to hear those dirty things you say that come so naturally when I’m deep inside you.
Most of all, I need to hear the reassurance that I used to believe in so strongly and you seem to hold so close to your heart. We are going to be OK. We are going to meet again. Fate and something bigger than both of us will bring us back together when all the complexities of life have blown over.
Do you still believe that? Tell me you do?
Jamie
Chapter Twenty-Two
Abi
Then.
Dear Jamie,
How is she? You always sound so desperately sad. You need to think about yourself sometimes. It sounds like work is taking over your life and the small bits left over belong to caring for your mum.
I’ll start with a news roundup, but I have no news to cheer you up. Sorry.
Mum’s been dumped again, so she’s back at the flat, which is fine as it’s nice to have the company. She was cagey about why she wanted to move back in, but after a bottle of wine and a takeaway, she admitted that she took out a credit card in her ex-boyfriend’s name and bought a leather jacket she just ‘had to have.’ You guessed it—he came knocking at the door demanding the money. When he told me how much she’d paid for it, I realised she must have had a prize winning Jersey cow shipped over on a boat constructed of gold bars before having it tailor made by Kanye bleeding West.
So now I’m broke, fed up, lonely, and sexually frustrated. I blame you, Dawson.
I have some more bad news to share. I’m afraid I’m going to have to make you redundant from your position of marriage counsellor. The position is no longer available because they’ve separated. Yep, Gem was right all along. He was having an affair.
We stalked him for a few nights, hiding in the back of Gem’s car wearing sunglasses and baseball caps. If social work doesn’t work out for me, I can always consider a career as a private detective. It was awesome. She found him in a compromising position in the wine cellar of his restaurant with one of the waitresses. She was deep-throating him as he rested his bare arse against the vintage champagne, and from what I could see, she was doing a pretty stellar job. I almost gave her a round of applause until I remembered the circumstances.
I’ve stayed at Gem’s the last couple of nights to help her put the kids to bed. Bloody hell, parenting is an exhausting job. I’d only just get the baby off to sleep when the other one would be up, bounding along the bedroom floor with the energy of a Jack Russell. Two days with her boys and I don’t need to take the pill. They are contraception enough. Not that I need to worry about that.
Did I mention I’m sexually frustrated?
I was looking through some photos of you the other day and moaned out loud. Really, I did. Embarrassing when you’re having a pedicure…
How do you flirt in a letter? Your handwriting really turns me on? Next time, make the loops of your d’s big, really big? Your use of a ballpoint got me hot under the collar. Use a red pen; a dirty, dirty red pen…doesn’t quite work, does it?
I guess waiting for a response would just enhance the desire anyway; kind of like the amount of time I’m assuming I’m going to have to wait for you to cause an orgasm to rip through me again.
Imagine that orgasm, though. No, really. Take a moment. It would be fucking epic.
Love,
Abi
P.S. It’s not a doodle. It’s a beautiful drawing…
Infinity—Meaning time and space that has no end.
Like us.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jamie
Then.
Dear Abi,
I know it’s been a while since my last letter. I have no excuses. Life continues at a fast pace. Too fast. I’m struggling to find a way to fit everything in and to please everyone. I’m losing myself in all of this.
Sorry.
It’s just hard for me at the moment. I’m questioning everything and wondering why I’m such a fucking idiot. I don’t expect an answer. I’m sure you agree…
I’m about to take over some more supervision sessions from my manager. He seems keen to pass a lot of work over, which is bloody great experience if I want to take the next step into social work management. I’ve had to take some reports home with me just to keep up with the flow of work. I woke up with a Dictaphone lodged under my chin last night. When I got to work and played it back, all I could hear for the last ten minutes of the recording was my snores.
Mum’s keeping me busy too. We sat and listened to Sinatra at her last chemo session. A place you would imagine would be full of sadness turned into a swinging Rat Pack party as we laughed and chair danced to ‘Gonna Live Till I Die.’ I’ve added it to the soundtrack of my life. Had to, really. Strangely, it feels good to have a song that I can smile to when she’s gone. Thank you for bringing that into my life, weirdo.
She’s talked about stopping chemo. I’m finding that hard to accept. With Dad, I was shielded from all the shit that comes with cancer. I was a kid. Now that I’m an adult, I need to find a way to push aside my own selfish feelings and support her in the decisions she really wants to make.
You asked me what I wanted for my birthday in your last letter. Honestly, you don’t need to send me anything. I’d rather treat it as any other day. Mark is insisting that he arrange a party for me. Just a few friends but I’m not looking forward to it. They think I need a night to relax and forget everything, but for me, it’s the opposite. I need to remember before it’s too late.
I saw that you tried to call me the other day.
Can I explain why I didn’t call back? Apart from being stuck on a massive case until the early evening, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Hearing your voice would have been too hard because I know I can’t promise you anything or even offer a tiny slice of my life. Every moment, every second, every fucking breath I take is accounted for. How could I have made the call knowing I had nothing to give you?
Please remember that I’m doing this because I love you. So fucking much.
Jamie
Chapter Twenty-Four
Abi
Then.
‘What are you doing, baby girl?’
Mum had just got out of the bath and wandered through to the kitchen. Her eyes shifted towards the cupboard where she stocked her wine before quickly shifting them back to me. I wanted to take the jumpiness out of her body and set it down beside her, giving her a minute of relief or hoping she could see the damage she was doing to herself. I couldn’t do that. The fight in me had left that evening, so I sat back and watched as she opened the cupboard door and reac
hed for a glass.
‘Take it easy tonight,’ I said as I screwed up the fourth piece of paper and threw it across the kitchen. It landed with a small thud on top of the bin.
‘Nice aim,’ Mum said as she sat down beside me. ‘Now, tell me what’s wrong. I may be as a daft as a brush, but I’m not bloody stupid.’ The deep sigh I made caused her to frown. She moved her chair closer to mine as her frown lingered. I’d been sitting at the table when she came in. I’d been sitting at the table when she made herself a sandwich. I was still sitting at the table an hour later.
‘I’m trying to get the tone of a letter just right. It’s proving to be tricky. Those, over there, are false starts.’ I nodded my head towards the bin.
‘How long is this going to go on for?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ I sighed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.’ I shook my head and started to write. I got as far as Dear Jamie before putting the pen back down.
‘His mum’s cancer is terminal, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what happens then? When she…you know? Will he come back to Nottingham? Is that the plan?’
‘He hasn’t said.’
‘You didn’t talk about it before he left?’ Her frown returned. It was one of her what the fucking fuck? frowns. ‘Not even in your letters? You’ve been writing to each other for months.’ I shook my head and avoided looking at her knowing the tears would start if I did. ‘Has he asked you to go and see him?’
‘Don’t you think I’d be with him now instead of babysitting you if he had?’ I snapped. The voice on one shoulder told me to stop, that it wasn’t Mum’s fault, but the voice on the other shoulder told me to take everything out on her until she was fully laden and could help me carry the load. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take this out on you. It’s just a bad time. It’s his birthday soon and his friend is arranging a party. I was sure he would want to see me, but there’s been no indication—’
Let Me Be Your Hope (Music and Letters Series Book 2) Page 12
