by Karen Perry
‘I don’t know, Finn. She was just trying to be nice, I suppose.’
‘Was she? Sounded like an oddball to me.’
I’m surprised to feel grazed by a sense of hostility at his remark.
‘She’s a little different, that’s all,’ I say in a tight voice.
‘That stuff about her mother and 9/11 …’
‘You didn’t believe her?’
‘Did you?’ The look he gives me feels sharp and pointed.
‘It’s not completely implausible.’
‘I suppose. A bit of a stretch, though. Did you notice anything strange in her behaviour when you were alone together?’
‘No, I didn’t. I was just bloody grateful to her for dragging me off that street and into safety.’ My voice has risen, punched with indignation, and he notices it.
A small pause slips into the conversation.
‘So what did you talk about when you were alone?’ he asks after a moment. ‘By her account, some pretty heavy stuff.’
I keep my gaze on the table, uncomfortable with the question.
‘I don’t know. I was upset. People had just been killed right in front of my eyes.’
‘So why would she need to keep what you said safe? Why be all cloak-and-dagger about it?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t know! What does it matter what I said? Probably how I hoped to Christ I’d get out of there alive.’ My voice has risen sharply and I realize how rattled I sound, how overwrought. I grab my glass and take a swallow of water. It hits a sensitive tooth and I wince, my fingers reaching to touch my jaw.
‘Are you alright?’ he asks, concerned.
‘Fine. A tooth that’s bothering me, that’s all.’
He reaches out and puts his hand over mine. I feel the weight and warmth of it, and even though I know it’s wrong, even though I’ve come through years of pain and regret to make myself strong against him, I feel the leaping answer of my own blood. I turn my hand over, and our fingers slip together, locking, like pieces of an old and familiar mechanism gently falling into place.
I met Finn in my second year of university. I knew who he was already – even then, back in Dublin, he was garnering fans, making himself a celebrity on campus with his active and often controversial participation in both the debating and drama societies. I was intimidated by him at first, far too cowed by his confidence, his little swarm of acolytes, to approach him for even the most innocuous conversation. Back then, I was fairly shy, awkward in crowds. I couldn’t bear any kind of group attention. I had joined DramSoc in Freshers’ Week, but it was not until the second semester that I plucked up the courage to participate in the society, and even then, it was in a backstage role. I was aware of my limitations. But I also knew my own strengths. Pragmatic and forward-thinking, I was a good organizer, qualities that were quickly recognized, and soon I was being relied on to stage-manage the bigger productions, a role I relished. It was a happy time in my life.
After my first-year exams, I went to Germany with three other student friends, to spend the summer working in a hotel in the Black Forest. It was there that I received a phone call from my father, telling me, ‘She’s gone, pet. Your mother’s gone.’
The news spread quickly through university. I felt an edge to people’s stares, the whisper of gossip wherever I went. I was ‘suicide girl’ – the one whose mother had killed herself during the summer. People don’t know what to say to you when something like that happens. Yes, there is sympathy, but there is prurience too, a dark desire to know the gory details. Mostly it creates distance; people don’t wish to get too close to someone marked by such a tragedy, afraid they’ll be dragged down by it. That was why it was so surprising when, at a DramSoc party that autumn, I heard someone say my name, and turned to find Finn there extending his hand in introduction.
‘I heard what happened to your mother,’ he told me, his gaze clear and steady, holding my eye. ‘That’s really shit.’
I was at once taken aback at his candour, but grateful for it too. Unlike the others who pussyfooted around me, he took me aside, got us both drinks and then spent the night asking me about her – What had happened, how long had she suffered from depression, psychosis, did it come as a shock, how was I coping? – questions that, coming from someone else, might have felt invasive. But with Finn, they felt backed up by genuine concern, by warmth in those brown eyes, as if he had undergone something similar and was seeking a way to connect. He was easy to talk to, and I felt him drawing me out of myself, responding to his enquiry with an openness that was not usual to me.
There were raised eyebrows when we became a couple. Finn was seen as a star whereas I was a nobody, marked out in the worst way possible. We were yin and yang, my calm to his chaos, my quiet pragmatism to his firecracker charisma. But at night when it was just the two of us, our heads on the pillows, no one else saw the closeness there, the tenderness that existed. No one witnessed the passion he inspired in me, or the stillness and peace that came over him in our quiet moments together.
After everything that came later, it could be easy to forget the love that had existed between us, how intense and pure and uncompromised it had been in the beginning. A precious thing. A thing of beauty.
But on Friday night, turning to say goodbye to him on Redchurch Street, and here again in the post-prandial slump of this pub, feeling the steady beam of his attention on me, I can remember what passed between us once. I can believe in the rare beauty of it again.
‘Do you know what I think?’ he says quietly, after the girl has cleared the plates and brought the bill. ‘I think your marriage to Jeff has been like an extra-marital affair. I’m the cuckold. All along, you have belonged to me.’
‘Don’t talk that way,’ I say, breaking his gaze and looking down. My husband’s name coming from Finn’s mouth sounds wrong. My heartbeat has quickened at the mention of it. I cannot bear to have him malign my husband, and by extension our daughter. For all the little cracks that have appeared in our marriage, there is still love there, something deep and abiding. And when Finn utters Jeff’s name like that, it is a reminder to me that by even sitting here with him I am betraying them.
‘It’s true,’ he presses. ‘You know it is. We were meant to be together. We just got a little lost along the way.’
‘We both made our choices.’
‘Did we?’ he counteracts quickly. ‘It seems to me that you were the one making all the decisions.’
‘Well, someone had to.’
‘I mainly remember trying to talk you out of those decisions.’
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, knowing where he is going with this.
‘Like when I tried to talk you out of marrying him. Nearly succeeded too, didn’t I?’
‘Don’t.’
‘I was so sure that you were making a mistake. That you had convinced yourself that this poor bloke, grieving for his dead wife, and having to manage a heartbroken child to boot, would love you for life, when maybe he just needed some distraction – a crutch to get him through the difficult days.’
‘That’s enough,’ I snap, my temper flaring.
‘Sometimes I think you just married him to get back at me.’
‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Narcissist that you are.’
I slip my card into the leather folder and signal to the waitress. She brings the card machine, and all the while I’m punching in the numbers, waiting for my receipt, I can feel the blood in my cheeks, Finn’s eyes on me. He is half-slouched in his seat, smiling across at me with fondness or knowingness – it’s hard to tell which.
‘That’s what she was talking about, isn’t it? That girl. Amy.’
I busy myself with putting my wallet back in my bag, shaking out my jacket.
‘You told her about us. You told her how I’m the love of your life and that your marriage was the biggest mistake you’ve ever made – your one true regret. That’s the secret she’s going to keep safe. I’m right, aren’t I?’
I slot
my arms in the sleeves of my jacket, free my hair from the collar, and finally look up at him. His gaze is searching, and for all his warmth and openness, there is a reminder there within his question that I have my flaws, my weaknesses. I have made mistakes.
‘Actually, you’re wrong,’ I tell him, getting to my feet.
‘You’re lying.’
‘When have I ever lied to you?’ I ask, a little heat coming into my voice.
The smile on his face has faded somewhat, his eyes narrowing in an assessing way.
‘You haven’t lied, Cara. But you have withheld the truth.’
The quiet way he says it, with all the layers of knowledge and experience it contains, causes a horrible little jolt of nerves in my stomach, and I think: He knows.
‘When will I see you again?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘Let’s not do this,’ I say, and any last vestiges of anger have left me, replaced by a regretful sadness.
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
‘Oh, come on,’ he pleads, flashing me a charming grin.
I steel myself against it, fix the strap of my bag on my shoulder. ‘Bye, Finn,’ I say.
Then I walk out of the restaurant, without waiting for him, and make my way back towards the office. My head is a blur of thoughts – about Finn, but also about that girl, Amy.
What you told me when we were alone in the room … I just want you to know that I’ll keep it close. I want you to know: you’re safe.
Stupid, stupid thing to have done. But I hadn’t banked on the fact that I might hear from Amy again. I had thought it a fleeting contact – an opportunity to lay bare one’s sins to a stranger, like kneeling in the darkness of the Confessional, and then walking away, feeling the lightness of absolution. My shoulders are high with tension and I attempt to shake them out as I stride away, as if I am shaking myself free of my own recent past.
I ring Jeff, just to hear his voice, to reassure myself of his presence, his love. As if by hearing it I can cancel out any thoughts or feelings stirred up by my meeting with Finn.
‘I miss you,’ I say, which makes him laugh.
‘You saw me this morning! And you’ll see me this afternoon.’
‘I know. But I just wanted to tell you.’
‘What’s got you all sentimental?’ he asks softly.
I can hear the tenderness in his voice, picture him sitting there at his desk, half-turning away from his work, a smile on his face as he talks to me. Then he puts me on to Mabel, who sounds eagerly inquisitive, peppering me with questions I don’t know the answers to until Jeff relieves her of the phone and in a voice of cheery optimism tells me he’ll see me later, that he’ll prepare something nice for dinner.
Back at the office, I am brisk and purposeful. Deeming it best to put today’s disastrous show behind me, I run through the briefs for tomorrow’s segments with Katie and Derek, make some calls to interviewees and have a quick meeting with my lead researchers to review progress on upcoming stories. It’s fairly run-of-the-mill stuff, and when Katie hands me some afternoon mail, I’ve half a mind to leave it until tomorrow, my thoughts already launching themselves into the evening and the glass of warm Syrah that’s waiting for me at the flat.
She is standing next to me, tapping in final prep notes on her iPad, and I’m explaining as I peruse the mail that we ought to do some kind of quiz for our listeners, some fun questions with maybe a science angle.
‘Like what?’ Katie asks, the end of her pen pressed to her lower lip.
‘Like how much water do our bodies need?’
I smile, remembering Mabel’s excitement when she put that very question to me over the phone, and take a plain-looking envelope with careful handwriting from the small stack of letters.
‘Let’s google it,’ Katie suggests, and begins tapping away at her screen.
I’m slitting open the envelope now, taking out the single piece of paper.
‘Sixty-four fluid ounces per day,’ she says. ‘That’s eight glasses. Cara?’
‘Uh-huh. Eight glasses,’ I repeat, but my mind is not with Katie, and it’s not with Mabel’s question.
It’s with the piece of paper in my hand, a simple message, unsigned, in small black handwriting:
I’m here for you, waiting.
6.
Amy
The security guard says I can use the bathroom. It’s big and echoey, all marble walls and stainless-steel fixtures. I hang my bag off the back of the cubicle door while I pee, nervous excitement moving through me like it’s a first date or an exam I’m about to sit. The bathroom smells like a hospital, which is not the worst smell, but still. I’d expected something more than plastic soap dispensers dribbling pink goo, green water stains daubing the enamel sinks.
I linger in front of the mirror, hypercritical as a teenager. My hair needs some attention but there’s not much I can do about it now. Instead I take a tube of concealer from my bag and swipe two peach-pink smears over the carved lines beneath my eyes and then rub them in. A dab of lipgloss too, and I can hear Connie’s voice right there in my ear, saying: That’s it. You slap that shit on, Keener. Have some pride. Make yourself presentable.
Funny how she’s come back to me again. After all these years. Her voice so clear these days, she could be standing right beside me.
Back out in the lobby, the security guard looks up briefly before returning to his Daily Mail. I take my place on the bank of leather seats that line the panelled lobby, and wait. There’s no one else here, apart from the occasional passing staff member, and as the time slips by, my mind flits over my current situation. As of Tuesday, I’ve no job – and so far, I’ve made zero effort to get a new one. I’m depending on Sean’s continuing generosity to stave off homelessness. After my shopping trip to Lorraine Electronics this morning, I have £7.50 left in my wallet, and when I checked my balance at the ATM just now, I discovered I have £78 left in my account. I have my emergency fund – £900 in a separate account – but that’s for when I need to return to the States, not that I can ever see myself doing that. Still, it’s important to have an escape fund, and so far, I’ve been disciplined about not touching it. My Oyster card needs topping up, and I am clueless as to how the unemployment benefit works here, or whether I will even qualify for it. I could crawl to Pret and beg for my job back but something tells me I’ve burned my bridges there.
I suppose all this should make me nervous. More than nervous – downright fucking panicked. And it’s true that I can feel panic at the edges, threatening to push through. But it’s like I’ve been waiting all this time for something, not knowing what it was I’ve been waiting for. And now I have an inkling. A chink of light has been shed on it and it’s like waking from a pharmacological dream, like I’m somehow coming back to my true self.
I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I don’t even see Cara coming out of the lifts, don’t even notice her until she’s right there in front of me, a security badge clipped to her jacket, her handbag tucked under one arm.
With a sharp little intake of surprised breath, I get to my feet, an embarrassed half-smile on my face.
‘Hey,’ I say, stuffing my hands in my jeans pockets, a little overwhelmed by her presence.
‘Amy. This is a surprise.’
But she doesn’t look surprised. She looks impatient, mildly pissed-off. It’s taken me two days to pluck up the courage to come see her, but now that I’m here, I feel a nervous inward lurch knocking me off balance.
‘So? What can I do for you?’ she asks briskly, her eyes sharp with enquiry, and for just a second it’s like I’ve gotten the wrong person – her fucking identical twin or something – that’s how different she seems from the person I met last Friday.
‘I just wanted to come and say sorry,’ I explain. I lower my eyes, sweeping the floor with my gaze. ‘What I said on the radio the other day … I shouldn’t have. It was indiscreet.’
‘That’s alright,’ she says stiffly
. ‘You didn’t need to come out of your way to apologize to me. Honestly, there’s nothing to be sorry for.’
‘I felt bad. When we were talking during the show, I could feel how shocked you were, and sort of … disapproving.’
She takes this in, a tightness about her mouth. In fact, everything about her looks pinched and tightly wound. Even her hair, pulled back into a ponytail, looks severe, her skin pale and stretched. The phone in her hand buzzes.
‘I was surprised, not shocked.’
‘I put you in an awkward spot. I made you feel uncomfortable and I shouldn’t have. I gave you my word, and I intend to keep it. I guess that’s all I wanted to say.’
Someone walks past just at that moment, one of Cara’s colleagues. ‘Good show today,’ he remarks to her in passing, and she smiles brightly, and thanks him, her prickliness momentarily falling away. But then she glances down and reads her text, and her face darkens, the wall springing up again.
‘I didn’t mean to disrupt you or anything,’ I say, the hopelessness leaking into my voice. ‘You’re probably in the middle of something.’
‘Sorry,’ she says, shaking her head, still looking at her phone. ‘Childcare issues.’
She puts her phone away, looks in the direction of the lifts and then looks back at me, and I catch a glimpse of something there – a relenting. An opportunity.
‘But I thought if you had a few minutes to spare,’ I press, ‘maybe we could grab a quick coffee?’
She smiles, for the first time in this exchange, and says, ‘Alright. Just a quick one, though.’
I turn away from her then, busying myself with picking up my bag and fixing it over my shoulder so she cannot see the lip-twitching joy dancing across my face.
We head around the corner to a small Italian place with cheesy Europop oozing from hidden speakers. The coffee is good though, and we drink it at a table by the window – an Americano for her, a skinny latte for me.
‘This is nice,’ I say, looking around at the tourism posters of the Colosseum, the Leaning Tower of Pisa. ‘I used to work in a place like this.’
