The excitement of my plans to go to London became a distant memory. Forced to push all thoughts of April from my head, I ripped up the letter I’d written to my mother. Now, I couldn’t leave for Bristol soon enough.
It took days rather than the weeks or months I’d believed it would, but immersed in student life, I discovered that the teenage heart is more resilient than I’d realized. I met other girls, though no one I felt the same way about, but after four years that flew past, I left the university armed with my degree and a job in a London law firm.
To me, Flanagan’s, the name of my firm, sounded more like an Irish bar. It was certainly as noisy and frenetic. I worked hard and played hard, sharing an extortionately priced and cavernous Canary Wharf flat, now and then managing to catch up with Will, still a student and currently on an obstetrics rotation. Our meetings were characteristically brief.
“Please buy me dinner, mate. I’m so bloody poor, you wouldn’t believe,” he bemoaned. “Do you know how often I don’t eat?”
I didn’t believe a word of it. He looked far too healthy. “Yeah, well when you’re a rich, privately practicing doctor, I’ll expect repayment.” I turned to the waitress. “We’ll have two steak and chips.”
Will’s face took on an expression of bliss.
“Both rare,” I added.
“Cheers,” he said happily, downing the beer I’d bought him. “Hope the food won’t be long—I’ve a hot date.” He winked. “Bloody stunning nurse called Karina. Mustn’t be late.”
As ever, Will would eat and run. I thought nothing of it. It’s how life was—fast and furious, meetings social and otherwise, crammed in wherever we could fit them.
* * *
It was a couple of months before I saw him again. Another dinner that I paid for, regaled while we ate by Will’s tales about life on the ward, but when I asked about Karina, he was oddly reticent.
“Who?” He blinked at me.
“The beautiful Karina. Bloody stunning nurse, I think your words were. You were dating. Surely you remember?”
But instead of the lighthearted response I was expecting, a condescending look crossed his face. “Dating,” he mocked. “Ever the romantic, aren’t you, Noah? I was fucking her. And now I’m not.”
It wasn’t his choice of words that surprised me. It was the callousness with which he spoke, how cold his eyes were as he looked at me. What had I missed?
The next thing he said, however, shocked me.
“Oh, you’ll never believe who I ran into. That girl from school that you were obsessed with.”
“Who do you mean?” I asked, overly casual, feeling a heat rise in me, glad of the darkness in the bar, because he could only be talking about one person.
“Remember April? She was stunning then, but now . . .”
I didn’t like the look on his face, or the way he whistled. Trying to hide how I felt merely at the mention of her name, I was aware of his eyes boring into me. “Where? How was she?”
Even now, I couldn’t share the truth with him, that however much I told myself otherwise I’d give my right arm to see her again.
“Some of us went into this bar in Soho. I was so rat-arsed I nearly didn’t recognize her. Anyway, it was definitely her. Like I said, fucking stunning.”
“Which bar?” My heart was in my mouth as I waited for his reply.
Will threw his head back and laughed. “God. You know, I really must have been pissed. Some place beginning with L, I think.... Sorry, mate, I can’t remember. Never mind.” He glanced at his watch. “I think I’ve just about got time for another beer. . . .”
That Will had run into April and until now hadn’t thought to tell me should have set off warning bells, but then I’d never actually told him how I felt about her. He had no idea that it had ever been more than a crush.
* * *
It was no good. No matter how I tried to convince myself that she’d dumped me four years ago and I’d moved on, she was still the goddess—and I was the same love-struck teenager. Other girls didn’t stand a chance. My obsession reignited, I couldn’t get April out of my head. Far from getting over her, time had given me new hope, that maybe now, with both of us older, our lives more settled, we had a chance.
Soho was a part of the city I wasn’t familiar with, though after a few weeks of exploring every street and checking out every bar I could find with a name that began with the letter L, I soon was. But having failed to find any sign of April, I was close to giving up when I stumbled across Lola’s.
If I’d blinked, I would have missed it. I’d been walking up a side street when I saw the dark doorway into a huge old town house. There was nothing obvious about it, just Lola’s in small neon-pink letters set to one side.
Over the traffic noise behind me, the swish of cars through the puddles, I could hear the dull base thud from inside as I opened the door to the rest of my life.
Of course, I hadn’t known at the time. It was much later when I looked back and thought of that door as a defining moment, in which I unsuspectingly chose the future that came after. What followed wasn’t coincidence. There was no such thing. It was inevitable.
After handing over my money, I was shown down the stairs into a basement, where the thumping got louder. At the bottom was a door into a large room crowded with bodies pressed close to each other. Dark corners were lit by vertical streams of colored light; the music was unfamiliar, a little threatening. I glanced around, out of place in my suit, but invisible to the people who stared at me, oblivious, from their vacant eyes on a chemical journey to someplace else.
I saw her almost immediately, behind the bar, pouring a tray of shots, for a few seconds able to take in the tight dress she was wearing, the way her hair was swept up so that just a few strands of it escaped. I was still staring as she looked up and saw me.
I’ve wondered since if you can ever truly read a face. It’s too easy to see what you so desperately want to see, even if it isn’t there. I knew that. But as I walked toward her, I wasn’t mistaken. As her eyes met mine, they widened, before her face broke into a smile.
“Noah! What are you doing in here!” Ignoring the guy in the dress trying to order cocktails, looking at my open-necked shirt and dark suit, laughing at me.
I felt the smile stretched across my face as I shrugged. “I felt like a beer.”
She shook her head, still smiling, clearly not believing me as she reached for a glass.
“Here.” She handed me the drink. “Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”
Still smiling, she turned to the cocktail guy and took his order. Taking a closer look at my surroundings, I decided that even after years at university, where I thought I’d seen it all, this was one weird place. I waited as she served more customers, then after a word with one of the other staff slipped out and joined me.
“I have ten minutes. My break. I took it early,” she explained, leading me through a door I hadn’t noticed. She closed it, instantly muffling the noise, then turned to face me. “I can’t believe it! What are you doing here?”
It was dark in here, too. I looked around at the black-painted walls of the small windowless room, then sat on one of the cushioned armchairs, watching her sit opposite. “Ah. You see, I had dinner with Will.”
As I said Will’s name, I saw her eyes flicker. “He said he’d bumped into you—so I thought I’d come and see you. Interesting place . . .”
I didn’t tell her that Will hadn’t told me where; that I’d scoured all the clubs in Soho and that this was about the last one before I’d start all over again. Even I could see how stalkerish that might look.
“He came in with some friends. I know, it looks weird in here,” she said. “But it beats working in a straight bar—and the money’s good. And also . . .”
The smile faded and she looked more serious. “It gives me time. You’ll be pleased, Noah. I had to stop for a while, but at long last, I’m actually studying.”
As she spoke, in some distan
t corner of my world, I felt something slot into place. I listened as she told me about her course, which was the first stage of training to be a counselor, and suddenly I could see it clearly. Life wasn’t just about opportunity; it was about timing—not only for studying, but for relationships, too. But before I could say anything, she got up again.
“I really should get back,” she said. “It gets crazy out there. Look . . . Why don’t we meet for brunch? On Sunday? There’s a place in the King’s Road called Alberto’s. Do you know it? I could be there at eleven.”
I didn’t but I’d find it. I nodded. “Great.”
She paused in the doorway. “It’s good to see you, Noah.”
I nodded, trying to summon the words. How to tell her that I’d only just figured it out, that our meeting up again right now was meant to be, but as she opened the door, the noise from the bar made it impossible.
“Okay. Well . . . I’ll see you? On Sunday?”
I nodded again, barely able to make out what she was saying. Her eyes looked intently at me; then she was gone.
As the door swung shut, leaving me alone, a wave of euphoria washed over me. I knew this was no coincidence. Everything in my life, for as long as I could remember, had conspired to bring me to this moment. In a jubilant gesture, I punched the air.
13
As I wondered at how fate had once again brought us together, I didn’t once consider that events, April herself even, had conspired equally as hard to keep us apart. For the rest of that week, I tried not to think about Sunday. Not to obsess, fantasize, read into it more than I should. It was just brunch, I told myself. I had no idea if she was with someone, yet imagined that since it was her idea that we meet again, she probably wasn’t.
When I arrived at Alberto’s, April was already there, at a table in a corner where the doors had been folded back and the café was open to the street. Engrossed in the book she was reading, she didn’t look up and I had enough precious time to take in the faded blue dress scattered with flowers; the sun catching the side of her face; her hair, partly pinned up but mostly trailing gloriously down her back; her composure as she read. She was still reading as I walked over and pulled out the chair opposite her.
“Morning.”
She looked up. “Noah! Hi! I was early.... It’s a good place to read.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, hating how self-conscious I suddenly felt. “Shall I, er, order coffee?”
“They’ll come over. Sit down.” Her eyes laughing at me, as still awkward I did as she said.
“So what’s the book?”
But she’d already closed it and slipped it into her bag. “Course work. I’ll tell you about it sometime. But tell me about you. I’m guessing you’re a fully fledged force in the rage against injustice? With a big, swanky warehouse apartment overlooking the Thames?”
My grimace was involuntary. “You’re right about the flat. But the rest . . . It’s not exactly like that.”
“Oh?” She leaned forward, her eyes bright as she rested her chin in her hands. “So tell me. What is it like?”
“Oh, you’ll wish you hadn’t asked. Lots of paperwork, of the most laborious, tedious kind. Listening to your colleagues mouthing off about some deal or other they’ve pulled off or some colleague who’s pissed them off, or about their massive, er, converted warehouse flat, or new car . . .” I stopped then, surprised by my own cynicism, realizing that I was talking about myself and that my dream career wasn’t quite what I’d hoped it would be.
“It’s how people are, Noah.” April spoke softly. “Are you surprised?”
I frowned. “Yeah. But when these guys boast about their deals, they’re talking about people. Their future, their families’ futures . . . And to some of the people I work with, it’s like a game. With winners and losers, not always for the right reasons, either.” Was it naïve to want more?
April shook her head. “Same old Noah. But isn’t that what life is? With winners and losers—a game?”
She said it lightheartedly, but a shadow crossed her face, as though she knew something I didn’t. I opened my mouth to ask her more, but we were interrupted by the arrival of a waitress.
After we ordered, I sat back and looked at her. “So, tell me about your life, starting from when you left me that letter four years ago. What is it with you and letters?”
I was trying to make it sound humorous, but I saw a flush of pink tinge her cheeks.
“That was quite bad,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Just so you know, I did regret it. I should have met you, at least. Told you face-to-face.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Under the table, I clasped my hands together. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist that. But where did you rush off to?”
She sighed. “When I saw you that time, I’d just got a waitressing job, and moved into my own flat. I felt great about it. It was the first time I’d ever felt in control of my life. And then when we spent those days together . . .”
She glanced away as she remembered. “It got complicated. I liked being with you, but I needed to feel in control of my life. So I ran.”
“Then what?”
She shrugged. “I worked. Really hard. That was about it. I had bills to pay. I had to make it work.”
It was the first time I realized the magnitude of how important that was to her. The unspoken line: so that she never had to go back. Ever since she’d escaped from the family she didn’t talk about, April had been fighting to keep hold of her own, very different kind of future, in the real world—while I was at school, where I’d never been truly on my own.
“It must have been hard,” I said cautiously, struggling to imagine fending for myself at that point, remembering that if she hadn’t left the letter and gone without me, it was exactly how it would have been for me, too.
“Sometimes.” A shadow crossed her face. “But it was okay.”
“You know, for a first date, this is one serious conversation,” I told her.
Her eyes widened and I saw uncertainty flicker in them. “Is that what this is? A first date?”
I held my nerve, her gaze. “I was hoping so.”
* * *
As it turned out, it was. For once, it seemed that I was right. Time was on our side. When April wasn’t either working or studying, we went on more dates. Movies; crowded bars; cold, crisp nights when we walked and talked under the stars. There was no hurry, nothing to prove, just a blissful inevitability that this was right.
Then in November, for the first time in months, I met up with Will again.
“You’ve been bloody elusive, mate,” he joked over the rowdiness of the bar where he’d suggested we meet. “It has to be a girl, right?”
I nodded, feeling something welling inside me that perhaps was pride. “Not just any girl.”
Will looked at me with more interest. “Who is she? Come on, man. Spill.”
“You’ll never believe this, but it’s April.” I wasn’t going to tell him how I’d trekked the streets of Soho determined to find her.
I didn’t understand the look that crossed his face. It was the only time I’d ever seen him lost for words. He just blinked. “You’re kidding me. I knew you had a crush on her. But that was kids’ stuff. You’ve moved on, surely?”
“It’s not like that,” I told him, my head nodding, feeling the smile plaster itself on my face. “We’re good friends. We see a lot of each other . . . that’s all. It’s great. How about you?”
“There are girls, plural,” he said shortly. “That’s what you should be doing, mate.”
But despite his best attempts to persuade me, I knew I was happy as I was.
* * *
I learned things about April I hadn’t known before. Her need to escape London for open fields and trees; that she had dark days that would come out of nowhere, sapping the joy from life, painting it a noxious black—until they passed, leaving in their place a need that was almost desperate for beautiful things. But not for April the jewel
ery and clothes that other girls coveted. There was a black feather with white spots, from a woodpecker, she told me. A small heart-shaped stone. A piece of bark covered with different shades of lichen. And poetry, in particular a tiny, leather-bound volume that had been her grandmother’s, where she said the font was as beautiful as the words described on its pages.
There were other things, including letters, but she didn’t share them, locking them away in a small battered chest, another thing of beauty in itself, because the aged wood was inlaid with brass and mother of pearl. I never knew exactly what she kept in there and saw nothing wrong with that. Even though I wanted to share my every thought, every dream with her, I didn’t expect her to do the same.
Before long, for the first time since we’d been together, April had the weekend off. We spent it mostly in her old brass bed under the sloping roof of her attic flat, rather than in the sparse expanse of mine, waking to watch the sun come up, wrapped in her bedcovers, the window thrown open on a soft-lit London I didn’t recognize, with empty streets and majestic buildings and almost silence. Then at night, we’d gaze up at the darkness, watching the stars.
I could have stayed like that forever, and that was when it crept up on me, quietly at first, until I felt it in every fiber of my being. In the way even our thoughts seemed in tune. She was the woman I wanted to spend my life with.
Of course I was wary. Of moving too fast, of feeling too much too soon. I didn’t want to lose her again. I didn’t want to get hurt again, either. But as we lay in bed, April must have been aware of it, too. I awoke hours later to find the bed empty, the flat silent.
I got up to look for her, wandering out to her small sitting room, where she sat, huddled on her sofa, a cardigan over her shoulders, staring into the darkness.
“April?” I spoke softly so as not to startle her. “Are you okay, honey?”
When she didn’t move, I sat on the edge of the sofa behind her, then put my arms around her, sensing the blackness that had her in its grip again.
The Beauty of the End Page 7
