by Rachel Hore
She pressed a few buttons and she was in, clicking on his email Inbox, staring at the screen.
She scrolled up and down quickly. Every now and then was an email from Bella. In the last couple of weeks there had been five or six. She turned to the Sent box. There were as many responses from Patrick.
She sat down on the chair and started to read.
The final one, dating from several days ago said, I don’t know what to do, I really need to speak to you. Love, your Bellaxxx
The one before said, Your advice is good as always, but I can’t decide. Can we meet in Cornwall next week? So he had known that she was coming, even before the phone call two days ago.
Some way up the screen, at the beginning of the previous week, had come the email she had been dreading.
I’m going to tell Ed I can’t be with him any more. We just don’t see things the same way. I thought what he and I had was special, precious, but he doesn’t take me seriously enough. Not the way you used to. And he’s quite selfish. When he works late he doesn’t think about me being on my own in the flat, and you know how I hate that. I wish I could see you, Patrick. I don’t mean to mess you up all over again, but you’re very comforting, you say all the right things and I just need you at the moment – a friend until I pull through.
How manipulative the woman was. Mel went down the list of Patrick’s replies, heart in mouth. She read them all and then she sat dazed from the blow she had in effect inflicted upon herself.
The hours passed. Ten o’clock, eleven o’clock. At half-past eleven, she had had enough of sitting in the dark morning room, nursing glass after glass of wine, watching for car headlights to play across the wall.
She wouldn’t hang around for Patrick. She wouldn’t sleep here tonight, she’d go back to the cottage. Her own hidey-hole.
She was just locking the front door with a key Patrick had given her weeks ago, when his car purred into the drive. She stood on the steps as he parked, snapped off the headlights, and got out. The night was moonless, warm, the air still.
‘Sorry I’m so late,’ he called in the darkness. His voice sounded weary.
She said nothing, waited as he slammed the car door and stumbled up the steps.
‘A good evening?’ Her voice was precise, her words like shards of glass.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Going back to the cottage? I’ll walk with you.’
There was something flat about his tone. Alarm bells started to ring in her mind. She set off around the side of the building, picking out her way with the narrow torchbeam, aware of him struggling to keep up some way behind.
Outside the cottage, she scrabbled in her bag for her key but dropped the torch, which went out.
‘Damn,’ she said, and stood listening for Patrick, standing somewhere behind her in the opaque darkness. ‘Just looking for the key.’"; font-weight: bold; shortis ces
‘Mel,’ Patrick said, behind her. His voice still sounded odd. She froze.
‘It’s not fair. I have to tell you.’
‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Yes, I do, Patrick. You’re going back to her, aren’t you? She’s given up the other bloke and wants you back. And like a great wuss you’re going to do it.’
‘I’m not going back to her, I’m not. I’m . . . confused, that’s all. I need time to sort myself out.’
‘Well, I’m not hanging around to see what happens. Can’t you see through her, Patrick? Can’t you? She’s the sort who’ll bleed you dry.’
‘Don’t talk about her like that. You make her sound like a kind of vampire.’
‘My point exactly.’
‘She needs me. She thinks she might have made a mistake in leaving me. We’ve still got things to work out.’
‘And what about me? Don’t I need you?’
‘Not in the same way. You’re a survivor, Mel. That’s one of the things I love most about you. You’re your own person.’
‘Of course I’m a bloody survivor. That’s what being grown up is all about. That doesn’t mean I don’t need you. I do.’ Her voice cracked suddenly.
‘Mel, I’m sorry, this is so difficult and I’m not putting it well. You wouldn’t understand about Bella and me. I’ve known her so long. She’s like a part of me. It’s very hard to walk away from her.’
‘Why? She’s mucked you around so much.’ I read those emails, Mel wanted to say, but she didn’t dare admit to it. Phrases from his responses drifted into her mind. He had tried to be strong: I’m with someone else now, Bella . . . I want you to meet Mel . . . She’s very special to me. But Bella had been insistent. And now, it seemed, she had won.
‘Patrick, I don’t have the strength for this,’ she said in the darkness, trying her hardest not to cry. ‘I’m not going to wait for you to sort yourself out. I have my pride. It’s her or me, you can’t have both.’
‘Mel, it’s not as simple as that.’
‘It is. Her or me. If you want to be with me, you mustn’t see her again.’
‘Mel, don’t be silly, I can’t do that. Not at the moment. Really, if you were to see her, she’s very distressed. She’s finished with Ed and—’
‘She seemed fine yesterday.’
‘She was putting up a front. She’s good at that. But this evening she was able to let down her guard . . .’
‘Patrick,’ she broke in. ‘We can go round in circles, but I’ve had enough tonight, I’m shattered. You don’t want me to say something we will both regret.’ She finally located the key and jiggled it into the lock. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’ And she went inside and shut the door, leaned against it.
‘Mel. Mel. Please.’ Heoing to leap o
Chapter 33
‘You can’t switch courses without going through the appropriate channels, you must know that,’ Mel told the arrogant-looking young man in the green fedora whose name was not on her register. ‘Go and see Gina in the Enrolments Office as soon as the seminar’s over and get the forms signed.’
And I suppose you must wear that awful hat in class, she was tempted to add, but didn’t. She had long ago learned that commenting on student apparel was dangerous territory. Combating ringing mobile phones and private conversation in class was a more essential use of her energies, anyway.
‘This handout describes the programme for the term.’ And she handed a sheaf of paper headed ‘Symbol and Psyche – the Origins of Surrealism’ to the intense young Asian woman on her left and waited as the twenty students passed the depleting pile from hand to hand. One boy’s hair fell across his forehead just like Patrick’s . . .
A dull pain gnawed at her stomach and for an instant her mind went blank. ‘Are you all right, miss?’ asked a pale girl who handed back the spare sheets. Mel looked up. Twenty pairs of eyes were staring at her.
‘Yes, just a headache. Now if you’ll look at next week’s session . . .’ Keep talking. It was all right when she was talking.
It was the first day of the autumn term.
‘Are you sure you should be going in?’ Chrissie had said on the phone last night. ‘Can’t that Rowena person do it instead?’
‘I refuse to give her the pleasure,’ Mel said. ‘Anyway, I told you, it’ll be good for me. Get me back into the routine.’
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’ Chrissie said doubtfully. ‘But I bet the doctor would sign a sick note for you without any hesitation.’
‘I’ve had enough of doctors,’ said Mel.
She could hardly remember the journey back from Cornwall, six weeks ago, just that she had pitched up at Rob and Chrissie’s late at night, having somehow"; font-weight: bold; n s c for her made her way through the terrible August traffic, denting the front of the car badly in a lapse of concentration just outside Exeter. She hadn’t been injured, but she was wild-eyed and quivering by the time she reached Islington and when Rob hauled her off the doorstep and half-carried her to the living-room sofa, she collapsed into its yoghurt-an
d-chocolate-stained cushions and burst into hysterical sobs.
Neither Chrissie nor Rob could get out of her what was the matter. Rob went to find the car to bring in her luggage and to check she was legally parked, fingering the dented bonnet in puzzlement. Chrissie finally coaxed Mel to drink some sugary tea and they put her to bed in the small guest room.
In the morning they couldn’t wake her, and when she finally came downstairs mid-morning, she still wouldn’t say a word, but sat staring into the distance, hardly noticing Rory who had climbed into her lap.
‘Hello, Aunty Mel. You look sad today.’
‘She’s not very well, Rory,’ said Chrissie, disentangling him. Mel merely slumped over the table, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.
Chrissie rang their brother William for help, but could only reach his secretary. On the basis of her advice, however, Chrissie soon afterwards contacted her own GP.
‘It’s a natural reaction to too much psychological stress,’ the doctor told Chrissie. ‘The mind shuts down for a bit to distance itself. We’ll leave it a day or two and see how she is.’
Then she rang Patrick.
Chrissie thought over their conversation.
‘She just took off,’ he said. ‘We’d had . . . an argument, you see. I expect she’s told you.’
‘She’s told me nothing,’ snapped Chrissie. ‘She hasn’t said one word since she got here. If you’ve dumped her, and so soon after Jake . . .’
‘I didn’t dump her, as you so sweetly put it. It wasn’t like that. She didn’t like me seeing—’
‘What?’ said Chrissie, smelling a rat.
‘Bella came down,’ Patrick said shortly.
‘Ah. And Mel got the wrong idea. Or was it the right one? Patrick, if you’ve mucked her about, I’ll kill you, you know.’
‘It really wasn’t like that, Chrissie. I can’t explain exactly. It’s just . . . a misunderstanding. Chrissie – I want to speak to her. I rang her flat. I hadn’t realised she was with you – I should have thought. Can I come up?’
‘Don’t think there’s a lot of point at the moment, Patrick. I’ll let you know when she’s a bit better.’
When she put down the phone, Chrissie’s hand was shaking. The bastard. How could he have done this to her little sister, he of all people? Chrissie always thought of Mel as ‘little’, had always looked after her. And she’d look after her now. And that meant keeping Patrick out of Mel’s way if necessary. She felt no hesitation about doing that.
She had explained all this to the doctor in a low voice when he had arrived.
‘She’s been recovering from our mother’s death, and from the break-up of her relationship. She was on the rebound, really, going out with this old friend of mine, and she’s obviously gone in too deep.’
The doctor nodded as though he’d heard it all before, many times, but his expression was compassionate.
‘I think you’ll find she will "; font-weight: bold; oru of be all right,’ he said, ‘but she must have someone with her. Can she stay here with you?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ve rung up work. They’ll let me have the time off.’
On the second day, Mel slept late again. She ate half a piece of toast and a chocolate biscuit, but her eyes showed she was still far away, somewhere deep inside herself. She slept on and off most of the day, Rory watching her anxiously.
Patrick rang again, but Chrissie was short with him, told him she’d call when she had some news.
On the third day, Mel was still tired, but she watched television for short stretches, ate a light meal and mouthed words like, ‘Yes,’ and, ‘Thanks,’ in answer to Chrissie’s enquiries. She smiled at Rory when he chatted to her about his day. Patrick rang again and had a long talk with Rob. When Chrissie took the receiver she advised Patrick not to ring again for the moment – it would only make things worse. She decided not to tell Mel about the phone calls for the time being. Mention of Patrick seemed to send Mel deeper inside herself.
The following afternoon, Mel sat down at the table and helped Rory draw tigers. These he painted with gloopy black and orange paint that ran, making him stamp his foot with rage. Mel painted her own picture, a beautiful garden with smiling flowers and small shy animals. Rory, enchanted, forgot his bad mood.
Chrissie hugged her, elated that she seemed to be returning to the world.
But this proved only the beginning. It was a slow recovery, punctuated by long periods of depression, days when unexplained pain shot through her body and her head ached.
Grief, the doctor said.
Later, as the black periods shrank in length and intensity she took to walking the streets, covering miles in a day, exhausting herself in her efforts to channel all her energies into physical exercise so that she wouldn’t have to think.
By the beginning of September, three weeks after she had arrived, Mel was a thinner, paler version of her normal self, but she was herself again. Aimee had come to supper, and after they had finished eating Mel said, ‘It’s time to go home again.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Chrissie. ‘You’re welcome to stay, you know.’
‘Absolutely,’ added Rob, putting his arm around the back of her chair. ‘We love having you.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on her,’ said Aimee. She only lived a couple of streets away from Mel. ‘She can always stay with me if she feels like it.’
It was Aimee who drove Mel back to Clapham the following evening, in Mel’s car, now mended after Rob had haggled with the insurance company and the garage.
She helped Mel in with her luggage and left her wandering around her garden wilderness while she went down to the corner shop for supplies. When she returned it was to find Cara from upstairs perched on the sofa chattering away while Mel sat at the table sorting the mound of post Cara had brought with her.
‘And he came two, maybe three times,’ Cara was saying, waving her hands around, her eyes shining with the drama.
‘Who, Cara?’ said Mel urgently, looking up from her search for any interesting post amidst the bills and the mail shots. She had quickly established there was nothing from Patrick. But had she really expected anything? After all, it seemed that all the time she had been unwell, he had never rung once. But now hope was momentarily revived. ‘Who came?’
‘Your man, Jake, ringing on the doorbell,’ s_hois cesquealed Cara. ‘Who else? How many men do you have?’
‘None, at the moment,’ said Mel, forlorn. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘That you were away in Paris, staying with your French lover, what else?’
Mel rolled her eyes. Just the sort of thing the excitable Cara might indeed have said. ‘Thanks for dealing with the post, anyway. Hope it hasn’t been a pain.’
‘No, no. Good thing your sister rang to tell me where you were or, whoosh, another lot of letters would have flown away to your holiday place.’
‘It wasn’t a holiday, Cara,’ said Mel. ‘But thanks. I’m really grateful.’
‘So, Jake has been looking for you!’ said Aimee, after Cara had left. ‘Have you been in touch, you naughty girl? Come on, spill the beans.’
Mel explained about Jake’s book deal but said she hadn’t had any communication with him since. ‘Mind you, I haven’t looked at my emails for ages.’
While Aimee made them both some tea Mel turned on her laptop and found that Jake had, in fact, emailed her twice. I thought we could meet for that drink before term started, he had written in the first message, then, Sounds stupid, but I’ve lost your mobile number. In fact, I’ve lost my mobile. Ridiculous, isn’t it, how much your life depends on a small hunk of metal.
‘He wants to meet up,’ she told Aimee.
‘Mel.’ Worry made Aimee’s small pretty face crease up like a King Charles Spaniel’s. ‘Be careful, won’t you?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Her voice sounded flat, and Aimee put out her hand and touched Mel’s arm.
‘It’s not him you’re thinking about, is it?’
&nbs
p; ‘No,’ said Mel, and gazed out of the window to where a plastic carrier bag stuck flapping in a dead tree in the garden of the dilapidated house opposite.
Aimee sighed.
‘Perhaps I should contact him,’ Mel whispered, almost to herself, then she shivered, remembering Bella, remembering that last night. ‘No. I don’t think I can. I mustn’t.’ The plastic carrier bag flapped frantically, as though trying to break free from the tree.
‘Mel.’ Aimee’s face was an unreadable mix of emotions. ‘It’s probably not the moment, but there’s something I want to tell you.’
‘What?’ She felt her own smile grow, a pale reflection of the grin that split Aimee’s face. ‘It’s Stuart, isn’t it? Come on, tell me everything, you dark horse.’
‘I didn’t like to. Not with you . . .’
‘Oh, never mind about that. I need cheering up. Tell me. You’re getting married, aren’t you?’
Aimee’s smile faltered. ‘He’s asked me, yes.’
‘And what have you said?’
‘That I want to say yes, but—’
‘But what? I thought you were keen.’
‘I am, I really am, but . . . well, Callum doesn’t like the idea. I don’t blame him really. It’s not all that long ago since his mum left, and now his dad wants to marry his teacher. Bleaugh.’
Mel laughed at Aimee’s impression of a disgusted teenager.
‘But if Callum wasn’t in the equation, expression on his faceaner of would you want to marry Stuart?’
‘Yes, I would. He and Maria, his wife, only stayed together for so long because of Callum. Then she found someone else, so that’s why they broke up in the end. It’s all surprisingly friendly.’
‘Does Callum see his mother?’
‘Oh yes, but he didn’t like her new bloke. That’s why he stayed with his dad.’
‘And now that’s changing, too. I see. Poor boy.’
‘What should I do?’
‘I don’t know. Stick it out. Perhaps it’s a question of Callum getting used to you.’
‘I suppose that’s what I think. But what happens if he doesn’t?’
They were silent for a moment.
‘Come on,’ said Aimee, leaping up and gathering up the mugs. ‘You can’t stay here – I’ve decided. I’m due at Stuart’s for supper. You’re coming, too, and then you and I, we’ll go and stay at mine. No arguments.’
