by Dani Atkins
As though just touching the book was harmful, I carried it across the kitchen holding just one corner, so not surprisingly it slipped from my fingers and landed on the kitchen floor. I stooped to retrieve it, noticing it had fallen open at the dedication page. I must have remained in a half-crouched position for quite some time, long enough at least for the muscles in my calves to begin to protest. Yet still my eyes remained riveted on the three lines of writing on the open page before me. To Sheridan, my friend, my lover, my inspiration and my wife. For ever, Jack.
I spent the Bank Holiday with Caroline and Nick, and the first thing I noticed when I pulled on to their drive was the smart and shiny brand new car parked next to Nick’s. I don’t know much about cars, but I guessed this new upgrade must have cost a great deal more than the insurance pay-out on Caroline’s old model. I bent down and peered at the interior as I walked past it to reach their front door. I counted at least five airbags embedded into the leather panels. I knew Nick well enough to know this high safety spec would have been at his insistence. And understandably so. It posed one achingly sad question: if this had been Caroline’s car on the night of the accident, would things have ended the way they did?
I was still looking over my shoulder at the new vehicle when Nick opened the front door and kissed me warmly on the cheek.
‘Very fancy,’ I said before the car disappeared from view as he closed the door.
‘Yes, it is,’ Nick commented a little bitterly. ‘Shame I can’t get her to drive it, isn’t it?’
There was genuine concern behind his words, and I automatically dropped my voice to a whisper which I knew couldn’t be heard from the kitchen, where Caroline was certain to be waiting. ‘She still won’t drive?’
He shook his head, a worried expression furrowed upon his kind face. ‘No. She can just about cope with being a passenger for a short journey. But honestly, Emma, I don’t know if I’m ever going to get her behind the wheel of a car again.’
He was concerned and frustrated, I could understand that, but I understood even better Caroline’s incapacitating fear. I’d experienced just a small taste of it myself on those first few terrifying journeys on the road after the accident – that had to be nothing in comparison to what Caroline was feeling. ‘Just give her time,’ was the only advice I could give. It was the one platitude everyone kept offering to me: just give it time. It was, without doubt, the single most well-meaning and useless piece of advice you could give a person.
There was a delicious smell of something cooking in wine coming from the oven as I made my way into the kitchen. Caroline turned to greet me with a wide smile, looking as composed and in control as ever, until I went into her outstretched arms and felt her hold on to me for just a second or two longer than normal. But that wasn’t just her, it was me too.
As it was just the three of us, we ate in the kitchen, but even so the absence of two of our regular group was noticeable in the vacant chairs on one side of the rustic pine table. I rearranged the serving dishes as I laid the table, trying to cover the spaces where Richard’s and Amy’s placemats should have sat.
‘So how is Richard enjoying Easter skiing down a mountain with eighty fifteen-year-olds in his care?’
I could understand Nick’s gentle sarcasm. The thought of the extra responsibility Richard had willingly volunteered to take on made me realise even more just how badly he had needed to get away. I only hoped it was the situation he’d needed to escape from, and not me.
‘He’s doing much better,’ I replied, spooning up the last delicious mouthful of something laden with cream, pastry and about a thousand calories from my plate. ‘He’s sounded much more like his old self on our last few conversations. Much less troubled.’
‘That’s good news,’ said Caroline with a smile, and I thought I saw something in her eyes as she took Nick’s plate from his outstretched hand. Perhaps I did, for a few minutes later he excused himself and disappeared into the lounge, muttering something about watching a match on television.
Caroline waited until we were loading the dishwasher before attempting to casually drop in the comment she must have been sitting on for days.
‘So, I heard that you and Jack Monroe had a lunch date last week?’
I paused mid-rinse of a dinner plate, before turning to face her.
‘This town is absolutely unbelievable. Where did you hear that?’
She shrugged and chose not to comment on the way I had instantly bristled at her words. ‘Hallingford is a small place. People talk. You know that.’
I could feel my lips drawing together in a tight line. ‘It’s things like this that make me really miss living in London, where you don’t have to explain everything you do to people who have no business asking about it.’
Caroline continued to study me. My desire to leave our home town had been as much a mystery to her as quantum physics. She had everything she ever wanted in the place she’d lived all her life. To her, moving away was an unnecessary interruption in the rhythm of a perfect life plan. Our views were almost polar opposites.
‘Do you still miss living there? Even though everyone you care about is here?’
I looked at her sadly. Not everyone. Not any more. ‘I just don’t like people sticking their noses into things that are nothing to do with them.’
Caroline arched one brow, forcing me to jump in and correct her. ‘Not you. I just meant the town busybodies, spreading tittle-tattle. And getting it all wrong.’
Caroline arched the other brow. She really had perfected that one down to a fine art.
‘It wasn’t a date, nothing like it,’ I corrected.
‘But you did go for lunch together?’
She was beginning to sound a little like a prosecutor in a trial. And although I knew I’d done nothing wrong, I instantly felt guilty. ‘Jack showed up at the shop looking for a book, and as it was lunchtime he suggested going out and grabbing a bite. That’s all. End of story.’ I deliberately omitted the interesting fact that he had sought to find me in each of the town’s bookshops, because even I didn’t know why he’d done that.
She looked at me carefully, her eyes probing the words out of me.
‘He’s happily married anyway, and I’m as good as. But I don’t suppose the gossip mill decided to broadcast that little fact, did they?’ Offence is usually the best type of defence, except when the other person knows you as well as Caroline knew me.
‘So what did Richard have to say, when you told him?’
‘As it wasn’t important, I didn’t even mention it to him.’
She looked at me for a very long time, and then reached over and took my hand in hers before saying gently, ‘Be careful, Emma. Be very careful.’
As advice goes, it was almost as useless as give it time, and maybe already too late.
Why is it that as soon as you resolve yourself on a course of action, a really sensible and mature, well-thought-out course of action – like severing all contact with Jack Monroe – Fate wades in and upsets all your plans? For me, Fate arrived on the Tuesday morning just as I was leaving for work, in the form of a delivery driver wearing the distinctive red-and-yellow uniform of a well-known courier company. I had no choice but to get out of my car and greet him, seeing as he’d pulled in directly behind me.
‘Emma Marshall?’ he queried, consulting a small handheld electronic device.
‘That’s me,’ I confirmed.
‘Parcel for you. Can you sign here please?’ He passed me the scanning device and I scribbled on the small screen. In return he passed me a large square brown paper parcel. I took it curiously, studying the unfamiliar writing on the label. It wasn’t heavy, and it felt kind of squishy, as though it contained some type of fabric. I hadn’t ordered anything recently other than Jack’s book, but as intrigued as I was to find out its contents, it was exceedingly well-wrapped with what looked like the best part of a roll of brown tape, and I was already running late. I tucked the package under my arm and threw it on t
o the passenger seat beside me.
I was late for work, and Monique already had two customers in the shop, so I dropped the package on the shelf in the back office and went straight into the store to help her serve. It was a couple of hours later before I had reason to go back into the office, and the first thing I saw was the unopened parcel. While waiting for the kettle to boil, I grabbed a pair of sharp scissors and snipped my way into the package someone had taken great care to ensure arrived with me in one piece. The someone was Amy’s mother. I knew that almost without having to read the note addressed to me, which was one of two lying on top of a leather jacket neatly folded within a dry-cleaning bag. The envelope on the second note bore no name, I guess because she had never been told it.
I opened my own envelope carefully, perching on the edge of the desk as I read the neatly handwritten note.
Dear Emma, I am so sorry to bother you with this, but I didn’t know who else to ask. Among Amy’s belongings which the hospital gave us, was the enclosed man’s jacket. I think it must belong to the American man who stopped and helped you girls after the accident. I have had it cleaned, and I believe the stains have been removed. Someone told me you were talking to him at the funeral, so I am hoping that you might have his address so that we can return his property to him. I have also enclosed a letter of thanks that I’d be grateful if you could pass on to him.
Thank you, Emma, for all the support both you and Caroline have given Donald and me over this terrible time. You really were wonderful friends to Amy, and she was lucky to have you both in her life.
Please don’t be a stranger. With all our love and thanks, Linda and Donald (Amy’s Mum and Dad).
I cried at the bit when she thanked us for being Amy’s friend, as if that could ever have been a hardship. And then I cried even harder when I read the bracketed words after the signature, because it hadn’t been written to identify who they were (obviously, I knew that) but just to reaffirm that even though she was no longer with them, Amy was still their little girl.
‘Did you go to Brazil for the fucking coffee?’ Monique began, and then saw the small pile of used tissues and my exceedingly red nose, and was by my side in an instant. I passed her Linda’s note and she scanned it quickly, her eyes darting back up to check on me after every sentence. She sniffed, grabbed a tissue and blew her nose loudly after handing me back the sheet of paper. ‘We should put brandy in the coffee,’ she declared.
I tried a small smile and found I almost remembered how to do it.
I drove cautiously along the twisting coastal road. Even with the windscreen wipers at full speed, it was hard for them to cope with the torrential downpour that had begun to fall as soon as I reached the village of Trentwell. It didn’t help that I had absolutely no idea where I was going, except that Jack had mentioned that his rental cottage looked out over a small cove. There were only a few lanes where the houses met that description, so I had hoped it wasn’t going to be too difficult to find. Now, with all the rain, my plan to find his house without an address seemed seriously stupid.
Forked lightning flashed through the sky, as dramatic and dazzling as a knife scything through the dusk of early evening. I slowed down almost to a standstill as the deep baritone of rumbling thunder echoed not far behind it. The rain was attacking the roof and bonnet of my car in a miniature machine-gun burst of ferocious wet bullets, and combined with the heavy-clouded dusk, my visibility was reduced to just a few metres.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I muttered, realising I was going to have to abandon my mission. Given the conditions, I should just turn around and head back home. A moment later I glimpsed a gap in the hedgerow, and pulled in to a nearby driveway to make my turn. Directly in front of me, lit in the twin spots of my headlights, was Jack’s car, parked at the end of a long drive, outside a small stone cottage. I turned off my engine and lights and stared through the downpour at the cottage. It was the type of place they take photographs of and make into jigsaw puzzles. Bay windows flanked the front door, and there was a rustic homely charm to the roughened local stone walls. I could see no lights on inside, but given the weather he was unlikely to be out, although he had mentioned that the deserted beach was good for jogging. Perhaps I could drop off the jacket without having to see him at all? I got out of the car and ran to the front door, getting saturated in the process, even though I’d only covered a distance of less than five metres. Beside the oak door was an old-fashioned metal pull which I tugged on, although if a bell rang inside, its peal was lost in the backdrop of thundering rain. I hadn’t bothered grabbing a jacket, and the thin shirt I’d worn for work was quickly plastered to my body like a second skin, while the rain continued to effectively jet-wash me, as I stood shivering on Jack’s doorstep.
‘Please be out, please be out,’ I muttered, already scoping the exterior of the house for somewhere dry to leave the jacket and note, when suddenly the door opened and Jack was in front of me. My first thought was the sort of sound usually made by men when looking at lads’ magazines. I make no apology for it whatsoever. I’m engaged, I’m committed to someone else, but I am also not blind, nor am I immune to what I’m sure was just a purely hormonal reflex action. Jack was naked from the waist up, and the old faded jeans that he must have hastily pulled on over his still-damp body, were sticking to him in places where I had no business looking. But I looked anyway.
‘Emma,’ he said with a surprised smile, holding the door wider in welcome. ‘Come in.’
I shook my head, and droplets sprayed around me like a wet dog. ‘No, that’s okay, I can’t stay. I just came to bring you something. Hang on, it’s in the car.’
A well-defined muscled arm reached out into the rain and took hold of my wrist. ‘Well unless it’s a dinghy, it can wait until the storm dies down. Now come inside before you drown on my doorstep.’
Short of snatching my arm out of his grip, there was little I could do but allow myself to be gently tugged across the threshold. The hallway was dark and narrow and it was almost impossible not to be overwhelmed by the intoxicating cocktail from our damp skin and whatever gel he had just used in the shower.
‘This way,’ he urged, as his hand slid down from the delicate bones of my wrist and linked comfortably with mine. I followed him wordlessly down the passageway, wondering how much more spectacularly I was going to fail in my plan to keep my distance from this man. So far, within minutes, he was leading me by the hand into his dark home, half naked, with my clothes clinging to me so revealingly they might as well not be there at all.
The kitchen was a warm cosy cavern, all beams and stone walls, with an old-fashioned Aga throwing out welcoming waves of heat. Instinctively I moved towards it. The only source of light were the last grey shards of the day, splintered by lightning bolts, visible through glass double-doors which looked out over a small garden and the sea beyond.
‘Wow,’ I breathed, as the entire sky was lit by an enormous strike which appeared to disappear into the rising swell of the waves, ‘that is an incredible view.’
‘It is,’ he commented, his voice stirring the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. I shivered involuntarily.
‘You’re cold,’ he observed, and I saw his eyes fall to my soaking wet shirt. He plucked a warm folded towel from the Aga, but instead of just passing it to me, he stood before me and swept it around my shoulders like a matador with a cape. He should have let go of the towelling edges, or I should have taken a step backwards. But neither of us moved. I heard a slight rasp in my breathing and felt a crazy, almost irresistible urge to reach out and lay my palm on the muscled wall of his chest. His eyes were fixed on mine, and I saw his pupils dilate. Caroline’s warning echoed hollowly in my mind. I shouldn’t be doing this, and neither should he. I found the strength to step away, and the moment I did the spell was broken. I rubbed the towel briskly over my sodden clothing, while he reached for a T-shirt that was draped over the back of a chair. I tried not to be aware of the interplay of muscles as he stretched and
tugged on the short-sleeved garment, but it was hard not to stare.
‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised, ‘I can’t offer you a hot drink or anything. The power went down in the storm.’ That, at least, explained the darkened house.
‘That happens quite a lot around here,’ I said, happy to talk about power cables, the national grid, freak weather conditions, in fact anything at all except that moment of intimacy that we were both trying really hard to pretend hadn’t just happened. ‘Still, at least you have the Aga to cook and boil water on.’
‘Am I going to come across as a really stupid dumb American if I now say – huh?’
This was better; this was much more like the banter we’d enjoyed at lunch the other day. This was harmless and trivial. This I could cope with. I scanned the dimming kitchen for a kettle, but could only see an electric one, so I pulled a cast-iron saucepan from a nearby stand. ‘I’ll show you,’ I promised, filling the pan with water. ‘Then every cliché you’ve ever heard about the British and their tea drinking will be proved true.’
He laughed, and brought me tea bags, mugs, and then milk from the fridge. ‘As you’re such an Aga expert, would you consider helping me with these later?’ he asked, pulling out a tray from the fridge which held two enormous steaks. ‘I can’t leave them to spoil, and who knows how long we’ll be without power.’
