Chapter 17
Leah was choking. She tried to breathe, but every inhalation she sucked in filled her nostrils and lungs with bitter smoke. She coughed, held her hand over her mouth, fell to the floor. Tumbling, tumbling to the ground, wanting to scream for help but having no voice left, no air to use. Crawling across the floor, nose close to the smoke-stinking carpet. Heading for the fire escape, reaching out for the door, for safety.
She had to get there, despite the paralysis gripping her lungs, constricting her throat, stinging her eyes. She had to open it, throw back that door and let the fumes out, let the cool night air in, fill the room with life-saving oxygen. Inch by agonising inch she crawled, gasping for breath, until she reached it. She stretched up, grasped the hot metal in her hands, tried to twist the handle as her skin burned. It wouldn’t turn. It was locked. Their escape was blocked. She had no energy left, nothing more to give. She’d failed. They were going to die, to die, to die…
“Leah! Wake up, Leah!”
She felt cool hands on her face, strong arms around her body. The sensation of soft carpet beneath her knees.
“Leah, it’s me, it’s Rob. Come on now, baby, you’re safe with me.”
The hands stroked her face; the arms held her tight against a firm chest, smooth skin over ridged muscle. She laid her head flat against it, inhaled: fresh, clean air, and the smell of him. Of Rob. Of the man she loved.
It was only a nightmare. A nightmare, but a lot worse than usual. Her pulse was still thundering even though she was awake, and she was soaked in cold sweat.
Leah clung onto Rob, burying her face into his body, gulping in the breath her mind had been depriving her of for the last few minutes. She felt the familiar trembling flood through her body like a tsunami, the dryness tickling the back of her throat, the hollow feeling in her heart as she relived her father’s final minutes. At least the way she’d always imagined them.
Then she cried, the way she always did in the aftermath. Cried for them and their final suffering; for herself and the fact that she missed them so much. For her guilt, and the way she blamed herself for them even being there. This time, she cried for other things too. For her failed attempt to replace the security of her family with the security of a life with Doug. For her failed attempt to outrun her unhappiness by fleeing to Chicago. Mainly, for her failed attempt to not fall in love with Rob Cavelli. Because she knew that loving him would mark her for the rest of her days, just like her parents’ death had. It would claim some part of her that nobody else could ever reach. A scar that would never fade.
Throughout the sobs, Rob just held her close, rocking her gently. Stroking her hair, murmuring reassurances into her ear, whispering Italian endearments she didn’t even fully understand. He picked her up, carried her back to the bed, and surrounded her shivering body with his. She cried until she was probably dehydrated. Let it all out in a way she’d never done in front of another person, not even Doug in all the years they’d shared the same bed. Eventually, the sobs subsided, and she let herself slowly, slowly relax. Her breathing returned to a slow, regular rhythm, and she felt as calm as she was ever likely to in the aftermath of one of her nightmares.
“Now, are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Rob asked, tilting her head up so he could look at her. “I woke up to find you crawling across the floor, choking, and trying to reach the door.”
Rob stroked her poor, battered face. He saw the way her eyes were thick and swollen from a double dose of weeping; mascara was crusted around the edges, charcoal lines criss-crossed over her cheeks. Despite it all, she still had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, those amber orbs gazing up at him, filled with pain and torment. Pain and torment that must have been there before, but he’d never noticed. Because he too damn busy being a selfish ass, consumed by his own problems. All this time, she’d tried to reach out, to show him she understood his guilt and his loss – when there was clearly a lot of pain going on in her own life.
She nodded, and her eyes glimmered again. She blinked tight, and he saw the effort she was making not to start crying. He kissed her forehead lightly, trying to encourage her without pressurising her. Heaven knows he hated that himself. If she wanted to talk, she would. If not, he’d understand.
“My parents,” she said, voice still small and choked with emotion. “They died when I was eighteen. The night I turned eighteen, in fact. I wanted a party, so I asked them to bugger off for the weekend. They were great, my mum and dad. I was an only child and they always wanted to make me happy. So they did as I asked, and they went away.”
“What happened?” he said gently, rubbing her arm. She was cold. Despite the fact that the apartment was warm, and that she’d spent several minutes crawling across the floor and screaming, she was cold.
“I lost my virginity, bully for me, and they lost their lives. Because of me. There was a fire at the hotel they stayed in, and the owner had painted over the fire escape locks. They found my father’s body at the foot of the fire door, like he was reaching out for it. Mum never even made it out of bed. The owner was prosecuted, but that didn’t bring them back. I was still on my own, technically an adult, in that big house all on my own. Knowing it wasn’t only the owner’s fault, it was mine as well – it was only because I was a stupid teenager hell-bent on becoming a grown up that they were even in that hotel. If I’d just gone to Tuscany with them to celebrate like they’d wanted, they’d still be alive today.”
Her voice was bitter as she recited the story, angry, older than he’d ever heard it. Filled with a pain and self-hatred that he recognised instantly – because it identically mirrored his own. And despite that, despite knowing exactly where that tone came from and the depth of the feelings that inspired it, he had to say what he said next.
“It wasn’t your fault, Leah. You can’t blame yourself.”
He felt her body twitch against his, as she issued a humourless laugh.
“And how many times have you been told that, Rob? I have no idea what happened to your wife and your baby, but Marco certainly thinks it was an accident. How many times have you been told not to blame yourself, that it wasn’t your fault? And in all those times, have you ever managed to believe it?”
He tensed, the way he always did at the mention of their deaths. Felt his heart rate slow down, almost to the point where he thought it might stop. Sometimes, he’d wished it would. But she was right – guilty as charged. He’d heard it countless times, and it never made a jot of difference. No matter how many times the universe said it wasn’t his fault, in his heart it always would be, just like Leah would always blame herself for a dodgy hotelier skimping on the fire code. She was as broken as he was; she just did a better job of hiding it.
Now he did at least know why she had been so insistent that she could understand him, understand his pain. He’d thought her naive, now he knew different. Because yes, she did understand. Better than anyone else in his life ever could.
He took a deep breath, stared up at the ceiling, dragging all his calm together until he could speak, put at least some of it into words. Time to be brave, Rob, he thought. Time to discuss the one thing you’ve avoided discussing for years, instead of choosing to let it fester and grow like an emotional cancer inside you.
“My wife was called Meredith,” he said. “The baby didn’t have a name, although we’d always thought maybe Paolo for a boy, and Gabriella for a girl. It was a girl, it turned out. Gabriella Dorothea Cavelli, if she’d survived. If she’d even been born.”
Leah stayed still and silent in his arms, and for that he was grateful. If she’d so much as moved, or whispered, or touched his face in sympathy, he couldn’t have gone on. He nodded again, as much to himself as anyone else.
“Meredith was only eight weeks pregnant. She’d found out that day, and I can only imagine how excited she was about telling me. Waiting for me to come home from work. She’d told me she had a surprise, but I was working late. As usual. Made her wait, as usual. Days later, when I
was going through some of her stuff in the bedroom, I found the pregnancy test she’d used, wrapped up in Christmas paper. Silly stuff with reindeers on it, and a big ribbon. She obviously meant to give it to me as a gift; a gift she knew I wanted.
“But I didn’t come home. Despite the fact that it was Christmas Eve, and my beautiful wife was waiting for me, pregnant, filled with expectation, I didn’t come home. I’m sure Dorothea’s told you I’m a workaholic. These days, they blame the fact that I’m not right in the brain. They think it’s all part of the grief, and to some extent that’s true. But I was the same before, even when I had Meredith. She was the love of my life, Leah, and still I chose work over her – not just that day, but most of them. I lost track of the number of times I cancelled dates, missed dinners, left her at home on her own. All so I could work. I was a terrible husband, and she still loved me. Maybe she thought having the baby would change all that, and maybe it would. Or maybe I’d have been just as bad a father, I’ll never know.
“On the night she was going to tell me, I was still in the office at eight. Despite the fact that she called me, told me she had this fantastic Christmas present for me. At which point it crossed my mind that I hadn’t bought her a damn thing. Or my mom, or Marco. Hadn’t even bothered to get Felicia to buy stuff for me. Typical selfish ass. Well, I felt bad then – when she mentioned her gift for me. I knew there was this necklace she wanted, that she’d hinted about. I’d even asked the jeweller to set it aside – but then completely forgot to pick it up. So you know what I did, Leah? I told her, on the phone on Christmas Eve, to drag her ass down to Miracle Mile and visit the jeweller. That he had a special something tucked away for her. And while she was there, would she mind picking up a bit of bling for Dorothea too, maybe some cuff links for Marco? Just like that, I asked my wife to go out in the freezing cold, in one of the worst blizzards we’d seen for years, and buy her own Christmas gift. Romantic, huh?”
Leah stayed quiet, but he felt her small hand creep into his, wrapping her fingers around his palm and squeezing gently. He nuzzled her hair, smelled her shampoo, tried to strengthen himself for the next part of his story. Because she deserved to hear it all, this woman who shared so openly and so willingly, who had done nothing but reach out to him since they’d met. She deserved the truth of exactly why he could never love her in return. Of why he wasn’t capable.
“The snow was terrible. Ice everywhere. She was waiting at a stop light when a drunk driver shot through the intersection. He hit the driver side of the jeep before she had a chance to dodge him, and then two other cars coming from opposite directions ploughed into the mess. It was carnage, I saw the photos afterwards. Four vehicles were wrecked, but only one person died. Or, as they found when they did the autopsy, two. My beautiful Meredith, and our baby. Our Gabriella. They both died, because of me being a self-obsessed asshole who had to stay in work for an extra couple hours. Who couldn’t even be bothered getting his own wife a Christmas present. Because of me.”
His voice broke on the last word, and he felt tears stinging the backs of his eyes. Tears. He hadn’t actually cried for years; he thought his tear ducts had dried up from over-use. After those initial months, a riot of booze and breakdowns, he’d stopped crying, stopped doing anything other than work. And here it was again, fresh as a daisy, stabbing away at him. He didn’t even try to fight it, just let the tears roll, slow and fat, from the corners of his eyes.
Leah moved against him, shuffled her body upwards. She leaned down, kissed his face. Kissed the tears away, kissed his lips, kissed his eyelids. Kissed the tip of his nose.
“I can’t tell you it’s not your fault and have you believe me, Rob,” she said, caressing his cheeks, stroking his hair. “Just like you can’t tell me it’s not my fault my parents died. We’re obviously as stubborn as each other. But I am so sorry for your pain, Rob. And for them, for Meredith and Gabriella and everything you should have shared together. You were all cheated of a future that could have been golden.
“You won’t believe me if I say again that it’s not your fault. That if anyone is to blame, it’s the idiot who drove drunk at Christmas. But I can tell you one thing – we have to try and keep on living, we have to try and manage the guilt and live our lives. I love you, Rob. With all my heart. And nothing you can tell me about your past, nothing you say or do, will stop me loving you. It’s love. It’s bigger than all of that.”
He opened his eyes, met the amber pupils, and opened his mouth to reply. She laid a soft finger over his lips, made a quiet shushing noise and smiled. Tears fell from her face to his, merging with his own. Bittersweet, precious tears, blending together, the liquid expression of their mutual pain.
“I know, Rob. You don’t need to say it. I know you don’t love me; it doesn’t matter. I still love you. And I’m still leaving today. Otherwise, you and I are going to play these games with each other forever. You with Amanda, me with Rick, or whoever comes along and plays that role. Hurting each other with sex. Hurting each other without sex. Constantly dancing round the fact that we’re in pain. We both deserve better than that, Rob, and until we’re apart, we won’t break the cycle. So I shall take my broken heart, sweet man, and try to heal it. But remember this, when you’re busy hating yourself – a woman called Leah Harvey once loved you. Loved you completely.”
He reached up, cradled that lovely face in his palms, and wondered if it was possible to die of a broken heart. Because it certainly felt like it. She was right, she was doing the right thing, but the thought of her leaving…It was hurting him in ways he thought he was beyond hurting.
“I wish I could love you back, Leah,” he said, pulling her face towards his for the barest of kisses. “I wish I could. But when I buried Meredith and Gabriella, I buried my heart with them.”
Chapter 18
The next month of Leah’s life passed in a blur of chaos and change. Good as her word, she’d moved out of Cavelli Tower that day. Rob had helped her pack properly, even managing to get the hair straighteners in, and driven her to the new apartment.
Neither of them was happy, but they had at last found some kind of peace through their honesty.
She’d said her goodbyes to Marco, to Dorothea, even to Artie the concierge. Goodbye to that phase of her life: the most thrilling, the most joyous, and the most painful time she’d ever experienced.
Her new home was a tiny bedsit studio in a quaint turn-of-the-century building. Quaint if you liked rickety stairs and antiquated plumbing, at least. It was above a coffee shop, and she could see the steamed up windows blinking with neon as they drove up and parked.
Rob had stood there in the middle of it, looming so large he took up the whole space, looking around with a distinct lack of enthusiasm as Leah hustled and bustled and tidied away her meagre belongings. Trying to hold it together. Wishing he would stay. Wishing he would go.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, gesturing around him with outspread arms, almost touching both walls as he did it.
“Yes, I am. I like Andersonville,” she said firmly. “And this place isn’t as small as it looks. It’s only because you’re so big. Once you’re gone and I have the space to myself, I’ll have room to move.”
He raised his eyebrows, as they both registered that her statement could apply to life in general as much as her new home.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “And it’s time for me to go. Good luck, Leah, and…thank you.”
She nodded, reaching out to touch her fingertips to his, not trusting herself to do any more. Not trusting herself to speak in case she begged him to stay; not trusting herself to hold him in case she couldn’t let him go. In case she shackled him to the bedposts and kept him forever.
He stared at her, then nodded. Like he knew how hard this was for her, understood the turmoil raging through her mind. He let his fingers stay joined to hers for one more heartbeat, then turned and left.
Leaving Leah with a half empty suitcase, no hot water, and a s
hattered heart.
Four weeks later, she’d managed to fix the first two. A bit of unpacking and a call to the landlord was all that had taken.
The third was still very much a work in progress, and proving more elusive. On that first day, she’d done nothing but cry. Huddled in her new bed, in her new life, grieving for the man who’d just walked through the door. Eventually, after hours of sobbing, she’d ventured downstairs to the cafe – wrapped in seven layers of clothing, eyes swollen, hair sodden with tears. She’d needed coffee, and they’d given it to her – along with cake, and company, and kindness.
Since then, she’d not contacted Rob at all, and banned herself from the evil temptation called google. The only way she was going to get through this was by making a clean break. Snapping the bone and hoping it healed straight – if it healed at all.
What Rob was up to was none of her business. She even banned Dorothea and Marco from telling her on their visits, despite Dorothea’s not-so-subtle attempts to get her to open up. Marco had loved the place; Dorothea had been predictably snotty, looking around as though she might get her clothes dirty just being there. Both had brought housewarming gifts – six packs of beer from Marco, hothouse orchids from Mrs C – which had been unexpected and moving. Her and Rob might have been a lost cause, but she’d gained their friendship, their sense of family.
Both of them, predictably enough, had wanted to talk about one thing and one thing only: Rob. And her. And what had happened between them.
Leah had stayed firm, refusing to be drawn out on the subject. It was private, and there was nothing they could do to help. Nothing they could do to fix it, no matter how hard they tried. She had to move on, had to try and heal the gaping hole in her heart. Having Marco banging on about Rob’s all-consuming black-cloud mood wasn’t going to help with that. Neither was hearing Dorothea sigh in worry about his eighteen hour working days, and his drinking. She couldn’t afford to feel sorry for Rob, no matter how down he was. How depressed he was. And he wouldn’t thank them for trying to pull her back into his world, when he’d only just managed to get her out of it. No, she had to think of herself now, and get on with her own life.
Cold Feet at Christmas Page 16
