‘He behaved like a shit,’ Ginny says. ‘I don’t want to see him again.’
Jon has piled my plate high with veg, looks at me for confirmation as he wields the gravy jug.
I nod, then shrug in Ginny’s direction.
‘I want to see him,’ Nigel confirms, ‘if you have no objection, Beth. In fact, I wish I’d contacted him before now. I feel bad about that.’
‘Before now would have meant taking sides,’ Sylvia says. ‘It’s probably better to have let some time pass.’
I pick up my knife and fork. ‘Sorry, Jon. We’re discussing my errant husband, almost ex-husband. We all used to be friends together.’
‘Until he did the dirty on Beth,’ Amy says, without looking up.
I chew the beef slowly. It’s delicious. While I want Jon to know I’m single and available, I’m not sure I want him to know why, so I silently glare at Amy.
‘Silly man,’ Jon says, turning towards me.
And that’s when it happens. Nothing to do with his smile, or his firm, friendly handshake – it’s all in the eyes. His lock onto mine and I swear some sort of electric current flashes between us. I’m not sure I recognize this charged event. It’s different to with Pink. That was pure lust. This is lusty but not lust. It’s flirty but not flippant. This is something else and I immediately want more.
‘Are you married?’ I find myself asking him.
‘No. I’m a widower.’
I put my cutlery down. ‘I’m so sorry. How long ago did she die, your wife?’
‘Actually, we never married, but we were together for twenty years. Lisa died four years ago.’
I feel like I’ve been felled. Death and sorrow seem irresistibly drawn to me at the moment. I can’t even ask how she died. I can’t express my sympathy. I really should just chomp down on this gorgeous meal and forget the electric Jon no ‘h’ Roper who has lost his wife, partner, whatever. Forget I ever met him. Be rude. Turn to your right and just talk to Ginny for the rest of the evening.
‘People never know what to say.’ He turns to me and shrugs.
‘They never know what to say when they find out my husband was a cheat either.’
‘Silly man,’ Jon repeats and smiles. ‘I knew what to say.’
‘You did,’ I agree. ‘You did.’
‘Beth-all, would you like to have dinner with me sometime?’
‘Alone, without the neighbours?’ I hope he understands sarcasm.
‘Bring them if you like, but I’d rather you didn’t.’
I think again about Desmond from Tooting. Desmond, with whom I have no spark, from Tooting. I think about Adam, sitting in The Rookery, pontificating about whether I should date or not. And here I am, sitting at a friend’s dinner table, with a gorgeous man, who’s so sparky, I may just spontaneously combust. Why am I hesitating?
‘I’d love to.’ I smile, a shy smile, because that’s the way he makes me feel. He makes me smile like Princess Diana, all eyes down and coy. He makes me curl my hair around my ears. He has never touched me except for a brief handshake, yet he makes me feel beautiful. And I like it …
Chapter Forty-Two
I cannot wait to get out of this shithole. For all its expensive wallpaper and considered pieces of furniture, no doubt chosen by some designer in Chelsea, and all its smiley, happy faces and helpful people, the place has the underlying scent of a hospital. On cue, one of the girls from my therapy group walks by, her antiseptic spray in hand. I move aside quickly in case I’m caught in her disinfecting mist. I am so done with the frigging sickbay …
In the weeks since my arrival, I’ve had to learn to talk about how I feel, something that Tom has been at pains to point out is very different from me telling him what I think. Today I’m doing both. We’re discussing Noah. I’m sharing that the depth of feeling I had at his death took me by complete surprise. I still feel completely gutted and totally cheated out of the relationship that would have grown. I think it’s unfair and I think if I allow myself to grieve for him, I will fall apart into tiny little pieces.
‘You know already,’ Tom says, ‘that if you harbour your grief, don’t express it, that it will only be stored and eventually it will eat away at you. You know this because we’ve spoken about the same thing with your parents.’
I blink rapidly. ‘I’m angry,’ I blurt out. ‘I let the truth of Noah unravel to my family because I had to try and save him. It was all for nothing. He died anyway. Beth and I are broken, probably beyond repair, and Meg doesn’t fully trust me any more. All of that – for nothing. If I could at least have watched him grow afterwards … Some of it would have made sense.’
He’s nodding, the top of his pen resting on, sometimes tapping, his lower lip. I watch this habit regularly. He never quite chews the pen, just threatens to.
‘And since talking the other day,’ I continue, ‘it’s like I’ve unleashed this … giant. I’m angry with my parents. They just threw their lives away, decided they weren’t worth living when Noah …’ I swallow hard. ‘Noah wanted to live so badly, a little boy who wanted to fly planes.’
I stare out of the window towards the grounds. Outside, the air is heavy with a morning frost; the iced soil crunches underfoot as people walk by, behind the long voile that screens us from passing eyes.
‘I’m sure it doesn’t seem fair,’ Tom concedes.
‘He was ill, he fought death all the way; my parents, on the other hand …’
‘Do you ever consider that maybe your mother couldn’t help it either? You tell me she had crazy highs and desperate lows. Nowadays she’d probably be diagnosed as bipolar.’
My face displays how unimpressed I am by any new labels for Mum’s behaviour.
‘It seems you’re quick to judge, when maybe, just maybe, she couldn’t help herself.’
‘She was always quick to judge me,’ I snap back.
Tom shrugs. ‘It’s a cruel illness, manic depression, so difficult to manage, and just as undiscerning as any cancer.’
I bite my tongue, let his remark sink in. This idea that my mother couldn’t help her illness any more than Noah could help his … She stopped singing … I’ve railed against my mother’s actions for so long that it’s second nature. Trying to think of her in a kinder, more forgiving light is difficult. Rosie pops into my head and then Beth, and I’m grateful, lean forward, hands palmed together between my legs. ‘I’ve been hoping that Beth will forgive me. To do that I know she has to accept me for the flawed bastard I am. I guess I need to try a little of that too.’
He’s quiet a moment, lets my own words sink in with me, then asks, ‘Do you think that your relationship with Beth is beyond repair?’
‘She seems to want to move on. To put me and all my lies behind her.’ My shoulders slump. ‘I hope I can convince her. I want to try and convince her to give me another chance. I’ve asked her to come and see me again before I leave here.’
‘To say what?’
‘A lot of what we’ve talked about here has shown me why things went wrong. When I think back to Kiera, it was when Matt and I had grown the business too quickly in the beginning. We had real money stresses – I mean stresses where we could have lost everything – and I never told her. I never talked to Beth about how I felt nauseous going into work every day. I kept it all in. It’s what I do. And eventually I find a release that doesn’t involve her. In a way I keep her, us, away from it all – keep it safe.’
Tom has the pen in his mouth.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask him.
‘I get what you’re saying, but are you excusing your behaviour because you’ve found reasons for it?’
‘I can never excuse it. All I can do is understand it and apologize for it. Hell …’ I make a face. ‘Maybe even forgive myself for it?’
‘Good plan.’ He smiles. ‘Are you writing everything down? Is it helping?’
I nod.
‘You’ve certainly got more clarity than you had last week.’
‘Last nigh
t, I tried to write down what had been going on in my life when I met Emma.’ I look across the desk. ‘To see if I could see a pattern. Not making excuses, just looking … Beth and I hadn’t been physically close for a few months. There wasn’t a reason – it just happens that way sometimes when you’ve been married a long time.’ I stop and pick a hangnail from my left thumb. ‘Work was fine, so it wasn’t that.’ I look up. ‘But Ben was in a bad way …’
Tom has a face that does not show emotion. I don’t think he’s meant to show feeling in this job, but some sentiment has just sneaked through to create a straight frown line just above his eyes.
‘I’ve looked after him his entire life. He had just come out of a long-term relationship where there were fertility problems. It had put a lot of strain on them as a couple and I—’
‘You couldn’t fix it.’
‘Exactly. It’s my job to look after him and I couldn’t. I threw money at the problem, tried to help that way. I tried to help prop him up but the stress was endless. Eventually, they broke up and Ben took off abroad for a year.’
Tom is either writing or doodling in his book. I want him to look up, to look at me and tell me I’m onto something, that there may have been reasons, other than me being a complete bastard, for destroying the family I loved so much.
‘I met Emma just after Ben’s life had gone to rat-shit.’ I shake my head. ‘Maybe I am just looking for excuses. It’s sort of academic why it started. I could have and should have finished it way before I did.’
‘When is Beth coming in?’
‘Tomorrow evening.’
‘Have you ever tried writing to her? Sometimes, if you write a letter—’
‘I’ve tried that before.’ I don’t want to remember how big a Pandora’s box my last letter opened. ‘Beth’s a “look me in the eye” sort of girl. She prefers me within swearing distance.’
He grins. ‘Are you going to the group later?’
‘No.’ I feel shattered. This talking, healing stuff is exhausting. ‘I think I’ll curl up with a movie in my room. I can’t believe how tired I am, how wearing this whole process is.’
‘You still running every day?’
I nod. The grounds are so beautiful, I’m running a couple of miles a day. I don’t push myself – it’s easy and keeps my head clear.
Tom stands and I look at the clock. We’re five minutes over, a first. Normally, I leave skid marks at the exit, five minutes early.
‘Enjoy your film, Adam.’ He smiles as he gathers up his notebook and books. ‘Have an afternoon off. You deserve it.’
During a walk in the grounds later, I find Rosie sitting on the bench where I always stretch when I go for a run. Today, I’ve chosen just to walk, wanting to feel the bracing cold on my face and enjoying being able to wrap up against it.
‘Do you mind?’ I ask if I can take a seat beside her.
‘Help yourself,’ she says, ‘just don’t snitch on me.’ She wiggles the cigarette held in her fingers.
‘I’m lots of things, but I don’t think I’ve ever been called a snitch.’ I sit beside her, pull my coat tightly around me. ‘It’s freezing today.’
She nods.
I glimpse her troubled profile. ‘Are you all right? You’re not often out here.’
‘I’m fine. Bored out of my fucking tree.’
‘I know, the tedium, it’s knackering. There’s really only so much internal gazing I can do, but there’s no escape.’
‘There is.’ She nods towards the nine-foot-high wall beyond the trees in the copse.
‘Rosie, we’re all here voluntarily. You’d be more comfortable walking through reception!’
She gives a throaty laugh and hesitates a moment before replying. ‘I know. Tom spent an hour with me earlier trying to get me to understand why I always take the hard road. If there’s an easy route from A to B, apparently I would circumnavigate C and D to get there.’
‘Tom, eh? Mr Beige … He’s good though.’
‘Mr Beige.’ She purses her lips around the filter of her cigarette. ‘I like that.’
I don’t ask how she’s managed to find them in here, but shift around in my jacket. ‘Why aren’t you freezing?’ I say.
‘Don’t feel the cold much,’ she replies, before turning to face me. ‘Don’t feel, full stop.’ She laughs at her own apparent joke. ‘You still love your wife, don’t you, Adam? Beth, isn’t it?’
I’m surprised she’s suddenly brought Beth up, but I nod, tell her that I do.
‘Unrequited though?’
This makes me think. ‘Not exactly,’ I say finally. ‘I think if you asked her if she still loves me, she’d say “yes”, but she doesn’t trust me and I’m not sure she can ever put what I’ve done behind her.’
‘So, you have to let her go.’
I shiver again and stare at this tiny, birdlike woman, half my age, giving me advice.
‘Maybe—’
‘No “maybe” about it.’ She stubs the end of her cigarette with her boot and I notice that it’s a timeless Doc Marten type. ‘If you love someone, that might mean letting them go, especially if you’re not what they need …’ As she looks straight at me, she raises both arms over her head and stretches them out. She then removes the packet of cigarettes from her denim jacket and shakes it at me.
‘No. No thanks.’ I stand up, her words echoing in my ears like tinnitus. ‘You coming in?’ I ask as she finally shivers with the cold. ‘It’s bitter out here.’
‘I’m all right a while longer.’
‘If you’re sure …’ I unravel the narrow Dr Who scarf I have wrapped around my neck several times and give it to her. ‘Here, take this at least. Help keep your head warm.’
She smiles, surprised, rubs the scarf as if to feel its softness. ‘Thanks.’
As I walk away, my heart goes out to her – a child in a woman’s body who’s dazed by a tiny act of kindness.
In my room, I watch Die Hard 4. I want to lose myself in a testosterone-fuelled film with nothing about feelings or emotions, just car chases, explosions and macho men strutting about with guns. I only leave when I hear the dinner gong. Two more nights of this food, I think as I shut my door behind me. The first thing I’ll do when I get out of here will be to go to McDonald’s …
It’s late and I’m in bed. I don’t remember how I got here. I’m lying perfectly straight, perfectly still, both hands by my sides, the duvet tucked under my chin. There’s a strange silence about the place tonight. The normal clatter of reception staff, nurses, doctors, chefs and cleaners doing their jobs seems muted.
I jump up and start dressing. The bag I’d come in with is small and is packed within minutes. At reception, they try and stop me, ask me to at least wait until morning. I don’t.
It’s worked. It’s done its magic. It’s helped me understand me, but now I have to get away. I cannot and will not take this on. If I stay here, if I have to analyse this too, it will set me back. This I know like I know I need air to breathe. And, right now, I need to taste the air in the outside world. I need to savour it, breathe it deep, inhale it in my lungs and be grateful that I can. I need not to ask any more questions. I need not to wonder how death attracts itself to me. I need to move on with my life, because life is precious and painfully short.
They found Rosie at about six o’clock, probably just as Bruce Willis was being declared a hero. She used my scarf. Perhaps she hadn’t been pointing to the wall as a means of escape. Perhaps she’d meant the trees all along. I won’t ever be able to ask her and I’ll never know. The police kept my scarf as evidence, told me she’d left a note. I have no idea what it says, but I hope it helps whoever may have loved her during her short life.
Chapter Forty-Three
I am standing in my own house. The movers have just gone and I’m surrounded by boxes and chaos, but they’re my boxes and my chaos. Adam called me earlier to congratulate me, which feels very strange but nice. I never did go and see him again in The Rookery since he
called to say he’d left a few days early and sounded as if he was in a much more positive space.
I run my hands along the railway sleeper on top of my fireplace. There were cleaners in yesterday and, apart from the dirt I’ve brought in, the place is spotless. My fireplace … I hear a dull thud coming from the room above. Meg is upstairs sorting her room out. She has been a dream, wonderful. Despite her missing The Lodge, she’s determined not to pine and seems genuinely to love this house. Closing my eyes, I think of my old house, the home I never thought I’d leave. Adam is there now with Giles, probably walking through each room, touching the walls, tapping into the memories. He said he wanted a last look around the place before the keys are handed over. I’ve asked him to pop in for a drink, though Lord knows where I’ll find a glass.
I run up the stairs to Meg’s room, push open the door. ‘How’s it going?’
She has already put her bed together and made it up with the new set of linen she bought this morning. She winds tiny fairy lights through the bars on her headboard, plugs them in and, hey presto, Christmas in February. Smiling, she claps her hands like a child and I know everything’s going to be okay.
‘Cute.’ I give her a hug. ‘Your dad’s coming over for a drink later. You up for him staying for a sandwich, or do you think it’s a bad idea on day one?’
She shrugs, sits herself on the floor next to the bed. ‘The man’s got to eat.’
‘Right, you keep going here.’ I nod towards the boxes of clothes she has yet to unpack. ‘I’ll start unpacking some kitchen stuff. Maybe find some plates and glasses. You do have enough storage, don’t you?’ I wring my hands, glance at her two-door built-in wardrobe. It’s a far cry from the wall of storage she’s used to.
‘Mum! Kitchen! Now! Stop worrying.’ She looks up from her perch. ‘I love it, Mum. We’ll make it home …’
I head downstairs, trip over a box in the hallway and swear aloud. The first swearword in my new house and it comes from me. Lucy Fir is delighted. Having been dormant for a while, she has now reappeared, telling me the house is too small, that I am quite mad, that Jon no ‘h’ Roper will break my heart, that Ben and Karen will never work out and that Adam is not as healed as he’s pretending to me.
You, Me and Other People Page 29
