If You Were Here

by Alice Peterson

  ‘I’ve signed you in. Again,’ he said, and for a moment I had to turn away, unable to stomach the disappointed look in his eye.

  This time, when I told him I didn’t need another lecture, not even from my favourite tutor, my smile didn’t win him over. Instead I should have apologized for letting him down – again – but I was practically on my hands and knees after another late night working at Ben’s pub, always packed with students after the cheapest beer in town.

  I met Ben six months ago, when I’d just started my second year at Camberwell. I caught his eye as I was about to order and there was an instant attraction – he didn’t have a beard then. I told him I was looking for a new job, like pretty much everyone else here who needs to pay for their digs and art stuff, and he offered me one there and then, saying it didn’t matter if I didn’t have any experience behind a bar as I’d learn to pull a pint in no time. I could save money by staying with Mum and Dad, but I need to have a healthy distance from home right now.

  But nothing about my life is healthy right now, is it?

  I was standing in front of Mark, looking as if I’d been in a punch-up and smelling like a pub. Each day I intend to give myself a night off from the student union bar. Go home, run a bath, make some decent food and get an early night, and wake up without a hangover.

  As I was about to walk away, he asked, ‘Is everything all right?’ which is a question I always dread.

  Mark knows about Dad’s HD, but the answer was still no, nothing was all right.

  Mum had called last night, upset that Dad had broken her favourite sugar bowl, the one Aunt Celia had given to her. I knew things must have been bad since Mum rarely calls to complain about Dad. I felt guilty that last night I’d been partying like there was no tomorrow, while Mum was mopping up spilt orange juice, putting another basket of laundry into the washing machine and wrapping yet more broken mugs and plates – and now her precious sugar bowl – in newspaper.

  ‘Beth, you look a mess,’ Mark continued.

  ‘Thanks.’ I touched my hair self-consciously.

  ‘If you need to talk—’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘I’d better go,’ I said. I was in no fit state to work on anything today, just the thought of the smell of paint made me feel sick.

  ‘Take the day off,’ he advised, ‘sort yourself out and come back fresh tomorrow.’ I knew I’d used up most of my lifelines. Mark was being kind and giving me one final chance.

  So I went to St Martin-in-the Fields, in Trafalgar Square, where they have free lunchtime concerts. I love this place; it’s my sanctuary. It’s a space where I can close my eyes. Often I drop off, allowing the music to wash over me. It was Beethoven today, ‘Moonlight Sonata’. It reminded me of Dad. He used to play this in his study. I knew he’d love to be sitting by my side, listening too.

  In the early days, when he was first diagnosed, he could still go out to enjoy an opera or concert, or a film, or he’d drive us out of London to the coast and we’d paddle in the sea and eat fish and chips watching the fading sun. Mum, Dad and I packed our bags and made the most of my long summer holidays, ticking off places to see on Dad’s bucket list, like India and Egypt. When Dad lost his driving licence, it was a massive blow to his confidence and freedom, and one more nail in the coffin of his independence.

  As I was listening to the music, tears were streaming down my cheeks as I thought of Dad and how much of the outside world was now passing him by.

  After the concert I had such a strong urge to go home and give him a hug. Hold his hand. See Mum, and say sorry for not visiting for a while . . . and sorry that Dad had broken her precious sugar bowl.

  When I arrived, I had to let myself in with my set of keys. There was no sign of Mum, the house eerily quiet. I thought maybe they were at the hospital. I honestly can’t count the number of times Dad has tripped over in his determination to try to do things independently. Mum says Beverley, in the minor injury unit at their local hospital, has become a firm friend.

  I thought they must be out until I heard footsteps on the landing. When I looked up, I knew at once Dad was in trouble.

  In a split second he lost his balance and grabbed the spindle of the banisters, and I screamed as I watched him tumble down the stairs, taking the whole of the banister rail with him. I called an ambulance, too frightened to try to move him in case he’d injured himself badly. As soon as I put the phone down, Mum returned with a pint of milk, only to find that, after being gone just five minutes, Dad was sprawled on the floor along with half the banister rail.

  To our relief and astonishment Dad hadn’t broken a single bone and didn’t need to go to hospital. He’s stronger than he looks, his figure solid and sturdy, but it still took me and one of the paramedics twenty minutes to get him back upstairs, standing either side of him, helping him with each laboured step, his brain unable to send the right message to his legs.

  When finally Dad was undressed and lying down, I knelt by his side and told him about the concert I’d been to, and that one of these days I hoped he could come with me, too, though that day seemed so far away now, as if in another world.

  I almost broke down kissing Mum goodbye. How I hate leaving her knowing that tomorrow is only going to be worse than today. All I could think was that I shouldn’t be going. I should be at home, helping out, not trying to be the next Damien Hirst.

  After seeing Mum and Dad I decided to go back to my digs, but hours later I found myself propped up against the student union bar, finishing off the dregs of my beer, before ordering another. I was talking to a few friends on my course as if I’d had a perfectly normal day.

  When they called it a night, I was about to order another drink, but stopped when I caught Mark’s eye. As he sat down on the stool next to mine he told me to put away my wallet, saying he’d order me a coffee. He didn’t say a word until I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  I didn’t just cry, I sobbed, my head resting on his shoulder.

  Finally, when I was ready, I told him what had happened to Dad today. I told him the same could happen to me, and that I’m going mad trying to lead this double life, pretending I’m fine when I’m anything but.

  Mark encouraged me to open up to the friends I was making here, saying that I should give people more credit. He asked me if Ben knew about my father. I shook my head, eaten up by yet more guilt that I was denying Dad’s very existence to my boyfriend.

  ‘It’s hard,’ I confessed, ‘I just want to be normal. I want to fit in. I don’t want pity.’

  He then asked me what I assumed ‘normal’ to be, and whether I thought he’d led a normal life.

  I looked at Mark, reckoning he was in his mid thirties. Scruffy trousers and trainers, yet he has an air of sophistication. He wears glasses that make him look professor-like, but there is nothing arrogant about him. I could see from the ring on his finger he’s married. His life seemed pretty normal to me.

  ‘I lost both my parents within a year of each other when I was seventeen,’ he confided. ‘I raised my siblings. My brother suffered from depression. He killed himself two years ago.’

  I didn’t know how to respond, except to say how sorry I was.

  ‘My wife wants to have children,’ he continued, ‘but if I’m honest I’m frightened of the responsibility, of not being there for them. Beth, every single one of us walks around with a mask. Every single student here is probably scared of something, and sometimes we need to take our masks off and talk about our fears.’

  In that moment I wanted to reach out and hold him and take his pain away. It was the first moment I noticed how blue his eyes were, and the first time I realized he had a life outside of teaching and signing us in each morning.

  I wondered if it would be wrong to hold his hand.

  I risked it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I can’t imagine how tough that must have been.’

  He held my gaze until finally he remove
d his hand from mine. ‘Don’t run away from yourself, Beth, or your problems.’

  ‘I feel so alone,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t know what to do, how to handle it. I can’t talk to Mum,’ I added, wishing with all my heart that I could.

  ‘I understand, but the answer doesn’t lie in the bottle. The answer comes from having the courage to be yourself and let others in.’

  30

  Flo

  I come home, praying I won’t bump into James. With any luck he’ll be asleep. As I rummage in my handbag, trying to find my house keys, the door opens, but James’s face is far from welcoming.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he demands before I’ve even stepped inside.

  ‘Out,’ I reply, immediately on the defence, ‘having a good time, thanks.’

  ‘All I wanted was a text, Flo. It’s nearly two in the morning.’

  I walk past him, aware I must look a mess, and no doubt smelling of alcohol and smoke.

  ‘I’m taking a shower,’ I say, needing to wash away the memory of my night. ‘Why are you still up?’

  He grabs me by the arm. ‘Why am I still up?’

  ‘Let go, James. You’re hurting me.’

  ‘I’ve been worried about you.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I take off my heels, my feet aching almost as much as my head.

  ‘Where have you been all night?’

  ‘I needed some time alone to think things through.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ I raise my voice, not wanting to think about Nate’s touch, his lips pressed against mine, me pushing him away, him shouting at me, saying I was a fucking tease.

  ‘Well, wherever you were, I’ve been out trailing pubs and clubs trying to find you. I even woke up Granny Peg, who’s also sick with worry, so thanks, Flo, thanks a lot, so long as you’ve had a good time, so long as you’re fine.’

  He walks away. I follow him into the kitchen, shame creeping in. ‘I’m sorry, James, I should have called.’

  He looks a fraction more forgiving until he says, ‘Where’s your ring?’ He eyes my hand suspiciously.

  And it’s only then that I notice my bare wedding ring finger. With sheer terror, I empty the contents of my handbag on to the kitchen table. ‘Why did you take it off?’ he asks.

  ‘Not now,’ I say, unable to cope with any more questions or his disappointment.

  I’ve lost it. Oh my God, I’ve not only lost my mind, but my ring too.

  I put it somewhere.

  My wallet! It was at the pub. Just before Nate bought me another drink . . .

  The relief when I see it’s still there is so enormous that I burst into tears. I look at it, shining like a star. Yet I have no right to put it back on, not after what I did.

  I place it on the table.

  ‘James, I’m so sorry,’ I repeat, crumpling into a heap on the chair. ‘I’m not fine. I’m far from fine. Please don’t hate me because I hate myself enough already.’

  ‘Oh, Flo, what have you done?’ he says quietly, though of course he has a pretty good idea.

  I fall into his arms, sobbing on his shoulder, and when finally my tears subside, I tell James everything. I tell him I lied to Theo, using Granny’s health as an excuse not to go to New York. I tell him I’ve been reading Mum’s diaries and that I’m terrified by what I’m discovering. And finally, I tell him about dancing with Nate and heading back to his flat, and then . . .

  ‘We kissed, that’s all, and it meant nothing.’

  ‘Stop.’ I’d said pushing Nate off me. ‘I’m engaged.’

  ‘So what? I wouldn’t care if you were married.’

  ‘What happened next?’ James asks.

  ‘I told him that I did care, and that this was a mistake. He was angry, threw me out into the hallway, slammed the door, and here I am.’

  ‘At least you didn’t . . . I mean, for a moment I thought you’d—’

  ‘But I could have. What was I thinking even going back to his flat?’

  ‘You weren’t thinking, not clearly.’

  I press my head into my hands. ‘I gave myself a made-up name. I was Rosie Chambers.’ I turn away, unable to look at James. ‘I’m not sure who I am anymore.’

  ‘You’re Flo, and right now you’re terrified, and that’s understandable. Anyone in your position would be finding this hard, but we’ll find a way through this.’

  *

  James and I are talking in my bedroom, both of us in our pyjamas. I feel better now I’ve had a shower, my head clearer.

  ‘Does it help reading these diaries, Flo?’ James asks, after I’ve described what I’ve read so far, Mum now in her second year at Camberwell.

  ‘Yes and no.’ I smile. ‘I hear her voice. It’s interesting reading about her old tutor Mark. He knew Mum was at risk. At least someone did. She wasn’t alone.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘No idea. I remember he and Mum were good friends when I was growing up; he’d come over for coffee or they’d see an exhibition together, that kind of thing. I often wondered if he and Mum might get together – there was a real spark between them but he was married. I think his sister lives in France,’ I recall. ‘I’m not sure he even came to the funeral.’ I turn on to my side to face James. ‘I want to carry on reading, but it’s going to get even harder.’

  ‘Take your time. But please, Flo, promise me you’ll stop drinking heavily. I don’t want to sound all righteous, but it’s not the answer.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m going to tell Theo, too,’ I add. ‘What happened with Nate was such a mistake. It meant nothing, but how am I going to tell him this on top of everything else?’

  ‘Don’t. No one needs to know about it, least of all Theo. Just focus on telling him what really matters. Do you know what you want to do, whether you want to take the test or not?’

  ‘No idea.’ I inhale deeply. ‘But I need to talk to someone about it. I’m going to ask my GP if she can refer me to see a genetic counsellor.’

  He nods. ‘You’re not alone, Flo. We’re all here for you.’

  ‘Even when I screw up?’

  ‘Especially when you screw up.’

  *

  After James has gone back to his own room, and I’m finally drifting off to sleep, I find myself thinking not just about Theo; what have I done to deserve a friend like James, trailing clubs and bars looking for me?

  They say you know who your true friends are in a crisis, those you can call at three a.m. who will drop everything to be with you.

  If I do go to New York, and Theo and I do get married, I’m going to miss James far more than I could ever imagine.

  31

  Beth’s Diary, 1989

  I was just in the canteen with Mark, reminiscing about the past three years I’ve spent at Camberwell. When I first arrived, it seemed far too hip and cool for me, all these students driven by concepts, the idea that a bag of rubbish was a work of art. All these weird and wonderful people with dyed hair and body piercings living in squats or sofa surfing. And then there was me, painting a bowl of lemons or a view from the River Thames.

  That’s not to say I haven’t learned anything since coming here. We were given so much free rein from the beginning that I used to wish we’d had more direction, instead of hours of time alone, simply told to paint subjects that inspired us. Hours that were often squandered going to the pub – until Mark gave me that serious pep talk.

  And thank God he did, because I needed to leave Ben and find a new job that wasn’t anywhere near a pub. I’ll miss working for Connor’s florist business – instead of getting high on dope and booze, I’ve spent months feeling high from the smell of beautiful flowers. I’ll miss my early morning trips to the flower market in Covent Garden, before drinking black coffee and listening to music while working in Connor’s garage, designing table arrangements for marquees and parties.

  Over the past few years, Mark has given me the confidence to find myself, and I can now se
e how his teaching has made me grow as an artist. I see London in a whole new light, how the traditional well-to-do, old terraced houses sit next to the rougher parts. I’ve become obsessed by how small I am, how small we all are, compared to the city around us.

  We can be surrounded by people and still feel lonely, and I want my paintings to reflect that.

  I told Mark about my break-up with Nick, how impossible it was going out with someone obsessed with perfection. I can’t count the amount of times he has ripped his paintings up in front of me, saying he can do so much better, before cancelling all our plans so that he could work instead. Nick has been unbelievably stressed in the run-up to our final degree show, to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore. We argued when I said there were more important things in life than results, that our degree wasn’t a matter of life and death. The final straw was when I suggested he take the weekend off to spend some time with me, that maybe we could visit my parents – just pop in for a cup of tea. Well, that was it. With no emotion he told me that he couldn’t focus on our relationship as well as his work, and that it was over.

  When Mark mentioned I didn’t appear too upset, I confessed I’d been unhappy with Nick for months. We’d drifted apart some time ago.

  Nick and I had fun together, he’s been supportive of my family and Dad’s HD, and he can charm the birds off the trees, as Mum would say, especially when things are going his way. But he likes things to be just so; he needs to feel in control and when he’s not, a darker side to him comes out.

  I don’t regret our time together, but deep down I always suspected it was going to come to a natural end, even if we’d said many times that we loved one another. Now I realize how easy it is to say those three words without meaning it or knowing if it’s real or not.

  Mum loves Dad. Dad loves Mum. However tough their life, their love is true.

  The last time I went home I found Mum and Dad lying down in their bedroom, Mum’s arms wrapped tightly around Dad’s waist. She didn’t know I was watching them through the crack in the door; she didn’t realize what I heard her saying through muffled tears.