“Oh, right,” says Briony, sounding a bit discomfited. “Yeah. Shall we look around?” She seems to be trying to move away, but Lucia doesn’t notice.
“Definitely,” she replies vaguely, examining a serving dish. “So, are you having a treadmill or a cross-trainer in the end? Because apparently there’s this new kind of cross-trainer …”
As Lucia babbles on, my head is churning with thoughts and questions. How did Seb come to terms with clearing out the room? Is he all right? I have to know, even if it means going through Briony to find out.
“Sorry,” I hear myself blurting out, swiveling round to face Briony. “Sorry. But I couldn’t help overhearing. Is Seb OK, then? Has he come to terms with … everything?”
The look on Lucia’s face is priceless.
“Do you two know each other?” she exclaims.
“I know Seb,” I say shortly, then address Briony again. “So he’s … he’s OK? About clearing his brother’s room?”
“He has no idea it’s happening, does he?” says Lucia, sounding surprised. “Isn’t that the whole point? He’ll arrive back and it’ll be done?”
“He has no idea?” I echo, shocked. Briony’s cheeks have the slightest tinge of pink, but her jaw is defiant.
“What else am I supposed to do?” she says. “That place is a hazard!”
“He’ll never do it for himself,” chimes in Lucia knowledgeably. “Briony’s doing him a favor. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, you know. I had to smuggle three pairs of my husband’s manky old trousers out of the house once,” she adds gaily. “Three pairs! I literally hid them in a black bin bag. He would never have got rid of them otherwise!”
I can’t find an answer. I’m quivering with distress. I want to yell, “You think this has any resemblance to three pairs of manky old trousers? Has Briony told you the actual truth about this?”
“He’ll thank me for it in the end,” says Briony, still with that edge of defiance. “Short, sharp shock. It’s the only way.”
I’m dazed by her callousness. I think of Seb arriving back to find his brother’s room cleared, with no warning. I think of him standing there, his honest warm face draining of blood … and I can’t bear it. I feel as though I’m getting a short, sharp shock myself. Except it’s not short and sharp; it’s deep and damaging and can never be undone.
And now, as I survey Briony’s beautiful, selfish face, my fingers are drumming like they’ve never drummed before. My feet are itching. There’s a weird buzzing in my head. A tension rising through me. I know it’s not my life. I know he’s not with me. I know it’s their business. But I can’t stand by. I can’t.
“Right,” I manage at last, trying to sound unconcerned. “Fair enough. Good for you. Actually … I need to go. Sorry, I’ve just remembered I have a … meeting. Enjoy the shop. Stacey!” I call, so piercingly that she turns round this time.
“Hi,” she says, sauntering over, looking Briony and Lucia up and down.
“Please show these customers around. They want to see the whole shop. The whole shop,” I add for emphasis, and I see Stacey’s sharp eyes receive the message.
“Sure thing. Let’s start with glassware; that’s at the back of the shop.…” she says, leading them away.
I grab my coat from behind the cash desk, pick up my bag, and hurry outside into the wintry street, almost bumping into Gingerbread Jake.
“Jake,” I say breathlessly. “I have to go. Take over. Please?”
“Fine,” he says, looking taken aback. “Go. Do what you have to do.” He hesitates, then adds, “You OK?”
“Of course I’m OK, why shouldn’t I be?” I retort, and Jake gives me an odd look.
“Well, you’re crying.”
I’m crying? I reach up in shock and feel the streams of tears, wet on my cheeks.
“Busted.” I manage to grin, rubbing at my face. “I’m not really OK. But I just have to … I have to do this thing.”
Jake lifts a hand in its gingerbread glove and squeezes my shoulder, tight.
“Go for it,” he says. And I nod gratefully, before turning and breaking into a run.
—
The journey is at once too long and too short. As I arrive at Seb’s office, I feel almost sick with nerves. But the thought of Briony crashing into the most sensitive part of Seb’s life makes me feel even sicker, so I steel myself and march in.
“Hi,” I say to the receptionist without preamble. “I need to see Seb. It’s urgent.”
There must be something about my face, because she hesitates, then gets up and knocks on his door, and within thirty seconds he’s coming out himself. And my legs weaken underneath me because I can’t cope with this. I thought I could, but I can’t.
I was hoping I’d see him and think, Ah, he’s not so great after all, but it’s the opposite. He’s as tall and strong and handsome as ever, his woodland eyes wary as they meet mine. I have that weird thought, just as I did in the coffee shop when I first saw him: I know you.
But I can’t know him, can I? Or I’d know why we’ve ended up like this, meeting like two stilted strangers. Didn’t he feel what I was feeling? Didn’t he feel the joy? What happened between us—what happened?
My head is tumbling with anguish, with questions … but somehow I force myself to focus. I can’t keep tormenting myself. He’s with Briony. It’s over. It’s done. You can’t go back in time and do life a different way.
And, anyway, I’m not here because of us. I’m here because of him.
“Hi, Seb,” I say, and my voice trembles, but I carry on resolutely. “There’s something … Could we talk?”
Of course,” says Seb, after a pause. “Come on in.”
He ushers me in and I sit down and for a beat there’s silence.
“Are you … How are you?” says Seb, and I can see by the way he’s sitting bolt upright, his hands making a tense pyramid on his desk, that he’s thrown off-balance.
“Fine, thanks. You?”
“Yes, I’m good.”
“Good.”
The air seems thin between us. Our words are thin. I don’t know how to proceed, how to bring up the subject. But I need to—it’s in me like a ticking time bomb—so in the end I just blurt out:
“James.”
“What?” Seb jolts as though I’ve scalded him.
“You … you never told me about James.”
I’m thinking that maybe Seb can tell me about his brother and we can move on to the subject that way—but it doesn’t work. Seb’s body language immediately crackles with tension.
“Told you about him? Why should I tell you about him?”
“No!” I backtrack. “No reason. I just meant …” I rub my nose, trying to find a different tack. “You always say that you’ve moved on and you’ve dealt with his death and you’re at peace.”
“Yes,” says Seb, his voice dangerously even. “I have. And I am. Your point is?”
“You say that clearing out his room isn’t a big deal. You say you ‘just haven’t got round to it.’ But I wondered …” I swallow several times. “I just wondered … if maybe it was quite a big deal. After all. And if you’d like some help. That’s all. That’s what I— That’s it.”
I break off into a terrible silence. Seb looks as though some sort of volcano is building inside, and I stare at him, in agonized, half-terrified dread.
“You just can’t leave things alone, can you?” he finally erupts in fury. “You have to ‘fix’ them. Jeez, I can see how you got your name now. No, I don’t need any help, thank you. I know you were always itching to get your mitts on that room, but it’s fine; it doesn’t need your interference or anybody’s. I will clear it out in my own time, in my own way. Now please get the hell out of here.”
He’s shaking with anger, and his voice is thundering around the office, and he’s such an intimidating sight, I automatically scrabble to my feet, my legs almost buckling underneath me. But he has to know. He has to.
“She’s going to clear the room,” I say desperately. “Whiny. She’s making it into a home gym. She’s booked the removers. They’re coming at ten A.M. tomorrow, and she says she’s going to chuck the lot.”
If Seb looked like a bubbling volcano a moment ago, he’s suddenly a pit. He’s empty. Hollow.
“No,” he says, as though he can’t compute what I’m saying.
“Yes. She told me.”
“She … wouldn’t …” But his voice is uncertain. As his eyes meet mine, his antagonism has gone; I can see panic growing in them. Childlike panic. And I can feel tears rising again, because doesn’t she realize?
“I know you’re with Briony,” I say hastily, my voice thick and jerky, my eyes fixed on the carpet. “I know you’re a happy couple. I’m not trying to come between you; I’m really not. And you’re right: I shouldn’t interfere. I try to fix everything and it’s my stupid flaw and I’m really sorry. I just couldn’t bear for you to come home and—” I swallow hard, unable to say it. “I just thought you should know.”
I finally dare to raise my head and Seb is staring out of the window, his jaw tight, his gaze transfixed.
“Yes,” he says tonelessly, and I don’t know what he means, but I don’t dare ask. He wraps his arms around his body as if trying to soothe himself, and I’m longing so hard to go over there, to soothe him myself …