It was easy enough to drive, as it was too early in the morning for the holidaymaker crowd and the traffic was refreshingly manageable. It was market day and he found himself wandering around the busy stalls in Place des Lices, full of early summer vegetables: bundles of broad beans, towers of artichokes and sweet-smelling peas in their pods. He bought a few, and some early nectarines, and then, still finding physical exertion draining, sat down on a bench a couple of streets from the market. He rested in the sunshine, then checked his watch. It was a quarter to ten. In fifteen minutes, Cherry would be at her office. His heart tightened and he looked around to take his mind off the impending call. It was then that he realized where he was. Across the street was the designer clothes shop that Cherry had said she didn’t need to go into on their shopping expedition. He was sitting on the very bench where he’d left her when he’d gone running off to get lunch and her gold bangle. He sat up abruptly, the warm wood suddenly uncomfortable. Unsure of what to do for a moment, he gazed around distractedly and then his eyes fell on the gallery. He saw a painting in the window that was unmistakeably by his favourite artist and realized that this was where she must have bought his gift. It struck him suddenly that it was odd that the gallery was right opposite the bench, as if it were an impulse buy, but then, he reasoned, so what if it was?
He had an urge to move, get away from the bench, and decided to go inside the gallery. The bell rang behind him and he made his way over to the artist’s collection. He stared at the paintings: the beach, the square, pine trees on the landscape. He hadn’t seen his own painting for months and assumed it was still hanging in his now vacant flat, its tear repaired but still visible. When she’d given it to him, he’d felt a rush of love for her. It had been such an incredibly thoughtful, generous thing to do. So why had she changed? Because she most certainly had. She’d left him only ten weeks after he’d fallen into a coma. Ten weeks. But then, they’d been dating barely more than that before the accident.
The paintings glowed around him, their vibrant colours and Mediterranean light prodding away at some forgotten joy that he’d felt when he first saw them. It gave him an unexpected strength and he thought about the call he was about to make. He wondered how surprised she’d be, whether she had prepared herself for such an eventuality. She probably had. There would be some stock answer when he asked why she’d decided to leave him; she’d tell him how hard a decision it had been, but she’d felt like she had no choice. He shook his head at his own stupidity. What else had he expected her to say? That she had no interest in dating a coma victim? Maybe she’d met someone else. Whatever had happened, she’d been gone more than seven months. Seven months. She’d probably forgotten all about him. He laughed, a dry realization hitting him. For her, the break-up was a long time ago, time enough to heal and move on. As it would be for him. He suddenly knew he didn’t need an explanation. No good would come out of this call, and he flinched at the idea of her hesitatingly, reluctantly suggesting that they meet, or – he suddenly had an awful thought – that she come out to France to see him, talk things over. He’d had enough of feeling weak, of having people feel sorry for him. The paintings seemed to be spurring him on, their colours seeping into his veins. They gave him far more joy than pain and it was then he knew he’d started to let go of Cherry. It was an uplifting moment. He left the shop with a new lightness.
THIRTY-ONE
Tuesday 16 June
What was she going to do? He was getting stronger by the day. Soon, he would follow her home and then it would be a matter of days before he bumped into Cherry and everything she’d said would be blown apart. Laura squirmed as she walked, her stomach so knotted she had to stop for a moment. How had she thought she’d get away with it? She must have been insane. Worry affected everything she did: she couldn’t work, eat, sleep without being consumed with a growing panic. Stopping outside Daniel’s building, she took a deep breath, then again and again, puffing out her cheeks, trying to get rid of the sick sensation in her stomach. She held herself still for a moment, waiting for some respite, then let herself in. He wanted to move back into the family home when he returned from France, at least to begin with, which suited Laura just fine. She liked having him around and had offered to go to his flat to get him some clothes. She said hello to the porter, then checked his mail locker: just a bit of junk. Most of it had dried up some months before. Daniel had also asked if she could get his laptop from the flat.
Upstairs, she opened the front door to a musty, stale smell, the summer sun having cooked the air inside many times over. She went into the bedroom first and knew vaguely from his instructions what he kept where: T-shirts, shorts, underwear, a jacket he particularly liked. The room had a strange Marie Celeste feel to it – a glass of water left on the bedside table from the previous summer, a layer of dust on its surface, a pair of dirty socks on the floor. They’d had a cleaner come in a couple of weeks after the accident, but Laura had only instructed her to empty the bins and the fridge. Everything else she had wanted left untouched, hopeful it would be only a matter of days before Daniel came round.
She placed his clothes in a large bag he had stuffed at the top of the wardrobe. He also wanted some of his study books, as he’d been accepted back onto the medical Foundation Programme, a year deferred, but said he’d get those himself when he returned in two weeks. Only two weeks. What was she going to do? The cold sweat broke out again and Laura hurried on, this time to the kitchen. Medical books and papers had been left on the breakfast bar, some open. A newspaper from the previous August, yellowed from the sun. Daniel’s laptop was also there, plugged in, and Laura was about to pick it up when she noticed its standby light winking. He mustn’t have closed it down fully the weekend they left for Wales, instead just sandwiched the screen down. It was probably best she did it, before carting it over to the house.
Laura lifted the screen and it sprang back to life. A visual reminder of Daniel’s life all those months ago, just before the accident. One by one, she closed the windows down: the Guardian newspaper, a site selling fancy mountain bikes, the weather in Wales. It felt odd, looking at a snapshot frozen in time, still lit up and yet forgotten about – and a lifetime ago. A medical site and then something else. A Twitter account. That’s odd, she thought. Daniel wasn’t on Twitter. And then she saw. It was Cherry’s. The acidic bubbles erupted in her again. Cherry was going to bump into him, Laura knew it. She’d get back with him and there’d be no stopping her this time. She’d take everything. Anxiety filled her, magnified by not knowing anything about her the last few months. Where was she? What had she been doing? Laura couldn’t help being drawn to her adversary, needing to know something, a battle-weary defendant’s need to position the enemy before the final defeat.
She looked at it again and something sank in that she hadn’t noticed before. The password box was filled with ‘x’es. All she had to do was click on the ‘login’ button.
She could find out anything she wanted, just by scrolling through. Her finger hovered over the key. It was wrong, an invasion of privacy, probably illegal.
And then she had an idea. She gasped and the adrenaline made her sit bolt upright. It was brutal, disgusting, but it might get rid of her problem. She sat for a moment, quick shallow breaths, not quite believing it. Clicked. But she didn’t waste time reading the entries after all. Instead, she began to type.
THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday 16 June