‘Are you happy?’ I ask. I know it’s out of the blue, but there’s no time to soften it or pretend that I don’t feel I have the right to ask.
You half frown and your shoulders twitch, a quick gesture of exasperation. You brush your hand through the air in front of us, and for a fraction of a second it grazes against my own hands where they rest on the table. You snatch it away again, as if I’ve scalded you. It sets off a shiver throughout the length of my body, and I’m thinking how strange it is that you used to lie next to me naked, hold me against you so close that your sweat soaked into my skin, and now you feel like you can’t allow any part of your body to touch any part of mine.
‘Sure,’ you say. ‘As happy as I’ll ever be.’
‘With her?’ I ask. ‘With Amber?’
The frown deepens. You don’t like me saying her name. For an instant, she’s a ghostly presence with us, slipping in beside you on the sofa, curling her slim body up into a question mark. Someone doesn’t belong in this picture. Her, or me.
‘Yes,’ you say. ‘We’re happy.’ You’re watching me carefully now, trying to measure my reaction, to determine what’s behind the question. In those few seconds of silence, something shifts. It’s as if the barrier has cracked open and, all at once, I can’t stop thinking about the way it used to be between us and I can see in your eyes that you’re thinking the same. ‘It’s different to how it was with you,’ you say quietly, your voice so low that I have to strain to hear. ‘More – real,’ you qualify. ‘Less …’ You stop. ‘I don’t know,’ you say. ‘Less something else.’
I nod, and I can’t find the word either, but there’s a tightness in my chest and I’m thinking about the sweetness of putting my arms around you and your lips coming down on to mine, and I know that, whatever this something else is, it’s something that won’t come again, not for you and not for me, either, no matter what else might be in its place.
‘So you and Francis worked things out,’ you say. It sounds like a non sequitur but we both know it’s not, and even now you can’t quite rid your voice of the edge of dryness and contempt that shouldn’t really be there any more.
‘We’re still doing that,’ I say carefully. I’m seized by the violent desire to make you believe that my marriage is happy. I want to tell you about all the ways Francis has changed, the efforts he’s made, the journeys we’ve been on. I want to prove that he’s worth it. But I’m not sure you’ll care. Why should you?
‘It isn’t easy,’ I say, and this is true, too. ‘There are good times and bad times.’ The days I wake up to find a stranger with my husband’s face prowling in the living room, gripped by anxieties and neuroses he can’t even bring himself to talk about. The strange, mercurial lift and swoop of his moods, impossible to predict or steer. The knowledge that every day is a new one, and that he still has no real idea how each one will go. I think of these things and there’s a strange throb of vertigo, making me grip the edge of the table and briefly close my eyes.
When I open them, you’re watching me again. ‘Well,’ you say, ‘you’re an adult, Caro. You make your own choices.’
I nod, not trusting myself to reply. There is no way of forming these thoughts into words and, in any case, they’re not yours to deal with, not any more.
You pass a hand slowly through your hair, scraping it back from your forehead. The lights above our head seem to dim further, and I’m conscious of the tiny distance between us, the ease with which I could reach out and take your face in my hands. ‘I did love you,’ you say at last. ‘I want you to know that.’
‘I know,’ I say quietly, and suddenly all the weeks and months I have spent turning over this question seem crazily wasted, because I’ve always known this, really, perhaps more clearly than you ever did yourself until this moment right here and now.
You’re getting to your feet and, with a sick lurch of realization, I understand that the conversation is over and you’re preparing to leave. My legs are shaking, but I force myself to stand beside you. You smile, and you’re reaching out, placing your hand on my shoulder and turning my body in towards yours, bringing me into a hug. My face is against your neck and I’m breathing in the smell of your aftershave, and the feel of your skin on mine is so familiar and strange that the tears are falling now because I know that this is the last goodbye.
‘I’m glad we did this,’ you say, your words muffled in my hair.
‘Me, too,’ I’m saying, and we hold each other, your body pressed close against mine. Our lips are inches apart and, for a moment, I think we’re going to turn towards each other as easily and smoothly as we always used to. I can remember the way it felt to kiss you as clearly as if it were yesterday, and the possibility is so insanely close it makes my head swim. Your arms are suddenly rigid, locked around me, your breath coming hard and fast. And then you swallow and we’re moving apart and I have no idea who made the first move to do so.
‘Goodbye. Take care of yourself,’ you say, and you’re walking quickly away.
I don’t want to see you leave. I stare down at the table, my eyes still blurred with tears. At the last minute, I change my mind. I look up sharply, but it’s too late.
You’re gone, and the sense of resolution and serenity I felt for a few seconds is already draining away. Because this is how it goes, I realize. There are no words in existence that will ever make this story feel finished. We could see each other every day and talk long into the night, and I still wouldn’t make sense of it. I’m tired of searching for answers that aren’t there, or struggling to define what kind of love I felt or feel for you or how much it means. It doesn’t matter. It is what it is.
Going Home
Caroline, May 2015
IT’S PROBABLY ONLY five more minutes that I stay sitting there in the café after you leave but, when I force myself to stand up again and walk towards the exit, my eyes hurt with how bright the world outside seems. There’s a faint cool breeze blowing as I make my way down the street.
I’m still shaking a little, and there’s a soreness in my limbs. I almost welcome it. I’m ridding myself of the last vestiges of a fever that has gripped me so hard I can barely believe I’ve survived. Senseless euphoria is surging through me as I replay the last few minutes in my head. There are so many thoughts in my head they’re crowding each other out, leaving nothing but white noise.
I carry on down the high street, taking the left turn down the road that will lead me back to Everdene Avenue, and as I do so I’m aware of my phone vibrating. I pull it out and see that there’s a voice message, left only ten minutes earlier. I dial my voicemail and listen. When the message kicks in, there’s silence for a couple of seconds – a frustrated little intake of breath – and then I hear my mother’s voice. Hi, Caroline.
As soon as I hear it I know something is wrong. I stop dead on the pavement, immobilized. It must be only a split second before her voice begins again, but in that tiny, compressed rush of time I’m thinking – Eddie. Something has happened. My mother is calling to tell me my son is dead. And the force of this thought is such that it sweeps aside everything else in my head and burns its way into my brain, makes me lean back against the wall and close my eyes.
I don’t want to worry you, my mother’s voice continues, and although her tone is still tense and strained, I know that this is not how a tragedy is introduced. I breathe in sharply, sucking the air jaggedly down into my lungs, as if I’ve been saved from drowning. Eddie and I went to your flat this afternoon – it’s a long story, but anyway, we met the woman who’s staying there and, to be honest, she seems very disturbed. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it doesn’t feel quite right, Caroline, and I wanted to speak to you. We’re fine, don’t worry, but – well, just call me when you can.