فصل 17

17

I flew home on 22 December, laden with presents and wearing my new vintage zebra-print coat, which, I would later discover, was strangely and adversely affected by the circulation of recycled air in the 767 and smelt, by the time I reached Heathrow, like a deceased equid.

I had actually not been due to fly until Christmas Eve but Agnes had insisted I go sooner as she was making an unheralded short stop back to Poland to see her mother, who was unwell, and there was apparently no point in my staying there to do nothing when I could be with my family. Mr Gopnik had paid for the change to my ticket. Agnes had been both overly nice and distant with me since the Thanksgiving dinner. In turn, I was professional and amenable. Sometimes my head would spin with the information it held. But I would think of Garry’s words way back in the autumn when I’d arrived: See nothing, hear nothing, forget everything.

Something had happened in the run-up to Christmas, some lightening of my mood. Perhaps I was just relieved to be leaving that house of dysfunction. Or perhaps the act of buying Christmas presents had resurrected some buried sense of fun in my relationship with Sam. When had I last had a man to buy Christmas presents for, after all? For the last two years of our relationship Patrick had simply sent me emails with links to specific pieces of fitness equipment he wanted. Don’t bother wrapping them, babe, in case you get it wrong and I need to send them back. All I had done was press a button. I had never spent Christmas with Will. Now I went shoulder to shoulder with the other shoppers in Saks, trying to imagine my boyfriend in the cashmere sweaters, my face pressed against them, the soft checked shirts he liked to wear in the garden, thick outdoor socks from REI. I bought toys for Thom, getting a sugar high from the scents in the M&M store in Times Square. I bought stationery for Treena from McNally Jackson and a beautiful dressing gown for Granddad from Macy’s. Feeling flush, as I had spent so little over the past months, I bought Mum a little bracelet from Tiffany and a wind-up radio for Dad to use in his shed.

And then, as an afterthought, I bought a stocking for Sam. I filled it with small gifts: aftershave, novelty gum, socks and a beer holder in the shape of a woman in denim hotpants. Finally I went back to the toy store where I had bought Thom’s presents and bought a few pieces of doll’s house furniture – a bed, a table and chairs, a sofa and bathroom suite. I wrapped them and wrote on the label: Until the real one is finished. I found a tiny medical kit and included that too, marvelling at the detail contained within it. And suddenly Christmas felt real and exciting, and the prospect of almost ten days away from the Gopniks and the city felt like a gift in itself.

I arrived at the airport, praying silently that the weight of my gifts hadn’t pushed me over the limit. The woman at check-in took my passport and asked me to lift my suitcase onto the scales – and frowned as she looked at the screen.

‘Is there a problem?’ I said, when she glanced at my passport, then behind her. I mentally calculated how much I might have to pay for the added weight.

‘Oh, no, ma’am. You shouldn’t be in this line.’

‘You’re kidding.’ My heart sank as I looked over at the heaving queues behind me. ‘Well, where should I be?’

‘You’re in business class.’

‘Business?’

‘Yes, ma’am. You’ve been upgraded. You should be checking in over there. But it’s no problem. I can do it for you here.’

I shook my head. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I …’

And then my phone dinged. I looked down. You should be at the airport by now! Hope this makes your journey home a bit more pleasant. Little gift from Agnes. See you in the New Year, comrade! Michael x

I blinked. ‘That’s fine. Thank you.’ I watched my oversized suitcase disappear down the conveyor-belt and put my phone back into my bag.

The airport had been heaving, but in the business-class section of the plane everything was calm and peaceful, a little oasis of collective smugness removed from the holiday-related chaos outside. On board, I investigated my washbag of complimentary overnight goodies, pulled on my free socks and tried not to talk too much to the man in the next seat, who eventually put his eye mask on and lay back. I had just one hiccup with the reclining seat when my shoe got caught in the foot rest but the steward was perfectly lovely and showed me how to get it out. I ate duck in a sherry glaze and lemon tart, and thanked all the staff who brought me things. I watched two films and realized I should really try to sleep for a bit. But it was hard when the whole experience was so delightful. It was exactly the kind of thing I would have written home about – except, I thought, with butterflies in my stomach, now I was going to get to tell everyone in person.

I was returning home a different Louisa Clark. That was what Sam had said, and I had decided to believe it. I was more confident, more professional, a long way from the sad, conflicted, physically broken person of six months ago. I thought about Sam’s face when I would surprise him, just as he had surprised me. He had sent me a copy of his rota for the next fortnight so that I could plan my visits to my parents, and I had calculated that I could drop my belongings at the flat, grab a few hours with my sister, then head over to his and be there to meet him for the end of his shift.

This time, I thought, we would get it right. We had a decent length of time to spend together. And this time we would settle into some kind of routine – a way of existing with no trauma or misunderstandings. The first three months were always going to be the hardest. I pulled my blanket over me and, already too far over the Atlantic for it to be of use, tried and failed to sleep, my stomach tight and my mind buzzing as I watched the tiny winking plane slide its way slowly across my pixellated screen.

I arrived at my flat shortly after lunchtime and let myself in, fumbling with my keys. Treena was at work, Thom was still at school, and London’s grey was punctured by glitter, Christmas lights and the sound of shops playing Christmas carols I’d heard a million times before. I walked up the stairs of my old building, breathing in the familiar scent of cheap air freshener and London damp, then opened my front door, dropped my suitcase the few inches to the floor and let out a breath.

Home. Or something like it.

I walked down the hall, shedding my jacket, and let myself into the living room. I had been a little afraid of returning here – remembering the months in which I had been sunk in depression, drinking too much, its empty, unloved rooms a self-inflicted rebuke for my failure to save the man who had given it to me. But this, I grasped immediately, was not the same flat: in three months it had been utterly transformed. The once-bare interior was now full of colour, paintings by Thom pinned to every wall. There were embroidered cushions on the sofa and a new upholstered chair and curtains and a shelf bursting with DVDs. The kitchen was crammed with food packets and new crockery. A cereal bowl and Coco Pops on a rainbow placemat spoke of a hurriedly abandoned breakfast.

I opened the door to my spare room – now Thom’s – smiling at the football posters and cartoon-printed duvet. A new wardrobe was stuffed with his clothes. Then I walked through to my bedroom – now Treena’s – and found a rumpled quilt, a new bookshelf and blind. Still not much in the way of clothes, but she’d added a chair and a mirror, and the little dressing table was covered with the moisturisers, hairbrushes and cosmetics that told me my sister might have changed beyond recognition even in the few short months I had been gone. The only thing that told me it was Treena’s room was the bedside reading: Tolley’s Capital Allowances and An Introduction to Payroll.

I knew I was overtired but I felt wrong-footed all the same. Was this how Sam had felt when he flew out and saw me the second time? Had I seemed so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time?

My eyes were gritty with exhaustion, my internal clock haywire. There were still three hours before they’d get home. I washed my face, took off my shoes and lay down on the sofa with a sigh, the sound of London traffic slowly receding.

I woke to a sticky hand patting my cheek. I blinked, trying to bat it away, but there was a weight on my chest. It moved. A hand patted me again. And then I opened my eyes and found myself staring into Thom’s.

‘Auntie Lou! Auntie Lou!’

I groaned. ‘Hey, Thom.’

‘What did you get me?’

‘Let her at least open her eyes first.’

‘You’re on my boob, Thom. Ow.’

Released, I pushed myself upright and blinked at my nephew, who was now bouncing up and down.

‘What did you get me?’

My sister stooped and kissed my cheek, leaving one hand on my shoulder, which she squeezed. She smelt of expensive perfume and I pulled back slightly to see her better. She was wearing make-up. Proper make-up, subtly blended, rather than the one blue eyeliner she had received free with a magazine in 1994 and kept in a desk drawer to be used on every ‘dressing-up’ occasion for the next ten years.

‘You made it, then. Didn’t get the wrong plane and end up in Caracas. Me and Dad had a bit of a bet on.’

‘Cheek.’ I reached up and held her hand for a moment longer than either of us had expected. ‘Wow. You look pretty.’

She did. She’d had her hair trimmed to shoulder length and it hung in blow-dried waves rather than the usual scraped-back ponytail. That, the well-cut shirt and the mascara actually made her look beautiful.

‘Well. It’s work, really. You have to make the effort in the City.’ She turned away as she said this so I didn’t believe her.

‘I think I need to meet this Eddie,’ I said. ‘I certainly never had this much of an effect on what you wore.’

She filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘That’s because you only ever dress like someone gave you a two-pound voucher for a jumble sale and you decided to blow the lot.’

It was growing dark outside. My jetlagged brain suddenly registered what this meant. ‘Oh, wow. What time is it?’

‘Time you gave me my presents?’ Thom’s gappy smile swam in front of me, both hands raised in prayer.

‘You’re fine,’ said Treena. ‘You’ve got another hour before Sam finishes, plenty of time. Thom – Lou will give you whatever she’s got once she’s had a cup of tea and found her deodorant. Also, what the bloody hell is that stripy coat thing you dropped in the hall? It smells like old fish.’

Now I was home.

‘Okay, Thom,’ I said. ‘There may be some pre-Christmas bits for you in that blue bag. Bring it over here.’

It took a shower and fresh make-up before I felt human again. I put on a silver mini-skirt, a black polo-neck and suede wedge-heeled shoes I had bought at the clothes emporium, Mrs De Witt’s Biba scarf and a spritz of La Chasse aux Papillons, the perfume Will had convinced me to buy, which always gave me confidence. Thom and Treena were eating when I was ready to leave. She had offered me some pasta with cheese and tomato but my stomach had started to work its way into knots and my body clock was screwed up.

‘I like that thing you’ve done with your eyes. Very seductive.’ I said to her.

She pulled a face. ‘Are you going to be okay to drive? You plainly can’t see properly.’

‘It’s not far. I’ve had a power nap.’

‘And when will we expect you home? This new sofa-bed is bloody amazing, in case you’re wondering. Proper sprung mattress. None of your two inches of foam rubbish.’

‘I’m hoping I won’t need to use the sofa-bed for a day or two.’ I gave her a cheesy smile.

‘What’s that?’ Thom swallowed his mouthful and pointed at the parcel under my arm.

‘Ah. That’s a Christmas stocking. Sam’s working on Christmas Day and I won’t see him till the evening so I thought I’d give him something to wake up with.’

‘Hmm. Don’t ask to see what’s in there, Thom.’

‘There’s nothing in it that I couldn’t give to Granddad. It’s just a bit of fun.’

She actually winked at me. I offered silent thanks to Eddie and his miracle-working ways.

‘Text me later, yeah? Just so I know whether to put the chain on.’

I kissed them both and headed for the front door.

‘Don’t put him off with your terrible half-arsed American accent!’ I held up a middle finger as I exited the flat. ‘And don’t forget to drive on the left! And don’t wear the coat that smells like a mackerel!’

I heard her laughing as I shut the door.

For the past three months I had either walked, hailed a taxi or been chauffeured by Garry in the huge black limousine. Getting used to being behind the wheel of my little hatchback with its dodgy clutch and biscuit crumbs in the passenger seat took a surprising amount of concentration. I set out into the last of the evening rush-hour traffic, put the radio on and tried to ignore the hammering in my chest, not sure whether it was the fear of driving or the prospect of seeing Sam again.

The sky was dark, the streets thick with shoppers and strung with Christmas lights, and my shoulders dropped slowly from somewhere around my ears as I braked and lurched my way to the suburbs. The pavements became verges and the crowds thinned and disappeared, just the odd person glimpsed instead through brightly lit windows as I passed. And then, shortly after eight, I slowed to a crawl, peering forward over the wheel to make sure I had the right place in the unlit lane.

The railway carriage sat glowing in the middle of the dark field, casting a golden light out through its windows onto the mud and grass. I could just make out his motorbike on the far side of the gate, tucked into its little shed behind the hedge. He had even put a little spray of Christmas lights in the hawthorn at the front. He really was home.

I pulled the car into the passing place, cut the lights, and looked at it. Then, almost as an afterthought, I picked up my phone. Really looking forward to seeing you I typed. Not long now! XXX

There was a short pause. And then the response pinged back. Me too. Safe flight. xx

I grinned. Then I climbed out, realizing too late I had parked over a puddle so the cold, muddy water washed straight over my shoes. ‘Oh, thanks, Universe,’ I whispered. ‘Nice touch.’

I placed my carefully purchased Santa hat on my head and pulled his stocking from the passenger seat, then shut the door softly, locking it manually so that it didn’t beep and alert him to the fact that I was there.

My feet squelched as I tiptoed forward, and I recalled the first time I had come here, how I had been soaked by a sudden shower and ended up in his clothes, my own steaming in the fuggy little bathroom as they dried. That had been an extraordinary night, as if he had peeled off all the layers that Will’s death had built up around me. I had a sudden flashback to our first kiss, to the feel of his huge socks soft on my chilled feet, and a hot shiver ran through me.

I opened the gate, noting with relief that he had made a rudimentary path of paving slabs over to the railway carriage since I had last been there. A car drove past, and in the brief illumination of its headlights I glimpsed Sam’s partially built house ahead of me, its roof now on and windows already fitted. Where one was still missing, blue tarpaulin flapped gently over the gap so that it seemed suddenly, startlingly, a real thing, a place we might one day live.

I tiptoed a few more paces, then paused just outside the door. The smell of something wafted out of an open window – a casserole of some sort? – rich and tomatoey, with a hint of garlic. I felt unexpectedly hungry. Sam never ate packet noodles or beans out of a tin: everything was made from scratch, as if he drew pleasure from doing things methodically. Then I saw him – his uniform still on – a tea-towel slung over his shoulder as he stooped to see to a pan and just for a moment I stood, unseen, in the dark and felt utterly calm. I heard the distant breeze in the trees, the soft cluck of the hens locked nearby in their coop, the distant hum of traffic headed towards the city. I felt the cool air against my skin and the tang of Christmassy anticipation in the air I breathed.

Everything was possible. That was what I had learnt, these last few months. Life might have been complicated, but ultimately there was just me and the man I loved and his railway carriage and the prospect of a joyous evening ahead. I took a breath, letting myself savour that thought, stepped forward and put my hand on the door handle.

And then I saw her.

She walked across the carriage saying something unclear, her voice muffled by the glass, her hair clipped up and tumbling in soft curls around her face. She was wearing a man’s T-shirt – his? – and holding a wine bottle, and I saw him shake his head. And then, as he bent over the stove, she walked up behind him and placed her hands on his neck, leaning towards him and rubbing the muscles around it with small circular motions of her thumbs, a movement that seemed born of familiarity. Her thumbnails were painted deep pink. As I stood there, my breath stalled in my chest, he leant his head back, his eyes closed, as if surrendering himself to her fierce little hands.

And then he turned to face her, smiling, his head tilted to one side, and she stepped back, laughing, and raised a glass to him.

I didn’t see anything else. My heart thumped so loudly in my ears that I thought I might pass out. I stumbled backwards, then turned and ran back down the path, my breath too loud, my feet icy in my wet shoes. Even though my car was probably fifty yards away I heard her sudden burst of laughter echo through the open window, like a glass shattering.

I sat in my car in the car park behind my building until I could be sure Thom had gone to bed. I couldn’t hide what I felt and I couldn’t bear to explain it to Treena in front of him. I glanced up periodically, watching as his bedroom light went on and then, half an hour later, went off again. I turned off the engine and let it tick down. As it faded, so did every dream I had been clinging on to.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Why would I? Katie Ingram had laid her cards on the table from the start. What had shocked me was that Sam had been complicit. He hadn’t shrugged her off. He had answered me, and then he had cooked her a meal and let her rub his neck, and it was preparation for … what?

Every time I pictured them I found myself clutching my stomach, doubled over, as if I’d been punched. I couldn’t shake the image of them from my head. The way he tilted his head back at the pressure of her fingers. The way she had laughed confidently, teasingly, as if at some shared joke between them.

The strangest thing was that I couldn’t cry. What I felt was bigger than grief. I was numb, my brain humming with questions – How long? How far? Why? – and then I would find myself doubled over again, wanting to be sick with it, this new knowledge, this hefty blow, this pain, this pain, this pain.

I’m not sure how long I sat there, but at around ten I walked slowly upstairs and let myself into the flat. I was hoping Treena had gone to bed but she was in her pyjamas watching the news, her laptop on her knee. She was smiling at something on her screen and jumped when I opened the door.

‘Jesus, you nearly frightened the life out of me – Lou?’ She pushed her laptop to one side. ‘Lou? Oh, no …’

It’s always the kindnesses that finish you off. My sister, a woman who found adult physical contact more discomfiting than dental treatment, put her arms around me and, from some unexpected place that felt like it was located in the deepest part of me, I began to sob, huge, breathless, snotty tears. I cried in a way I hadn’t cried since Will had died, sobs that contained the death of dreams and the dread knowledge of months of heartbreak ahead. We sank slowly down onto the sofa and I buried my head in her shoulder and held her, and this time my sister rested her head against mine and she held me and didn’t let me go.