‘That’s not the point, Leo.’ She lashed out at the rose bush, sending petals cascading to the ground. ‘Everything has changed, don’t you see?’
‘Of course I see, but shouting at me isn’t going to help.’
‘Maybe not. But it makes me feel better.’
She needed him, she needed all of him and not just the parts that were about love and sex. It was so enormously terrifying that she didn’t think she could keep breathing unless she knew he would be there for her, no matter what.
‘How are you feeling?’ He took a step towards her, tentatively, as she was wound so tight he wasn’t quite sure what she was going to say or do next.
‘Awful,’ she replied, sucking at a scratch on her hand. ‘I want to vomit all the time, but can’t actually be sick. I’m currently eating my body weight in cheese and ham sandwiches as they’re the only thing that seem to help.’
‘You hate cheese.’ One step closer and she didn’t flinch, so he reached out his hand and used it to draw her to him.
‘Go figure,’ Niamh mumbled as she tucked herself under his chin, feeling the beat of her heart settle as she did so. ‘Babies clearly screw with your tastebuds as well as your mind.’
He breathed in the scent of her, so familiar and comforting that it made him even more aware of how much he needed her, all of her. The time spent in London without her had seemed to stretch and wane, every part of him itching to get back to Oxford so that he might hold her again. He would do anything to make her happy, but he wasn’t certain that a baby would do anything other than fill her with regret.
‘You . . . we, don’t have to keep it.’ He whispered the idea into her mind, allowing himself to think that perhaps there was a way out of the situation that wouldn’t be too painful for her to cope with.
‘Except we do.’
‘What about—’
‘No.’
He felt her stiffen against him and he moved her a little away so that he could look at her directly, get a better feel for what she was really thinking.
‘You don’t even know what I was going to say.’
‘Give it up?’ Niamh lifted her chin, biting down hard on her bottom lip to try to stop the tears from returning.
‘It would be different.’
‘How? How would it be different?’ She was crying now; there was no point in trying to stop it, because once those tears began to fall there was nothing she could do other than give in to the emotions coursing through her body. ‘One day that baby will become a child who thinks there must be something wrong with them. Because why else would their mother choose not to love them?’
‘I’m just saying, we have options.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’m from a large family, remember? And Mum’s been harassing my sisters for years about grandkids.’
He was smiling, but it hadn’t quite reached his eyes, which told her he was finding it all just as overwhelming as she was. She’d had time to come to terms with it, even if it was nothing more than a niggling thought at the back of her mind. But he had been blindsided by the announcement that he was – surprise! – going to be a father.
‘Have you told them about New York?’ Niamh sniffed as she folded her arms over her chest, because she could guess his answer even before he gave it.
‘Not yet.’ He wanted to, but there had never been the right moment. He really wanted to do it when Niamh was there with him to back him up, because he knew that they would disapprove.
‘Which means you’re not sure they’d give us their blessing.’
It wasn’t a question, because she understood him more than he wanted her to. Sometimes, actually most of the time, she figured out what was going on inside his head before he had a chance to do so himself.
‘Have you told your parents?’ It was a cheap shot and he knew it, but if neither of them had actually told anyone, kept it a secret from the world, was that not some kind of sign that perhaps it was all a bit too much too soon?
‘That’s different.’ Niamh looked away. She hadn’t told them because then there would be all kinds of questions.
‘My family would look after us, Niamh. You don’t have to worry.’
‘They would look after you. But what would happen if they cut you off? Gave you an ultimatum about me? I don’t want to be the reason why you no longer talk to your family.’
Because she knew that eventually he would come to resent her – and the baby – for it. Family was such a big part of his world; those people had shaped him into the man he had become and she knew he would be at a loss without them.
It was there, a split second before he could cover it up – the doubt on his face that told her more than she ever wanted to know. Because it’s all well and good to say that money isn’t important, up until the very point when it could all be taken away.
‘We’ll figure it out,’ Leo said, pulling her back to him and trying not to picture his father’s face when he found out he was going to be a grandfather.
‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’ He had no fucking clue, but admitting that to her wasn’t about to solve anything.
‘I saw her today. Cycling along St Giles.’ Niamh felt Leo stiffen against her, heard him clear his throat before speaking.
‘And?’
‘Nothing. She didn’t see me.’ But she wished she had. She wished she could have been brave enough to chase after her, say sorry and somehow try to mend a little of what she was partly responsible for breaking.
‘Have you spoken, you know, since?’
It was a strange question, given they had spent practically the whole summer together. Every moment of every day and every night for weeks on end, with nobody else for company; besides which, surely he knew she would have told him if she had decided to contact Erika?
‘No. But maybe I should.’
Leo didn’t reply, instead looking away and scratching at the back of his neck.
‘What aren’t you telling me?’ Niamh said, tilting back her head so she could look at him properly.
‘Nothing.’ He let go of her and stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. ‘I just don’t think she’s the sort of friend you need right now.’
‘Then what do I need, Leo? Enlighten me, please, because I am terrified about what happens next.’
‘There’s still time,’ he replied, drawing her back to him, kissing her hair and breathing in her familiar scent. There was no tobacco now, but the oranges were still there, hiding in her curls. ‘Everything will be OK, I promise.’
‘Say that again,’ Niamh whispered.
‘I promise to take care of you, Niamh,’ he said as he kissed her gently. ‘No matter what.’
ERIKA
SNOW GLOBE
London, 1999
It is Sunday, a day of rest or worship, or perhaps both, and I am holed up in the house Hector shares with his sister. Michelle has been on a yoga retreat in Thailand for over a week, so we have the place to ourselves and I can’t remember the last time I felt quite this content.
It’s two months since we first met in this very same house, on a crisp spring night when I nearly didn’t make it to the party. Hector was sitting next to a firepit in the back garden, arguing with his little sister, but his head turned as soon as I stepped out from the kitchen and I found myself unable to look away.
He was dressed head-to-toe in black, the buttons of his shirt open low enough to reveal the edge of a tattoo creeping over his chest. Not quite the PhD geek Michelle had described to me, nor was I prepared for the stir of heat in my belly that slowly made its way up to my face.
I sat down next to him, took a hit of vodka from the bottle he offered, and found it difficult to concentrate on anything at all, due to how very close he was. Close enough to see he had one eye of blue, another of green, and a small scar hidden underneath the stubble on his chin. He kept looking at me, then looking away, and I wondered if it was the alcohol or the
nearness of him that was making me so dizzy.
There was a conversation drifting around the fire, but I wasn’t really concentrating on the words. I remember looking through the contents of my wardrobe only an hour before, trying to decide whether or not it was worth getting changed, just for a house party. Then I’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully applying a second coat of mascara, and thinking that perhaps the night held the promise of something more than just celebrating Michelle’s birthday.
It was the same thought I had when, despite all my rules about not relinquishing control, I followed Hector upstairs instead of going home.
Fast-forward to today, and a discarded breakfast tray is on the floor next to the bed, along with the clothes I was wearing last night. He cooked me dinner, we shared a bottle of Riesling and then he undressed me slowly, leaving a trail of kisses all the way along my spine and whispering how I was more delicious than anything he’d tasted before.
I look over at him, at the mess of hair that always sticks out at odd angles in the morning. He is propped up in bed reading Steppenwolf, and every so often he reaches out a hand to touch me. It is ridiculously reassuring, the idea that even when focused on something else, he wants me to know that he’s there.
‘What’s it about?’ I ask, peering over his shoulder to see if I can understand a little of what he’s reading.
‘I think it’s about man’s journey of self-discovery,’ he says with a yawn. ‘About overcoming despair through love.’
‘Bit different to Captain America,’ I tease, looking over at the bookshelves where early editions of Marvel comics sit next to everything from Fitzgerald to Tolstoy, with some King thrown in for good measure.
‘Don’t diss Captain America,’ he says, poking me in the ribs. ‘He met the love of his life and then was frozen for seventy years. When he woke up she was gone but nobody else ever came close to the way he felt about Peggy.’
‘You and Layla should get together,’ I say as I slip from the bed, for they are both soppy and sweet and eternally optimistic when it comes to love.
I’m beginning to open up to him, only a little but enough to realise how vulnerable this could make me. I confessed something of the argument with my family back in Stockholm, and how I can no longer be the person they expect me to be. But he didn’t push, he didn’t try to force me into revealing anything more, which made me feel safe and, more than that, wanted. Sometimes, at odd moments like when he’s making eggs for breakfast or unloading the dishwasher (we have become rather domesticated in a very short space of time, which is an unexpected but lovely surprise), I catch myself on the very tip of revealing everything. But then I change my mind or get scared, or perhaps just distracted by the sight of him coming out of the shower, and the secret gets pushed away.
I wander over to the record player standing on a cabinet in the corner and, like always, my fingers run across the rows of cardboard spines. It was something of a surprise to discover a vintage player in his room, along with stacks of books and a collection of snow globes from all over the world. There was a little bit of dread laced through that surprise, even though it was perfectly normal for someone to choose vinyl instead of CDs. But I soon discovered he is something of an old soul, preferring blues to hip-hop and books to film.
I listen to the soft crackle of anticipation as the stylus lowers on to the disc, then the sound of strings permeates the air as Etta James begins to sing.
It’s the same song he played the night we met, when I held my breath for fear of what he might choose to play and whether it would take me back to Oxford, to the people who I still have to try not to think about too often.
‘Good choice,’ Hector says as he curls his arm around me and kisses the back of my neck, then trails his lips down and around the tattoo of a lotus flower that sits between my shoulder blades. It’s a mark of rebellion as well as rebirth, something I did on a rainy afternoon with Duncan during our very first term. He dared me to go with him so that we could be branded together, purely because it was something our parents would disapprove of. It took him all of five seconds to chicken out, but the sound of that needle didn’t scare me the way it did him. I didn’t really understand pain back then.
I miss him. I miss the way he would tease me about being scared of fish and once believing that a satellite was in fact a shooting star.
I turn around, pushing all thoughts of my wonderful friend aside as I press myself against Hector and bring his mouth up to mine. Every single part of me feels alive, alert and on edge, because of him. I know that I’m falling hard and fast and the lack of control makes me feel giddy and reckless. It’s a risk, a huge risk, but whichever part of my brain that for years has been telling me not to let go, not to show myself to anyone, has finally decided to shut up.
The song is interrupted by the sound of a ringtone and Hector leaves me wanting more as he steps away to answer it.
‘It’s Michelle,’ he says, flipping open the phone and I can’t help but roll my eyes in frustration as I go next door and turn on the shower.
So far, I have managed to resist the pull of technology. I have refused to buy a mobile or set up an email account. It’s the one thing Hector and I have argued about, because I hate the idea that everything about my life would be available for someone to download. Hector claims the internet is going to change the world, making everyone and everything connected, which is precisely why I want to stay as far away from it as possible.
Internet cafés are opening up everywhere across London. Wherever you look there are adverts for ways you can use the web to search for everything from holidays to houses and anything else your heart might desire. I went into one on Oxford Street, paid my fee and sat in a wooden cubicle, waiting for the dial-up to work.
I even found the courage to type a name into a search engine, deleted it and replaced it with another. But I couldn’t bring myself to click on that one little word – ‘search’. Because just like Pandora and her box, if I did I would end up discovering all sorts of things I didn’t want to know. Like how happy they are, living the life that I don’t deserve to be a part of.
Hector comes into the bathroom and slides the shower door open a crack.
‘Do you have any idea what a Furby is?’
‘What?’ I open my eyes then close them again and tip back my head to wash out the rest of the shampoo.
‘A Furby,’ he says, handing me a towel. ‘Michelle cut out before she could tell me what it is.’
‘It’s a weird talking robot alien thing.’ I wipe my face then wrap the towel around me.
‘Any idea where I can get one?’
‘Why?’ Using my fingers, I tease out the knots in my hair, then pick up the toothbrush I now leave here and squeeze a white line of paste on to the bristles.
‘It’s my cousin’s ninth birthday and apparently Michelle thinks a weird talking alien would be the perfect present.’ Hector picks up his own toothbrush and together we stand, brushing our teeth. ‘Although I think she’d like the new Harry Potter book more.’
‘Buy the book,’ I say, spitting into the sink. ‘Unless you don’t like her parents. In which case buy her the annoying robot.’
‘Her dad’s only ten years older than me. He used to take me out on the back of his motorbike when I was little and taught me how to blow smoke rings to impress the girls.’
‘Except you don’t smoke.’ I look over at him, then bend forward to rinse my mouth out under the tap. As I do so, he slips his hand under my towel and I swat it away.
‘No, but I still managed to impress you.’ He dips his head to kiss my collarbone, pulling the towel apart and dropping it on the floor.
‘We should really think about getting dressed and leaving the house.’
‘Why?’ His hands are on my waist, turning me around then tracing over the curve of my backside.
‘I should go home at some point. Check on Uncle Alex.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘He’s fi
ne.’ I haven’t spoken to him all week, other than leaving a short message to say I was staying with a friend, and the knowledge makes a pebble of guilt appear in my stomach. He was there for me when no one else could help and is the only person alive who knows the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
I close my eyes, allowing myself to fall right back under Hector’s spell. ‘I’m also starting to forget what the real world looks like.’
‘My whole world is right here with you.’ Hector steers me back into the bedroom and together we fall on to the bed.
‘That’s so cheesy.’
He pushes himself up on to his forearms, staring down at me with an intensity that makes my heart tighten. ‘And yet you love me nonetheless.’
‘I guess I do.’ The words are out before I’ve even considered them. Is it really that easy to fall for someone? Did I simply have to trust that something good could still happen to me?
‘I want to take you home,’ he says with a smile. ‘Meet the parents and all that.’
‘OK.’ The idea should terrify me. I should be running as far away from him and his declarations as I can possibly get. But something is making me stay, making me dare to believe that this time I won’t fuck it all up.
‘And we can tell them how you’re going to be the rich, successful one,’ he says, interspersing his words with kisses all over my skin. ‘Whilst I’ll be the poor, impoverished writer stuck at home, waiting for his beautiful wife to come back for the dinner he’s so lovingly prepared.’
I’m getting used to him talking about our future. It was tentative at first, him asking whether I’d ever consider moving back to Sweden. Subtle questions that hid the true depth of feeling. A bit like a dance, or bare-knuckle fighters squaring up to one another and looking for any signs of weakness. Only this time I’ve realised that he is just as vulnerable, just as fearful of getting hurt as I am.
‘Bit of a role reversal.’ I push him on to his back and climb on top.
‘Until I’ve written my bestseller,’ he sighs as we come together. ‘Then we can concentrate on getting you fat and pregnant.’
The Love We Left Behind Page 23