by Lottie Lucas
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I demand heatedly. “Why did you even come? You weren’t supposed to be here.”
“I came because you asked me to,” he says calmly. “I promised you I’d be here. I wasn’t about to break that.”
“Stop it,” I say furiously, blinking away tears. “Just stop being so …” I break off sharply. “You’re only making it worse.”
He sighs, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his legs. “He’s an idiot, Clara. That’s all. It’s not your fault.”
Oh, how I wish he weren’t here. I can’t stand him being kind, looking at me so pityingly. Pretending our kiss never happened. Pretending that none of this is my mistake.
But I can’t pretend any more. And I can’t let other people pretend for me.
“Why not? He never promised me anything. I just saw what I wanted to see. I so wanted to believe …” I take a shuddering breath. Because that’s the worst of it; Heather was right. A part of me knew that some things didn’t add up. But I didn’t want to see it; I so wanted to believe that the fantasy I’d created for myself could come true. That I could have that magic which has always evaded me, which everyone else knew could never be real. This was never really anything to do with Josh; it was about me all along. And they all tried to tell me, didn’t they? They all tried to protect me from myself. Finally, I can see the truth. “But maybe he was right. Maybe it’s time to stop believing in things which don’t exist.”
“Do you want my advice?” Adam says abruptly. “Don’t.”
I look up in confusion. That’s the last thing I expected him to say.
“Don’t change, not for this. Not for anything.” His face is close to mine, his eyes inky and intense. “I think you’re perfect just as you are. Crazy, but perfect. There are plenty of boring, unimaginative people in the world, Clara. There are plenty of people who are willing to believe that life is a dull enterprise, and that magic only exists in books. However, there aren’t many like you.” He gives a self-deprecating grin. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this. My colleagues would be horrified if they could hear me now. They’d probably have me committed.”
“I’m thinking about having you committed,” I confess, staring at him. “Whatever happened to the stern professor who told me that he was proud to be cynical?”
Perfect. He thinks I’m perfect. The words chase themselves around my head in an endless, cyclical chant, and I try to swat them away. It was just a turn of phrase, I tell myself. He was trying to make me feel better.
“He’s taking a short holiday. He’ll be back on Monday, growling at the students and avoiding everyone in the staffroom. But for tonight …” He puts an arm around my shoulders. “You’ve got me. I hope that’s acceptable.”
“More than,” I murmur, leaning into his side.
We sit for a while, not speaking, just looking up at the stars. And then a flash of colour catches my eye. I sit up straight.
“Look, that’s a firework!”
As I’m speaking, it explodes into a cascade of pink and gold, the light dazzling to my eyes.
“They are customary on the 5th of November,” Adam replies, sounding amused. “Did that particular history lesson pass you by?”
Of course. I’d forgotten it was Bonfire Night today. Everything’s been so hectic over the past few weeks, it had almost slipped my mind altogether. Which is strange because when I was little it was always one of my favourite features of the year. The tang of woodsmoke in the air, the cold biting my cheeks. Dad would lift me up onto his shoulders so I could watch the colours bloom and burst, lighting up the sky. These days, it’s more of a bittersweet occasion, a reminder of everything that’s gone.
Except tonight, sitting here with Adam, it doesn’t feel so sad. It feels like I’m watching it for the first time all over again. The dark sky is luminous, the air filled with bangs and crackles and whizzing sounds as sparks spiral off into the night, radiant and fleeting. And, as I watch, I feel something beginning to build within me, an acute sense of emotion, stretching out until it fills my chest with a pressure which is almost painful.
“I know you think I don’t understand how it feels.” His voice emerges stiltedly from the darkness next to me. “But, believe me, I do.”
“Who was she?” The words are out of my mouth before I can restrain them. Suddenly, I find myself very interested in what kind of woman could hurt Adam.
“An associate lecturer in the Anthropology department. We were together for five years. Eventually, she ended it.”
For a moment I think he’s going to say more, but he doesn’t.
“Why?” I ask gently. I can’t stop myself.
“Because, apparently, I have no romance in my soul.” Even in the dark, I can see the rueful twist of his lips.
Once upon a time, I would have agreed with her. But now, as I watch the colours reflected in his eyes, I feel a white-hot surge of anger towards this unknown woman. Did she not know him at all? Because there’s so much more to see, if only you take the time to look deeper. I’ve learned that in only a matter of weeks; how could she not after five years?
She was wrong.
But I don’t say it. I don’t know why I don’t say it.
Then the last firework disintegrates into the sky, leaving only a smoky outline hanging in its place. And, for a few precious seconds, everything is perfectly silent.
Chapter 23
“How is it possible that this house looks even pinker in the dark?” Adam asks as he nudges open the garden gate.
The bemusement in his voice makes me giggle.
“It’s growing on you. Admit it.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that.” His lips set in a thin line as he rummages around in my clutch bag. “Where the hell are your keys, woman?”
“In there somewhere,” I say vaguely, lolling back against the gatepost. The night air feels so delicious on my skin and I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation.
“Clara!” At Adam’s voice, my eyes snap open.
“What?” I say indignantly.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he commands, eyeing the half-empty champagne bottle I’m still clutching in my hand. “Maybe that wasn’t such a great idea.”
“It was your idea,” I point out, bending over to retrieve my house keys, which are glinting from the path. They must have fallen out of the bag. “Here they are. Whoa!”
I’ve tried to straighten up and almost toppled into the rosebush in the process. Somehow, that strikes me as uproariously funny, and I burst out into hysterical laughter.
“You’ll wake the neighbours,” Adam admonishes, unlocking the door and shoving me unceremoniously inside. The house is in total darkness; Freddie’s obviously not here. Not that that’s particularly out of the ordinary at the moment. I haven’t seen him properly in ages. Just something else to worry about then, when I get a chance. At the moment, it’s relegated to the bottom of an ever-growing list. “And, for the record, my idea was for you to take the edge off a bit, help you sleep. I didn’t mean for you to get absolutely plastered.”
For some reason, the way he says ‘plastered’ in that disapproving way sets me off all over again. I lean against the wall, gasping for breath. He waits, arms folded, until my laughter has subsided.
“You shouldn’t have stolen a whole bottle then, should you?” I manage archly.
It was quite impressive, actually. I couldn’t face going back through the party, so we sneaked round the side, passing the entrance to the kitchens on the way. Adam slipped inside, reappearing moments later with an unopened bottle of champagne. I don’t know where he got the nerve from; he did it so confidently. In fact, the whole thing was so out of character that if it weren’t for the evidence in my hand, I could easily believe that I’d imagined the whole thing.
Then again, he does sound very much like his usual self now, as he mutters, “What I shouldn’t have done was trust you to measure yourself and not drink half the bottle.”
“We are not sparring,” he says crisply, although I notice he looks a little flustered. He begins to manoeuvre me across the hallway towards the living room. “You’re just spouting drunken nonsense and, more fool me, I’m bothering to respond.”
He sits me down on the sofa, prising the champagne bottle gently from my fingers. “I’ll get you some water. Stay here.”
“Yeah, sure.” Like I’m going anywhere. Right now, I only have one agenda. I curl up against the cushions, kicking off my shoes with a sigh of relief. Why do I keep wearing high heels? Why don’t I become one of those cool women who only wears flats, no matter the occasion? I admire those women; they respect their feet.
“No falling asleep!” Adam catches me as I’m listing to the side, propping me back upright. “Not until you’ve drunk this.”
He proffers a large glass of water, which I grudgingly accept. Sobering up doesn’t look like a particularly appealing option at the moment. Sobering up means that I’ll have to face everything which happened tonight, and I’m not ready to do that.
“Why are you always getting me drunk, anyway?” I shoot at him, putting the glass down on the coffee table. “You’re supposed to be a sensible role model. What would your students say?”
“They’d probably be thrilled,” he says drily. “They think I have no life. But may I remind you that last time it was actually you who got me drunk?” He picks up the glass and puts it back in my hand. “And I had one hell of a hangover the next morning too. I’m just trying to save you from the same.”
All right, so he has a point, even if I don’t like to admit it. Besides, this is all going to feel bad enough tomorrow, in the cold light of day, without a hangover making it even worse. I raise the glass to my lips, then pause.
“I don’t usually drink very much, you know,” I say, feeling the need to defend myself. I fear I’m getting a reputation in his eyes as a reckless alcoholic. “But it’s not exactly been the best night of my life.”
His dark eyes soften as they scan my face. “I know.”
And that’s all it takes. Whatever has been building inside me snaps, and tears pour down my face and drip into the glass of water, causing ripples across the surface. Wordlessly, Adam takes the glass from me and puts it aside; then he pulls me against him. Somehow, his steady unspoken action is more reassuring than any amount of comforting platitudes. Which, of course, only makes me cry harder.
“Why am I such a disaster?” I sob into his chest.
“You’re not.” He sounds taken aback at my vehemence. “Why would you—?”
“I am. I’ve ruined everything. It’s not just Josh. I’ve said some unforgivable things to Heather; I’ve wrecked everything with you; I’ve embarrassed the whole museum, and the speech …” I sit bolt upright, horror arcing through me. “Oh, my God! The speech!”
How could I have forgotten about the speech? That was my big opportunity; more than that, everyone was relying on me to do it. I was supposed to dry my eyes, steel myself and walk out there. Smash it, as Ruby would say. Make everyone forget about the scene which they’d just witnessed. Remind them all what we were really there for: art. Culture. Heritage. And instead …
Instead, I crept out of the back door and ran away, leaving everyone else to pick up the pieces. And totally overshadowed the entire event in the process. Because, of course, no one’s going to forget about it now, are they? It’ll be all they talk about for weeks. The museum will be a laughing stock.
“It’s okay,” Adam says soothingly. “I checked before we left. Jeremy was going to do it. I’m sure everyone’s dozing off to the sound of his voice as we speak.”
For once, I can’t even appreciate his attempt at humour. I feel sick and shaky.
“Oh, no.” I drop my head into my hands. “I’m going to lose my job, aren’t I? Jeremy will never forgive me for this.”
“All right, now listen to me.” Adam’s voice turns firm. He takes my hands in his, forcing me to look at him. “You’re not going to lose your job, all right? It was just one incident. Don’t make it into more than it was.”
I know he’s trying to be helpful, but his tone strikes my ears as patronising.
“Oh, really?” I say acerbically, wrenching my hands away. “And if you did something like that at an important function for the college? How would they feel about that, do you think?”
“They would be angry, I’m sure,” he says calmly. “But I’m sure we could reach an understanding. And you can …”
“No, I can’t!” I snap, exasperated. “How could you ever understand? You’re a big star, an academic poster boy. Exalted lineage. Youngest professor in the history of the college. You’re an asset. They need you more than you need them. Do you even know what it’s like not to be important, to be fawned over? Because I do, and …” Suddenly, I hear myself. I pull back, scrubbing at my face. “I’m sorry, Adam. You don’t need this. You’d better get yourself home; it’s late.”
I feel hot with shame. Why can’t I seem to control my tongue around anyone these days? I swear, I used to be a nice person. I used to try to make people feel better, not alienate them completely. I don’t know what’s happened to me, but I wouldn’t want to hang around with me at the moment; unfortunately, I have no choice, but Adam does.
To my surprise, though, he doesn’t move.
“I didn’t exactly have the best night myself the other evening, if you recall,” he says neutrally. “So I think you know that my life isn’t always easy. I’m well aware what it’s like not to be fawned over, as you so eloquently put it. By the people who are supposed to be closest to me too. At least you’re permanently surrounded by love and support, Clara, even if you don’t always appreciate it. Everyone in your life adores you; they’d do anything to make you happy. I’ve never been blessed with that.” His dark eyes bore into mine. “In fact, if either of us has the easy time of it, I’d say it’s you.”
I just sit there, blinking back shocked tears.
Because the worst of it is, he’s right. I might not have my parents any more. I might not have a boyfriend. But I’m far from alone. I have Freddie. I have my friends, especially Heather, if she’ll have me back. I even have Adam, or at least I did until I managed to screw that up too. And, of course, I have a constant, if challenging, companion in the form of Casper.
When I look at it like that, it’s not so terrible after all.
“Adam …” I begin.
“I’ll stay, at least until Freddie gets back,” he interrupts, in a tone which brooks no argument. He stands, divesting himself of his jacket, and it’s clear from his body language that the conversation is over. “Do you mind if I make a cup of tea? I never did get any dinner in the end; I rushed straight from the college to the museum. I was worried that I’d be late.”
“Oh”. The thought of him racing across town to get there in time for my speech, even after everything, makes me feel … odd. Not very descriptive, I know; I’m not sure what the feeling is exactly, only that it’s complicated. Far too complicated for tonight; I’m way too exhausted to decode it. So I simply file it away for later and say brightly, “Use whatever you like; there’s a loaf in the bread bin if you want to make toast.”
“Great.” He loosens his tie. It’s pink with blue flowers on it; for a second, I wonder if he wore it tonight for me, and I get a funny fluttering feeling in my stomach, but then the ludicrousness of it hits me and I bat the notion away, feeling foolish.
He looks down at me, mercifully oblivious to my train of thought. “Do you want anything?”
“No, thank you.” I sink down onto my side, resting my cheek against the cushions. Tiredness washes over me, a combination of champagne and spent em
otion. “I’m just going to rest here for a minute.”
“You do that.” There’s a smile in his voice. He pauses in the doorway, seeming to hesitate over something. “Oh, and Clara?”
“Hmm?” My eyelids are struggling to stay open.
“You didn’t ruin things between us.” He pauses, takes a breath. “You could never do that.”
His voice seems to be coming from a long way away. Dimly, I want to reply, to say something, but I can’t. I’m too heavy, too far away. My mind drifts off into a half-sleep, punctuated by odd snatches of reality. I have a vague sensation of a blanket being put over me at one point, the faint sound of the radio coming from the kitchen, the cat flap clattering. That’s loud enough to make me open my eyes for a moment, struggling to focus through the haze.
Casper’s standing there, a stoat clamped between his jaws. I wonder if this is all part of a dream, because really, where would he have got a stoat from? This is suburban Cambridge, not a wild Scottish heathland.
“Okay—” Adam holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender “—before you gnaw my leg off, just hear me out.”
Casper growls, his fur bristling with animosity.
“Put the stoat down,” Adam coaxes. “And let’s talk.”
Casper glares at him for a long moment, but then drops the stoat, which lands limply on the kitchen floor. Cautiously, Adam crouches down in front of him.
“She’s had a tough night, okay? I’m just here to look after her, nothing more.”
Casper eyes him sceptically.
“Maybe you and I … just for tonight, could we put our differences aside? For her,” Adam suggests. “Normal hostilities will, of course, resume first thing tomorrow. But for now …” he holds out a hand, palm facing upwards “… what do you think?”
For the first five seconds, Casper visibly considers latching his jaw around the exposed fingers. Adam swallows but holds still, meeting his gaze. And then, very slowly, Casper lifts up a paw and places it on top of Adam’s outstretched hand.