‘This is a surprise,’ he says, gesturing for me to follow him into the building.
‘A good one, or a crap one?’
‘A good one, of course. I’ve been out walking.’
‘I see that,’ I reply, as we make our way through the long wood-panelled corridor to his rooms. ‘You picked a lovely day for it.’
He shrugs off his jacket, and hangs it on the back of the door, where it proceeds to drip onto the carpet.
‘Good for the brain,’ he says, resting his stick in the corner of the room. ‘Getting out and about in bad weather. You’re so busy thinking about overhanging branches and turning your ankle on a slippery tree root, you can’t think about anything else. Plus, you get to find really cool sticks in the woods.’
‘It is a very cool stick,’ I agree. ‘You can use it to beat hobgoblins with. Or, failing that, young inventors.’
As we talk, he starts to make tea. The English side of him is very much in control, it seems, as he switches on the kettle and assembles mugs and finds a tin of biscuits. I lean against the counter, and feel weirdly awkward. I want to touch him, but I’m not completely sure how he’ll react, and that totally sucks.
‘Are you all set for your conference?’ I ask, as he passes me tea. I have drunk so much tea today I might get tannin poisoning.
‘Oh yes,’ he replies, nodding wisely. ‘I am as prepared as a non-qualified manager of institutional finance processes can possibly be.’
‘You are so sexy right now.’
‘I know. It’s a gift.’
We’re saying the right words – making the flirty noises – but it doesn’t feel right. Our hearts aren’t in it. This is confirmed when he sits down on the chair, not the sofa, where we’d normally end up snuggled together.
I put my tea down – I really don’t want it – and sit opposite him. I let out a sigh, and finally ask: ‘Finn, what’s going on here? I feel like I’m treading on eggshells around you. Is there something you need to say to me, because if there is, then … spit it out. I can take it.’
By this stage, I’ve convinced myself that he’s about to dump me. That he’s decided enough is enough, that I’m too messy, too strange, my life too complicated. That I’m simply not worth the effort any more. In some ways, I think I’ve been expecting that ever since we got together, which is something I’m sure a counsellor would have a real party with.
He gazes away over my shoulder, his face unreadable, before eventually speaking.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, sadly. ‘I just … I want you to make your own choice. I want you to decide where this is going, and what you feel about Seb, and what happens next. I want you to make that choice without me … interfering?’
The last word is said as a question, as though he’s not quite sure he’s got the right one.
‘Interfering?’ I repeat dumbly, confused but relieved that it’s not at least an immediate dumping, like I’d anticipated. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean … this is a big deal. I love you, and I want to be with you – but only if that’s what you want. I want to respect you, and your decisions, and your needs. And we both saw the other night that it’s not guaranteed that I’ll play fair, or act properly, or behave in a way that allows you to make that choice. I don’t want you to be thinking about me when you do.’
‘That makes absolutely no sense,’ I say, trying to detangle it in my brain. ‘I don’t expect you to be perfect, and I’m capable of making my own decisions without your permission.’
‘I know you are – I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. But … okay, look at it this way – if you weren’t worried about hurting me, would you spend more time with him? If you weren’t worried about me getting upset, would you even be wanting him to go home? If you take me out of the equation, how would you be feeling?’
I shake my head, and feel a budding sense of anger that I try and control. Losing my temper will help precisely nothing, and only serve to make an already bad situation even worse.
‘But I don’t want you out of the equation!’ I snap back. ‘I want you very much in the equation – all over the bloody equation! And why is it a bad thing that I don’t want to hurt you? Isn’t that the way you’re supposed to feel when you love someone? In all honesty, Finn, this sounds like bullshit to me. It sounds a bit like you don’t want to be in this mess any more, and you’re couching it in terms that sound better.’
I see a spark of responding anger in his blue eyes, and his fingers tighten around his mug. Like me, he’s trying hard to calm himself down. Part of me doesn’t want him to. Part of me wants to push this and pull it and poke it at until we’re both furious. Until he throws that mug in the sink, and we tear each other’s clothes off, and have angry sex until we both feel better. That, I realise, is completely screwed up.
‘I’m not explaining myself very well,’ he replies, putting the mug down on the coffee table. Maybe he’s scared he might throw it. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say – badly – is that this shouldn’t be a fight. The other night, it felt like a fight. A battle. That you were the prize one of us could win. And that’s the bullshit here, isn’t it? You’re not a prize – you’re a human being. A weird, wonderful, drop-dead gorgeous human being, who I desperately want to stay in my life.
‘But I won’t do it that way. I don’t want you seeing him, and feeling bad about it, like you’re cheating. And I don’t want to feel like I’m somehow holding you back. We said at the start of this that it would be good – that maybe you could finally put Seb behind you. Now, I might be totally getting this wrong, but it doesn’t feel entirely like that any more. It feels like possibly there might be some Seb … ahead of you. And if that’s the case, you owe it to yourself to find out – and not shut the idea down because of me.’
Wow. My eyes go wide, and I am literally at a loss for words. Maybe this will all make sense later, like in a million years. Maybe I’m just being especially thick, and don’t have the emotional subtlety to completely get it. Maybe – and this is entirely possible – it actually does make sense, but I don’t like the sense it makes, so my brain refuses to process it.
I stand up. He stands up. There is a freeze-frame moment where all we do is stare at each other, both at a loss as to how to make this better.
In the end, I decide I can’t. That the only thing I can do if I stay, or I respond, or try to persuade him differently, is make it worse.
‘Have a good conference,’ I say miserably, and turn to leave.
Chapter 23
I make an executive decision to spend the rest of the weekend blissfully man-free. Unless you count my brother, which I don’t.
On Sunday, Willow and I take Lynnie to a craft fair in Wiltshire, which is full of her spiritual brothers and sisters – yoga-lean, lentil-eating, grey panthers buying the supplies to make their dream-catchers and altars to Gaia.
The sun is shining again, and it’s a lovely day. Willow can tell there’s something wrong, but I manage to fake my way through the trip with style, elegance, and a lot of loud singing in the car. I very deliberately block thoughts of both Finn and Seb out of my mind, because my mind is getting hopelesslyoverwhelmed – the poor thing needs a duvet day.
We stop off at a country pub for our dinner on the way home, and Lynnie is on good form. She’s talking to us both as though we’re friends, not her daughters, and again referring to Willow as Joanna – but she’s thrilled with the bits and bobs we picked up at the fair, and even if her reality isn’t quite the same as ours right now, it’s one she seems happy in. Sometimes that’s the best you can hope for.
By the time I get into the pharmacy on Monday morning, I’m ready to face the week. Ideally a week not filled with romantic riddles, but with some energy and determination if nothing else.
I bump into Katie outside, and she’s looking a little less energetic herself.
‘You okay?’ I ask, as I deal with the locks and lead us both inside.
‘I suppose,’ sh
e replies, which by Katie’s standards is admitting the world is falling in. ‘Yes. I’m being weird, that’s all.’
‘In that case, it’s your lucky day – weird is my specialist subject. What’s up?’
We walk together through to the kitchen, automatically going about the morning rituals of taking off jackets and hanging them up and getting the coffee ready.
‘Nothing’s up. It’s just that Jason – that’s Saul’s dad, you remember? – well, Jason and Jo, his wife, have invited Saul to go and visit them to meet his new little brother, Dougal.’
‘Dougal?’ I say, blinking. ‘They called their son Dougal?’
A stern look from Katie tells me that maybe I’ve fixated on the wrong thing here, and I quickly add: ‘Right. Okay. You saw them at Easter, didn’t you?’
‘We did. But now the baby’s here. And it’s Saul’s brother, after all, so it’s only natural that they’d want them to meet each other.’
‘Natural, but … awkward?’ I supply, as she pours the boiling water.
‘Awkward. Yes. For me, not Saul – which is what counts. So anyway – it’s not a big deal. It’s nothing bad. In fact it’s good. But it’s made me feel a bit off my game today.’
‘I can see that,’ I reply, as she continues to pour water into a full mug, until it starts running down the sides and onto the drainer. She glances down, makes a disgusted ‘ooh!’ sound, and immediately starts cleaning it up.
‘Look,’ I say, leaving her to it – which is a selfless act because Katie loves cleaning – ‘I’m not an expert on relationships. Or in fact anything. But I think it’s understandable that this is difficult for you, and you should let yourself be freaked out for a while. Things are changing, and that’s always unsettling, especially when it involves your kid. I do, though, have every faith in you Katie – you’ll get through it like you always do, and one day you’ll look back and wonder what all the fuss was about.’
I wonder if I’m over-simplifying, but the pep talk seems to help. She perks up a bit, and nods, and says: ‘I’m sure you’re right. Things that seem like huge deals at the time look minuscule with a bit of time and space.’
‘That’s right,’ I reply, winking. ‘I saw Brian Cox say that on the telly once.’
‘I quite fancy him,’ she says, leaning back on the counter and smiling. ‘Don’t tell Van.’
‘Don’t worry, I will,’ I respond, winking again.
‘Have you got something wrong with your eye?’ she asks. ‘And anyway – enough about me. What’s going on in your life? I can count on your mess to make me feel better about mine.’
Auburn Longville – at your service. I think about it for a moment, then shrug.
‘I think I’m taking a break from it,’ I say simply, walking through to the pharmacy with my coffee.
‘Taking a break?’ she repeats, trailing behind me. ‘What do you mean? Has Seb gone?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware. He’s probably bought a house in the village by now and hung up a sign advertising his massage clinic. And Finn is setting off for London, for a conference. Me? I’m taking a break. I need to stop thinking about them, and us, and what might happen, or my brain will explode.’
‘That,’ she replies, as the first customer of the day pings the bell as they walk through the door, ‘isa very neat trick. I’m impressed.’
I give her a small bow, accepting her praise, and we both put on smiley faces for Audrey Mason, who is undoubtedly here to tell us about her bowel movements.
Mondays are usually relatively busy in the pharmacy, especially as the day wears on. People tend to hold out on seeing the GP over the weekend, and then there’s a mad rush on Monday morning – resulting in an avalanche of prescriptions to be filled. And by avalanche, I mean anywhere up to ten.
Nevertheless, it’s enough to keep us occupied, and that’s what I need right now. We have a steady stream of customers right to lunchtime, when we take turns in nipping to the café for a sandwich and a break.
It’s while Katie’s gone that I get the phone call. I’m tempted to ignore it, as I’m very busy reading a fascinating article about developments in blood sugar monitoring for self-managing diabetics. A quick glance at the screen, though, shows that it’s my favourite grumpy old man, so I tear myself away from my research.
‘Mr P!’ I say cheerily, hoping he’s okay. ‘What can I do for you on this fine day?’
I hear him rustling about, untangling the curly cord on his landline. He doesn’t have a mobile, despite my best efforts to convince him it’s a sensible measure in case Belle attacks him in the paddock. His landline is like something from a museum – one of those ancient ones with a rotary dial.
‘Is that you, Auburn?’ he says, shouting a bit. He always seems to assume that that’s what you do when you’ve called a mobile number.
‘It is, and I’m not deaf!’
‘Oh! Right. Sorry. Anyhow, sorry to bother you …’
‘You’re not bothering me, Mr P. What’s the problem?’
He pauses, and I hear more rustling, and then he replies: ‘Well, I’m sure I’m just being daft here, love, but didn’t you bring me some new pills when you came round the other day?’
‘I did, Mr P,’ I say, sitting up straight, suddenly alert. The door pings as Katie returns, and I give her a wave, pointing unnecessarily at the phone to tell her I’m on a call. ‘Can’t you find them?’
People lose their pills all the time. They misplace them, they put them somewhere so safe they forget where they are, they drop them down the sides of sofas and put them in the bin by mistake, they leave them in the car or change handbags and forget about it. On one occasion, I even had a man in because his dog had eaten his Viagra. True story.
When you do my job, you learn to recognise these genuine cases, and you learn to recognise when someone is trying it on because they want more drugs. Admittedly this doesn’t happen as often here in Budbury as it did in London, and I’m 100 per cent certain it’s not the case with Mr P.
Most times, you can refer them back to the GP, and it can be resolved. There’s always the risk that they’ve left potentially dangerous substances lying on the bus or whatever, but there’s only so much you can do – human beings are what they are. We lose things. It’s an essential part of being alive.
With Mr Pumpwell, I’m not worried about him displaying drug-seeking behaviour, and I’m not worried that he’s left strong and possibly addictive painkillers in a place where a child might find them. But I am worried that he’s becoming confused and misplacing things, and that he is in pain without them. He may be elderly, but he’s usually sharp as a tack. Given the state of my mum, though, I’m maybe a bit more alert to potential mental decline than most people.
‘I can’t love, no,’ he replies, still speaking a bit loudly. ‘I’ve looked everywhere. I even went out to check the feed bins in case I’d had one of those, what do you call them, senior moments?’
I laugh out loud at that one. The fact that he’s aware of senior moments means he probably isn’t having one.
‘Well, I did bring them, you’ve not imagined it. And when we left, they were on the kitchen table. First things first, Mr P – are you in pain right now? Do you need some more? Because I can speak to the GP about what’s happened, and sort something out for you.’
‘No, girl, it’s not that – I do have a couple left from the last packet. I just don’t like losing things. If you’re not careful, first it’s a packet of bloody tablets, next it’s your marbles. As it happens, I’m feeling much better this morning, after your young gentleman friend visited. Magic fingers, that one. Never thought I’d feel comfy with it, but he was very professional.’
It takes me a moment to catch up with what he’s describing. I’ve been doing such a good job of banning the words ‘Seb’ and ‘Finn’ from my mind that it doesn’t immediately register. Seb, of course, had promised to go and visit Mr P when we delivered the Comfort Food care boxes. And the super-strength codeine.
I freeze momentarily, as nasty thoughts flood in and take over my think-tank. Mr P had a full packet of pills on his kitchen table. As far as he remembers, they were still there later. Seb visits, and the pills have miraculously disappeared.
I don’t want to think what I’m thinking. I don’t want to admit that it’s the first place my mind goes. I don’t want to imagine Seb that way. I don’t want to feel the suspicions that I can’t quite hold back.
He seems so different now. He seems so clean, and controlled, and set on rewriting his future. But Seb, as I know better than most, is also incredibly clever, and incredibly persuasive, and incredibly good at fooling people. So many times, in our past together, I’d hope for the best, because he seemed so genuine – and so many times, he disappointed me. I let myself believe that things could be different, was lulled into a false sense of security and optimism, only to have the rug pulled from beneath my feet. I’m right back there now, and it deflates me.
‘You still there, Auburn?’ Mr Pumpwell yells, so loud that even Katie looks up from her work. I hold the phone away from my ear, wondering if my drums have been perforated, and reply: ‘Still here, Mr P. Look, why don’t you keep looking, and in the meantime, I’ll speak to the GP.I’ll tell him it’s not urgent, but we don’t want you to run out of pills – they’re good to have around just in case you need to poison the donkey.’
He snorts out a quick laugh, and shouts back: ‘Righty-ho! Speak to you later, love.’
Once he’s gone, I put my phone down and sit in silence for a few moments, turning it all over in my mind. The more I turn it, the more I can’t escape the conclusion that Seb has relapsed. I recall how sad he was that afternoon, because of our conversation in the car. And because I left him alone that night, and refused to play along with what he probably hoped was turning into a scene of happy families.
I remember the way he looked when I dropped him off at Hyacinth, waving forlornly at me as I beeped the horn and drove away – all the way to Finn, who had his own man-bomb to drop on me.
A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 22