The Lives We Touch

by Eva Woods

  Luke looked at the floor. ‘Very big. It was all sort of … thrust upon us. You know, El wanted to live here and she’ll be kicked out soon if we don’t get married, so …’

  Of course. Ella was Australian, they’d had to get married for the visa. If it hadn’t been for the baby, Rosie might have felt some hope. But as it was, he was going to have a child, and that was that. She wouldn’t have tried to steal away someone’s husband, someone’s dad, would she – not after what Carole had done to her own family? And yet there was that memory, her and Luke in the hotel together, four years from now.

  ‘Luke?’ said Past Rosie shyly. ‘Now that we’re both back, and we’re in touch … it would be great to hang out again. You know, as friends.’ There was no need to say that ‘as friends’, because they’d never actually been anything more, but Luke didn’t question it. The small cubicle felt crowded, memories pushing them apart, unsaid words weighing heavy.

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, ‘Of course. As friends.’ And he took her hand, and squeezed it, in a way that was just about acceptable for one friend to another when the friend was in a hospital bed and a gown that gaped at the back.

  ‘Come on,’ said Darryl. ‘Time to move on.’

  ‘But can’t I just—’

  ‘Nope. Sorry, mate. Lots to see. Lots to remember. Let’s go.’

  Daisy

  It was quite easy to track people down in the age of Facebook. People were harder to lose. Memories were almost impossible to forget when they popped up on your timeline, bright as the day you made them. Daisy had decided – she could not sit and wait a second longer, even if it meant leaving Rosie’s bedside, even if people would judge her for it. She had to try to find out what had happened to her sister, and if that meant talking to everyone on Rosie’s list, then she would do it. Maybe someone, one of these names on the list, would know the secret to why Rosie walked under the bus, and if Daisy found that out, then there was the slimmest chance she could wake her sister up. It wasn’t much, but she had to take it. And time was slipping away.

  Ingrid St Cloud, Rosie’s university friend, posh and blonde but nice all the same. They’d stopped being friends some time back – why? Ingrid, who was a lawyer in a big international firm, was based near London Bridge, and Daisy easily talked her way in via her own legal credentials. When she told Ingrid why she was there, the other woman emitted a little scream, surprising Daisy. ‘Omigod! Not Rosie!’

  ‘I’m sorry. The doctors are hopeful but … I thought you might like to know.’

  ‘God, of course, of course. How utterly dreadful. You poor thing. Can I do anything?’ She was already picking up her phone, the picture of efficiency in her black designer suit, red nails and lips, glossy blonde hair. ‘You need food sent over? Accommodation?’

  ‘No, no, Ingrid, thank you, it’s just – did Rosie get in touch with you at all? In the last few days?’

  Ingrid pursed her red lips. ‘You know, now that I think about it, she did send me an email the other day. Haven’t got round to replying yet, things are totally frantic, you know …’

  ‘Yeah. What did she say?’

  ‘Well, it was rather strange. She said she was sorry we’d fallen out and it was all her fault! That was years back, and anyway, it was my fault really, considering I married Jack.’

  ‘Jack? You mean …’

  ‘Yes, darling, I married Rosie’s ex. Not very girl code, I know, but … he’s the one for me.’ Ingrid tapped a framed photo on her desk, her and a preppy-looking guy on the ski slopes, two small children in bright ski suits hugging their legs. ‘I was terribly sorry Rosie and I lost touch. I always thought she blamed me for it. Oh God! You don’t think this has happened because …?’

  ‘No, no, I’m sure it’s nothing to do with that.’ Not that she knew. Daisy stood up. She didn’t have much time. ‘I have to run now, but … if Rosie comes through all this, will you get back in touch with her, please? I think … I think she would like that.’

  And she scarpered, leaving Ingrid’s glossy mouth hanging open in surprise.

  Next stop was Rosie’s boss at the coffee shop, which Daisy was surprised to find empty. ‘Serge,’ he introduced himself, with a firm handshake that made Daisy wince. ‘You’re her sister?’

  ‘Yes, I just wanted to let you know she was ill, in case … She’s not working here any more?’

  ‘No, she quit a month back. Shit, that’s terrible about her accident. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And she sent you a message yesterday?’

  ‘Yeah, just saying sorry for quitting, leaving me in the lurch. But it’s all fine really.’

  Daisy looked round. The counters were empty, the tables and chairs neatly stacked, the till lying open. ‘You’re closing down?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, it was all because of Rosie, in a way. She gave me this big speech about how coffee wasn’t her passion, and she had to do what she loved. I was pissed off at the time, but then I got to thinking … it’s not my passion either. I mean, it’s just coffee. Hot brown water. So I’m going to focus full time on my music. Put this place on the market.’

  ‘Well, that’s … that’s great.’ Daisy’s mind was whirring. Follow your passion. That didn’t sound like Rosie had been planning to kill herself. But on the other hand, why would she quit her job when she had nothing else to do?

  ‘Don’t suppose you know anyone who wants to buy a café business, do you?’

  ‘Er … you know, I might. Let me take your number?’

  Daisy ran on, place to place, person to person. Gary’s mate Dave, the one Rosie had snogged at the engagement party, worked at a comic store in Covent Garden, and yes, he told her, standing behind the counter in a Flash T-shirt, he’d also had a message from Rosie saying sorry for her behaviour. ‘I didn’t reply, though,’ he said, blushing. ‘My girlfriend didn’t want me to.’

  ‘You have a girlfriend now?’ Daisy gaped at him. ‘Er, sorry. I just meant …’

  ‘We met at Comic-Con. I guess it was because of Rosie, really. I never thought a girl would look at me, but then she did and she’s so beautiful, you know. It made me think, maybe I did have something to offer, and then I met Sarah at the Star Wars booth, and I just went for it. I hope Rosie will be OK. She didn’t seem very happy that day.’

  ‘No. I know she didn’t. In her message, did she say anything else, any clues about what she was thinking?’

  Dave looked baffled. ‘Just that she was sorry and she’d post me back the Star Wars T-shirt I left at hers. It’s limited edition, you see.’

  ‘OK. Well, sorry, Dave, I have to run. Congratulations, and all that.’ As Daisy stepped out onto the busy street, she wondered would she ever see Dave again, if she and Gary were over. But there was no time to pause and think about that now.

  Rosie’s flat. Might there be some clues there, something she’d missed? But when Daisy climbed the stairs, she saw the door was already open, and inside were Caz and Leo, on their knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Daisy!’ Caz stood up, wiping her hands on her dungarees. She had a silk scarf over her hair, and looked like a woman in a catalogue. ‘I hope you don’t mind. We just had to do something. I was going mad at home, pacing about waiting for news. We thought we’d leave the place nice for her coming home, if she …’ Caz tailed off. If she came home at all. Because it wasn’t guaranteed, of course. Nothing was.

  ‘I asked my dad to have it redecorated,’ Leo chipped in. ‘Lick of paint, few repairs, new bits of furniture, that kind of thing.’

  Daisy was stunned. ‘That was kind of you.’

  ‘Least I can do, mate.’ He looked embarrassed, pulling on his beanie hat so it almost covered his face. ‘Rosie’s been a good friend to me. Brings me falafel when I’m coming down, reminds me to shower and that … and I kept trying to shag her. Er, sorry, I mean … make love to her. She deserves better than that.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Daisy quickly.

  ‘Nah, it’s not
OK. It’s disrespectful, like. It’s harassment.’

  ‘Well, it’s good that you—’

  ‘She is well fit, though. Sorry.’

  ‘Why don’t you make Daisy some tea, Leo?’ said Caz pointedly, rolling her eyes at Daisy.

  ‘That’s OK, I have to rush. But … thank you for doing this, both of you. I don’t suppose you found anything while you were tidying – a note or a letter or …’ Daisy didn’t really know what she was looking for. A sign. A clue. A clear description of who Luke was and how to find him. But they were both shaking their heads. Nothing.

  A knock at the open door announced a man carrying a toolbox, with paint-stained combats and a pencil behind his ear. ‘Hiya, I’m James. Painter and decorator?’

  Leo pumped his hand enthusiastically. ‘Wicked, thanks for coming so quickly, mate.’

  Daisy moved to the door. ‘I’ll tell Rosie what you’re doing. I’m sure she’d … she’ll be pleased.’

  ‘Rosie?’ said the decorator, looking thoughtful. ‘I met a girl called Rosie once, at a dinner party. She sent me off with a right flea in my ear about doing what you loved, being creative and all that. Next day I was in such a state I messed up at work, sold someone the wrong house, got fired. But I’m much happier now. Got my own business, freedom, work with my hands …’

  ‘Right,’ said Daisy, nonplussed. ‘It’s probably not the same Rosie, though.’

  ‘No. Probably not. Now, where d’you want this lava lamp?’

  Rosie

  Briefly, she surfaced. The world was full of light and pain, and she had the impression of doctors working over her lifeless body, her parents in the background, faces pale and terrified. What was happening? Move, she urged herself. Lift a finger or a toe or just blink your eye to show them you’re still in there. But she couldn’t, and the darkness was already pulling her back under, to her memories, to the past. To the things she’d done her best to forget.

  6 May 2011 (Six years ago)

  ‘Where’s this then?’

  ‘Hello, dear.’

  ‘Mr Malcolm! You’re back.’

  ‘Yes, dear. Can’t you tell where you are?’

  Rosie looked around. A lawn. A stately home. Giant Connect Four. Bunting. Women in high heels and floral dresses, pegged to the grass. Men in suits holding pints. ‘Oh. A wedding. Is it …?’

  Rosie remembered now. Since the night of the dinner party, she’d seen Luke quite a lot. It hadn’t gone the way of most London friendships, where you might see each other once a month if you were particularly close, or let meet-ups dribble away to nothing as work and distance got in the way. And he had a wedding to plan for. But they’d taken to meeting up during the day – Luke worked from home, and there was never much call for angry articles demanding that the government should pay more in overseas aid – having coffee, wandering by the river near where he and Ella lived in Pimlico, popping into the Tate to look at the paintings, gradually eking out the day until he had to dash home to make dinner and pretend he’d done some work that day. They were friends. As they’d been years ago, nothing more. Enough to invite her to the wedding, though. So here was Rosie, and her heart felt like the crushed raspberry in her glass of prosecco.

  People were moving towards the house, being rounded up. She spotted herself, shivering slightly in a strapless turquoise dress she regretted wearing (really, if all this got sorted out she was hiring a personal shopper or something), clutching a wrap and bag and glass. On her own. She didn’t know many of Luke and Ella’s friends. James from next door, luckily, had not been invited. As she tottered inside in her poorly chosen heels, she realised what this was: the ceremony. She was now going to have to watch Luke get married.

  She turned to Mr Malcolm, a ghostly form in his tank top, standing out among these polished young people. ‘Do I have to? This was one of the most painful moments of my life.’

  ‘I’m sorry, dear.’

  So she gritted her teeth and watched it all, the medley of Adele songs, the reading from The Owl and The Pussycat (was this actually her memory of this wedding, or just a composite of every other one she’d been to in her life?), the vows. Oh God, the vows, as they held hands and looked at each other. Ella, of course, looked beautiful, so shiny and glamorous she didn’t seem real. Her skin glowing, her dark hair swept up, the lace dress clinging to her curves and the swell of her baby bump. Luke was in a grey suit and waistcoat, with a blue tie to match the wedding colours.

  ‘Will you all please rise?’ said the registrar, and Rosie got shakily to her feet with everyone else, as Ella and Luke clasped hands. This was it, the moment they would actually be married. After this, she would have to put all thoughts of him away. She couldn’t have feelings for a married man – she’d seen what her father’s affair had done to their family. He’d have a baby soon, anyway. He wouldn’t have time for her.

  ‘I do,’ said Luke. Rosie looked up from her feet, already swelling in the stupid shoes, knowing she had to watch even though it stabbed her inside. When she raised her eyes, she saw his gaze briefly flicker to her, just a moment, before looking away.

  ‘He looked at me. During his vows! Did I …? Was that real?’

  ‘It seemed that way, yes.’ Mr Malcolm beckoned her from where she was observing, the ghost at the feast. ‘Allons, cherie. There’s just one more thing.’

  The ceremony faded and dissolved, and the scene changed to the evening, everyone blurry and rumpled, drink flowing, people doing a conga round the dancefloor. Rosie was in the bar area, standing with a gin and tonic untouched in her hand, staring into space.

  ‘Having a good time?’

  Past Rosie turned to see Luke, and started, spilling some of her drink on her shoes. The groom had come to seek her out. It was like talking to the king. Luke was down to his waistcoat now, sleeves rolled up, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. She wanted to rest her head on his chest. ‘Oh yeah, fantastic.’ Past Rosie put on a bright unconvincing voice. ‘Married, eh … Congratulations!’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Hard to take in, really. Are you … you’re OK?’

  ‘Of course. Just having a breather, then I’ll hit the dancefloor …’ She hadn’t danced at all at that wedding, she remembered. Hard to when your heart was broken.

  Luke suddenly laughed, a short abrupt sound. ‘You know what’s funny? I thought for sure you were married too. When I invited you to those Christmas drinks.’

  She blinked. ‘You did?’

  ‘It sounds daft now. But I’m Facebook friends with Jack, and I saw he got married a few years back, but I never clicked on the photos because, well … it doesn’t matter why. So I thought he’d married you!’

  ‘Oh God, no, he married Ingrid. Weird, huh?’

  ‘Very weird. How did that happen?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just … long story. I think they always liked each other, I just didn’t see it. We’re not really friends any more, sadly. I haven’t seen her since … Marrakesh.’ At the mention of it, they both stepped back slightly. Rosie bit her lip and Luke frowned. Bad memories.

  ‘Why’s that?’ he said. ‘Were you upset about it?’

  ‘No. Me and him, we were – well. It should have ended long ago. All I felt was that … I wished I’d finished it much sooner. Before we went travelling. Before …’ Before you, was what she wanted to say. Because then I would have been free and you would be marrying me today, not her. But it was too late to say any of that.

  Luke closed his eyes for a second. ‘For Christ’s sake. Rosie, I …’ Who knew what he’d been about to say to her? He hadn’t said it, that was the point. There were things you just couldn’t, that you had to keep locked up inside. Words like unexploded bombs.

  For a moment they just stared at each other, as his wedding went on around them, and then they were in each other’s arms, in a crushing hug, his heart beating beside her ear, waves of heat coming off his body. She could smell his aftershave and a faint tang of sweat, taking her back to that day they’d met on the beach, and suddenly
Rosie had tears in her eyes. She wiped them off surreptitiously on the back of her hand, smearing mascara.

  ‘I’m so happy for you,’ she lied. ‘It’s an amazing day. Go, find Ella. Dance with her.’

  ‘OK.’ Reluctantly – she could see now it had been reluctance, she hadn’t imagined that – he went, and Rosie stood and watched him go.

  Now, she waited to wake up, go back to her own aching body, but instead she didn’t surface. ‘Mr M?’

  ‘Hold on, dear. There’s a bit more, I’m afraid.’

  And there was. As if the drawer in her memory marked ‘Luke’ had been forced open, images and facts and certainties flying through the air. ‘Oh.’ A flood of it. She couldn’t breathe. The pressure of all those memories hitting her cortex at once, like a hundred filing cabinets bursting open and their contents showering down on her.

  Luke and her at a pub quiz, other people there in the background as dull blurs, feverishly hunched over the question paper, slapping a high-five when they got answers right …

  Luke and her walking along the river near his flat, eating ice-cream cones though the coats and scarves said it was winter, and the sun sliced hard on the Thames and her chest hurt with laughing and the cold and she was happy, yes, happy …

  Doing a crossword, in deep concentration, crammed into the same seat of a train, her red hair hanging down over the table and brushing against his hand, which he didn’t move away …

  Karaoke, duetting on ‘Islands in the Stream’, his arm slung loose around her shoulders …

  In a coffee shop, talking intently, Luke moving the sugar bowl and milk jug round the table to explain something (trade routes, she thought), the waitress, tired and bored, pointing out they’d closed ten minutes ago and kicking them out …

  She and Luke in what looked like a hotel bar, him staring angrily into his beer, shoulders heaving. ‘She lied to me, Rosie. How could she do this? How could she?’ And Rosie’s head reeling, trying to make sympathetic noises – what had Ella done? She couldn’t remember. ‘What should I do, Ro? You tell me. What should I do?’