‘I got a fresh start, no baggage.’ I smile. ‘I managed to get myself off to university, where I could reinvent myself.’ For a moment Max’s face screams: I know about reinvention. I wonder who he used to be before he became the man sitting in front of me now. ‘I was able to take that little bit of passion and fan it into flames . . .’
‘And now you’re a phoenix.’ His hand reaches to mine on the top of the table for a moment. What’s weird is that it actually feels normal.
‘Huh?’ I laugh, only then realising that two tears are trickling down my cheeks.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Max shakes his head, draining the dregs of his coffee.
‘Yes it does,’ I insist, brushing away the tears.
‘It’s cheesy.’ He laughs, cheeks pinkening a little.
‘I don’t mind a bit of cheese – sometimes. Don’t tell Becky, though.’
‘I promise not to, if you promise not to cringe,’ he says, and I nod him my word. ‘You were surrounded by flames but you rose above them, then you fanned your own flames to rise by yourself,’ he says, perhaps the only thing since I started sharing that has made him look uncomfortable. ‘So in my eyes, Eve,’ he smiles softly, ‘you’re a fucking phoenix.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, and his brow furrows in confusion: I am? ‘That is pretty cheesy.’
‘Hey!’ He pushes my hand playfully, then glances down the lively street in search of Tom. They should be back any second. ‘Do you ever hear from him now?’ He returns his gaze to me.
‘Tom?’ I ask, my own eyes still on the street.
‘Your dad.’ Max sounds confused: what’s Tom got to do with this?
I look at him now. My dad’s letters weigh heavy on my heart, but sharing my story with Max has made me feel a bit lighter.
‘No, I don’t,’ I say. As soon as I utter the lie, for some reason it doesn’t feel right between us. ‘Well, I didn’t,’ I admit. ‘But a month or so ago he sent me a letter.’ I wait for wide eyes, a dropped jaw, a sign that Max is enjoying the drama of my life, so juicy to others but so raw for me. But he just looks on, soft and safe, welcoming me further in. ‘I guess he searched my name on the internet or something and found my writing on our website, and then wrote a letter to my office.’
I can’t unsay it now. Even though Becky doesn’t know. And part of me wishes I was telling Tom. I just know he’d have some good advice.
‘What did it say?’
‘That he misses me and wonders whether we might be able to be in touch.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. I didn’t reply.’ My heart is hammering in my chest, warning me to shut this down. Where was that warning when I was messaging Tom? Note to self: maybe don’t trust your heart. Trust reason. Trust logic.
‘I get it,’ Max says, smiling in surrender. Not forcing me to do or say or be anything.
‘But then he sent me another letter. He said he knew I probably wasn’t interested, but part of him worried that I hadn’t got his first letter, or worse, that I didn’t think he meant what he said. He said that wasn’t a chance he was willing to take any more.’ I guess that part is sweet, at least. Max’s expression tells me he thinks it’s sweet too. But he doesn’t know my dad, not really. Although right now, he knows a lot more than anyone else. ‘So he’s given me his number, says if I want to call first, just to sound him out at a distance, he’d be up for that. However I want to play it . . . but I’m not a game, Max.’
‘You’re not.’ He smiles in agreement. ‘But nor is life. And you only get one.’
‘So what are you saying?’ I don’t mean to snap. It’s just, what does he know? But I know that ship has sailed. He already knows too much.
‘That if you want to call him or see him, it doesn’t mean you’re going to go back to square one.’
But do I want to see him? Do I actually want to connect with him, phone to phone – or face to face – after all this time? And what if he doesn’t show, just stands me up like all those birthdays and dinners and graduations in the past? But I guess part of me wonders. Part of me still hopes . . .
‘You’re different now, you’re stronger.’
I’m a fucking phoenix.
‘And life is really short,’ Max goes on, and I know he’s thinking about Peggy. ‘So if you want to do something, trust yourself and don’t overthink it.’
‘Don’t overthink what?’ I hear Becky’s voice behind me, lovebirds now materialised, shopping bags in both of their hands. I assume all the bags belong to Becky. My eyes dart to Max and we have a silent conversation.
Please don’t tell anyone what I’ve told you.
Your secrets are safe with me.
‘Eve’s application for this role,’ Max says. ‘I know she’s waiting until they officially put the advert out, but I keep telling her she should send her CV and her column idea now, get ahead of the game.’
I know he’s covering for me, but why didn’t I think of that? Taren will wait in the wings, pretending to play by the rules, but I have to be smarter, more strategic. To get into the places where men can simply stroll.
‘That’s a great idea.’ Becky beams back at him and Max smiles all the more. Becky has a way of making everyone feel like they’re her favourite. ‘I’m so sorry we’re late, by the way. It’s my fault . . .’
‘Seconded.’ Tom smiles at me. Gazing up at him from my seat, he looks even bigger. And I hate my heart for hammering at the thought. ‘I swear I’ve completed your walk already, dude.’
‘Well you’ve landed in the right place.’ Max grins. ‘We’re going to try and see whether we can host the finishing-line party here.’
‘That’s a great idea!’ Tom echoes Becky’s excitement from before. You’d be forgiven for thinking they were perfect for each other, but I know a thousand tweaks have gone into this.
‘It was Eve who thought of it.’ Max looks at me as he gets to his feet, more than happy to share the credit. I just hope he isn’t the kind to share secrets.
Buster purrs by my side, enjoying the warmth of my open laptop, whirling with ideas. What I’ve written is just a scratch on the thousands of thoughts thrashing around my mind. Becky has gone back to Tom’s for dinner. I was invited, of course, her efforts to push me in Max’s direction not lost on me. And I guess I kind of enjoyed being with him today, but now I need to be alone.
Looking around the silent room, my feelings for Tom threaten to surface. We spent most of the day together, but I still miss chatting to him. The moments where Becky looked to me, in need of a line, are still some of my favourites. But they can’t be. The two of them are an item now.
Note to self: you do not fancy Tom, you do not fancy Tom.
And then there’s the tiny fact that I told Max about my dad’s letters before I’ve even told my best friend.
I turn my attention to my CV, open before me. Experience after experience I’ve made for myself, without my dad. His letters are still stashed in their hiding place, but for some reason they feel less threatening now. Clicking from my CV to my column presentation, my mind moves to my coffee with Max, our conversation. I know I should have been telling Becky, but being with Max felt good. Not in the tingles-down-my-arm way that just a flash of Tom’s smile can kick-start, but different, much deeper. Like gulping fresh air into the very core of myself, or returning to a warm house after a long, cold walk. The thought of it makes me feel peaceful in a way few things have of late. I’ve shared the truth with an almost-stranger and it has made me feel lighter. And now I’m about to do that a thousand times over, if the newspaper will just give me a chance.
I gaze down at my screen, rereading my email to Richard for the hundredth time. It was Max’s idea to send it right to the top, just like it was his idea not to wait another moment. If you want to do something, trust yourself and don’t overthink it. I replay his words from today. And
then click send.
There’s no going back now. But I don’t want to go back. I’ve wanted to tell stories, real stories, ever since I was eight years old. And this is my chance. I want it, like I want Tom. No, I don’t. I can’t. I force my eyes back to the screen, rereading Richard’s email receipt over and over. I don’t want Tom. I want this role. And then Max’s face forces its way into my mind, asking, ‘But what do you want from your dad?’
Chapter Eighteen
Max
Tom: Morning, beautiful.
Becky: Is it?
Tom: I meant you.
Becky: Ah, thanks. Sorry, still waking up.
Tom: Would have thought you’d have been out for your run by now.
Becky: You been at the gym?
Tom: Yeah, two clients this morning but kept the rest of the day free. Still want me to come to yours for lunch?
Becky: Yes please.
Tom: We’ll have to run together soon, though.
Becky: Soon.
Becky: But first, lunch.
‘Need any help, mate?’ I look across at Tom, stretching along the length of the sofa.
‘Nah, it’s okay.’ He smiles down at his screen. ‘Becky just avoiding exercise.’
‘That doesn’t sound like her,’ I say. I hate myself for remembering.
‘She’s seemed a bit less motivated lately.’ He sighs. ‘Busy with work, I think.’
‘Need me to throw in some conversation starters?’ I say, a little too hopeful.
‘Thanks, dude, but I think I’ve got this.’
I know he’s got this. He’s had it for almost two months now, my role in the romance now redundant. I force my eyes back to my book, but somehow even rereading Far From the Madding Crowd for the millionth time is not enough to stop me feeling completely alone. Tom’s either been out or occupied with Becky. But not frantic and flirtatious in the way he was with Yvonne. Sweeter, slower, like in amidst all the weirdos and one-night stands online dating has to offer, we’ve finally curated something real. Mission accomplished. They don’t need my help any more. I turn the page, hoping I can turn away my sadness. This is ridiculous. Becky never liked me and I never liked her.
‘Fancy Becky?’ Tom asks from across the room.
What? No, I don’t. I don’t.
‘Fancy joining me and Becky?’ Oh, right, that makes more sense, but the guilt on my face must have said it all. ‘What did you think I said?’ Tom laughs, eyes now back on Becky’s messages. What are they talking about?
‘Will Eve be there?’ I ask, knowing I can only stomach being around Becky and Tom if Eve is there to distract me. Speaking to her is a little like talking to Becky, back when we used to message into the night. It isn’t the same, but chatting to Eve, with all her ideas and ambition, makes me feel a bit more connected again.
‘Let me check.’ Tom beams from ear to ear, excited by the thought.
It would be so convenient if I was with someone too, if I could stop being the shadow in his relationship. I know my grief has impacted him too. Baggage has a way of throwing you off balance with everyone. It’s the reason I stopped telling him about it. It was good to speak to Eve, though.
‘Sorry, dude, Becky says she’s writing today.’
‘Becky’s writing?’
‘I was talking about Eve, you doughnut.’ Tom laughs.
‘Sorry, still waking up.’
‘You sound like Becky.’ He laughs again, but it’s anything but funny. ‘Eve is writing today,’ he confirms, and I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. I guess I won’t be seeing Becky this afternoon.
‘Things looking good for her promotion?’ Maybe part of me wants to see Eve too.
‘I don’t know, let me ask.’ Tom glances at me, a little smile circling around his mouth. I know he wants me to fancy Eve, but then he wanted me to fancy Amy and Lauren and anyone else who has ever shown an interest in me.
I watch him message Becky, ignoring my envy. Keep it together, dude. You do not fancy Becky.
‘Okay, so Becky says . . .’ Tom begins, and I hate the fact that these are now the magic words. ‘Eve’s feeling pretty hopeful. The advert came out a week or so ago and since then there’s been lots of talk internally about diversity and inclusion. Oh, and she says that some guy called Taren is a white middle-class class-A dick.’
I can’t help but laugh. I can hear Eve’s voice in every sentence Tom reads out loud.
‘So not a done deal, but she’s going to spend today writing and researching and whatnot so she’s prepared when they call her in for an interview.’
Tom looks up from the message like: does that answer all your questions, dude? No, it doesn’t. I have a thousand more questions for Becky. And I guess I have a few for Eve, too – just a couple about Peggy’s Walk that have come up over the past week and that I’m pretty sure Eve’s smarts will be able to slice through.
‘So do you want to join me and Becky?’ Tom asks, pretty half-hearted. We both know it would be easier if I didn’t.
‘No, that’s okay.’ I sigh. ‘I need to do some work too really.’
‘Don’t work too hard.’ Tom smiles. ‘You’re beginning to sound like Eve.’
From the depths of my bedroom, I hear the front door open and close, Tom making his way towards Becky: living room’s free, dude.
I look down at the sheets of paper scattered across my bed, at the spreadsheet on my laptop. Just concentrate on Peggy’s Walk. Do not get distracted. But it’s already too late; my mind has followed Tom out of the door and towards the object of his affections. Well, person of his affections. Becky’s no object: she’s smart and fiery with brilliant taste and is more like me than any woman I’ve ever met. Well, in our messages. In person feels different, and why wouldn’t it? Tom is there in all those moments and she thinks she likes him. She does like him. Like I said, she has brilliant taste. She also had really good taste in friends. Eve is great too. But why am I thinking about Eve? Just concentrate, dude.
I gaze down at the documents demanding my attention. Just think of Peggy, think of Peggy. This walk is all about people like her. People living on the inside just wanting to be seen. But we can’t invite elderly, lonely people out on a walk without enough people to look after them: we need more volunteers. And we need to do something for the ones unable to come outside: find some way they can see what’s going on and feel less lonely too.
I look at my message-less phone screen, blank but for the Wi-Fi sign. That’s it – we could stream parts of the walk online so that people who can’t walk with us can watch with us, can feel a part of us. And we’ll need to secure some press coverage too. Something to publicise Peggy’s Walk far and wide to everyone cooped up inside. I scribble the idea at the bottom of my notebook, already overflowing with thoughts. Right now, I have far more questions than answers. Am I really cut out for this? But I promised Peggy I’d make it happen.
I return my attention to my spreadsheet, trying to force the negative thoughts away. Right now, I feel like I’m sinking, but when I was chatting to Becky, I felt lighter, so many evenings spent laughing at her words. Now I spend countless nights sitting in the same spot feeling isolated by my thoughts again. Completely alone.
Just like Grandma when she died.
I shake my head; she wasn’t alone. She was with her family, surrounded by brothers and sisters in a way I never have been. This is my grief again, telling me lies. Maybe my thoughts about Becky aren’t true either. Maybe it’s just loneliness getting the better of me. I need to stop wallowing. I know not everything is about me now, know what is important. My work: helping people, being there, keeping my promises. I just need to get up, get out, be there for someone, do what I say I am going to do.
No more Becky; she’s with Tom now.
And I need to be with Peggy.
‘How’s my favourite girl t
oday?’ I ask Peggy across one of the flower-dressed tables filling the care home’s main reception room. She looks tired, a little spaced out, but something about my being here seems to make her come alive.
‘Max, I’m one hundred and seven. I should not be your favourite girl.’
‘Peggy, you’re eighty-four.’ I laugh, shaking my head. Her sporadic age joke is so well worn that it can’t help but feel like home. It’s as if being here with her is making me feel like I can breathe again, even if Becky is still lingering in my mind.
‘But if I am still managing to be your favourite girl, I must be doing something right. Either that or you’re doing something wrong.’ Her eyes narrow across the room, and I follow her gaze all the way to Amy. I swear every time I visit, Amy is on shift. No wonder everyone thinks there’s something going on between us.
‘The only thing I’m doing wrong is . . .’ I think of Becky and Tom, and then of the walk, of the lack of volunteers to make the ratios work. I can’t tell Peggy, can’t have her thinking I’m letting her down. ‘Not bringing you more chocolate.’ I look down at the empty wrappers between us, my eyes catching on Peggy’s liver-spotted hands.
‘Max, I’ve already got dementia, I don’t need diabetes too. How are you?’ She says it with eyebrows raised, and for the briefest of moments she reminds me of Eve. Eve, who is spending her Saturday following her passion, not getting distracted by who her best friend is dating. I need to take a leaf out of her book.
‘I’m okay, thanks. Your walk is keeping me nice and busy.’
‘It’s not my walk,’ Peggy says, her voice croaky. ‘It’s your walk and everyone else’s too.’ I know that, I really do, but somehow doing it for Peggy makes me feel like I might actually see this through. ‘How’s it coming along?’
What Are Friends For?: The will-they-won't-they romance of the year! Page 17