Fierce Fragile Hearts

by Sara Barnard

  ‘I thought that, too.’

  ‘Well, great. Can’t we be that?’

  ‘Well, not really.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The thing is,’ I say, not sure where I’m going even as I’m speaking, ‘you can’t go back. Once you’ve slept with someone, that’s it. It’s like a line you cross.’

  ‘Is it? Does it have to be?’

  ‘How can it not be?’ I have a sudden memory of him at the pier arcade, grinning out at me from behind a toy giraffe.

  ‘So you’re saying that you don’t want a boyfriend, but you don’t want me to be a mate, either? You just don’t want to see me again?’ He sounds hurt, which surprises me.

  ‘I do want to see you again.’

  Another silence. ‘OK, I’m totally confused about what you want.’

  ‘I don’t want labels,’ I say. What I mean is that Kel is a mate, and there’s no part of me that’s attracted to him. But I can’t deny that there’s something between Matt and me. I want more than ‘mates’, it’s true. But I don’t want a boyfriend.

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘And I don’t want to just be …’ I hesitate. ‘You know. A warm body.’ There’s a heat in my cheeks, even though there’s no one around.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘That’s fair. How can I show you that it wouldn’t be about that?’

  ‘Maybe we could keep it off the table for a while?’ I suggest, surprising myself with the words. ‘See how it goes?’

  There’s a pause. ‘OK.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Sure. If that’s what you want, I’m in.’

  I feel myself smile. ‘I’m in, too.’

  16

  ‘Patience’

  The Lumineers

  It takes a couple of weeks for Dilys to move from the hospital to the care home, which is on the opposite side of Brighton from me, so I have to get the bus to visit. I sit at the back, headphones in, listening to one of Matt’s old EPs, watching Brighton through the dusty window. I’m not sure what to expect, but I’ve brought my guitar anyway, just in case. I’m hoping that Dilys will be a lot better than when I saw her last, maybe even talking and moving around.

  She’s not, of course. Whatever optimistic recovery schedule I’d had in my head is clearly way out, because Dilys is still bed-bound when I finally make it through reception and the maze of corridors to her room. But she smiles big when she sees me and lifts a hand in a wave.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. It’s nothing like her usual voice, but it’s a greeting, and it’s from Dilys. I’ll take it.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask, sinking into the chair beside her bed.

  She gives me an energetic, slightly sarcastic thumbs up.

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Me too. Look, I brought you dahlias. Sorry they’re only small. I don’t have much money.’ I set the flowers carefully on the bedside table. ‘Do you have to stay in bed all the time?’

  Marcus, the nurse who’d directed me to the room and has been hovering in the doorway as if he’s not sure if he should leave us on our own, speaks at this point. ‘Dilys is having plenty of therapy to get her fully mobile again,’ he says. He has that cheery, slightly too-loud voice of someone working with the elderly. ‘Isn’t that right, Dilys?’

  She nods, unsmiling.

  ‘You’re not in the bed all the time?’ I ask her.

  ‘No,’ she says. The word is round and weighted. There’s a pause, and she tries another, less decipherable sound. A breath, like an F noise, and ‘Teeg’.

  ‘Fatigue?’ I guess, thinking about the pamphlets I’d dutifully read after I’d first visited her at the hospital that had listed fatigue as a common post-stroke symptom.

  She nods, pleased. ‘Teeg.’

  ‘So you can only do so much at a time,’ I say. ‘That makes sense. Therapy’s hard. I had to take loads of breaks when it was me, and that was just head-therapy.’

  Marcus looks at me like I’ve surprised him, though I don’t know why, unless he’d made a snap judgement of me in the tiny amount of time we’ve been in the same room. I wonder what the surprise is; that I’ve had therapy, or that I’ll talk about it so casually?

  ‘Is there anything I should know?’ I ask him pointedly. Is there a reason you’re still here?

  ‘You seem like you’re all set,’ Marcus says amiably. ‘I’ll pop back in later. Just come and find me if you have any problems.’

  When he’s gone, I lean over and pick up a laminated sheet from beside Dilys’s bed. It looks like some kind of communication aid; it’s sectioned off with illustrations for things like drinking, eating, reading, sleeping. I glance over it and hold it up for Dilys.

  ‘Anything you want to tell me?’

  She gives me a look, a very Dilys look, and pushes the sheet away. ‘You,’ she says, like a command.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Not much has happened since I last saw you. Just work and stuff. Oh, I went to the launderette!’

  Her eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘I know! It was actually OK. I’ve just started seeing a counsellor, so I had some stuff to read from them while I was there. It’s a good place to do a bit of reading. My clothes came out clean, so I guess that’s the important thing. I miss you and Clarence, though.’

  She’s tapping her fingers at me, so I stop. She makes a backward motion with her hand.

  ‘Go back? To … counselling?’

  She nods.

  ‘Oh. Well, some stuff happened while you were away that I didn’t deal with very well, so I thought I should start seeing a counsellor, because talking helps, right? I thought I wouldn’t be able to get one, because I can’t pay for private and I don’t want to have to go through the whole mental-health assessment thing to get one assigned to me. But my personal adviser, Miriam, found out that I can see a trainee counsellor for free. Sort of helping us both? So that’s what I’m doing. Her name is Erin. She’s pretty good. She’s only been training for about a year and a half, but I think she’ll make a good counsellor.’

  ‘You,’ she says emphatically.

  I hesitate. ‘I’d … make a good counsellor?’

  She nods.

  ‘Really? You think so? I don’t know, I think I talk too much to be a professional listener. Anyway, we’ve only had one session. Other than that, not much to tell. I went to Hastings to see Matt play a show. Remember I told you about Matt? The musician? That was good. Have you ever been to Hastings?’ She nods again. ‘I liked it. Not as much as Brighton, but it’s nice. The beach was really quiet.’ I let myself pause to breathe, glancing around the room. ‘Do you like it here?’

  Dilys makes a motion with her shoulders, which I decide means ‘It’s OK’.

  I say, ‘That’s good. It seems pretty nice here. Are the staff nice?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ she says, nodding.

  ‘Do you need anything? Anything I can bring, I mean.’ When she shakes her head, I say, ‘I guess Graham is taking care of all of that. I hope you like the flowers, though.’ She smiles a smile so full of affection, I have to look away, reaching for my guitar as if the whole move away from her was planned. ‘Look, I brought my guitar.’

  ‘Play,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, I’m gonna,’ I say, unzipping the case and lifting the guitar gently on to my lap. I grin at her. ‘Any requests? “Wonderwall”?’ She blinks at me. ‘Thought not. OK. I’ve got a surprise for you.’ My heart is starting to pound. ‘Go easy on me, OK? This is because I’m glad you’re still … here.’

  I swallow, bite my lip, then begin. My fingers find the chords to ‘Blackbird’ as naturally as breathing. And I start to sing.

  This isn’t the moment where I reveal that I’m some amazing singer. I’m not. I can hold a tune and my voice isn’t terrible, but I don’t have much power or range or training or any of the things I’d need if I wanted to do it properly. When I sing, it’s quiet, almost to myself. Whisper-singing.

  Dilys must like it, though. Because when I reac
h the end and force myself to look at her, there are tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, pressing my fingers against the strings and stopping the last note short.

  She nods at me, firm and brisk. There’s so much emotion in that nod that it loosens something inside me and I start to cry, too.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, wiping at my eyes. ‘This was meant to be a good thing.’

  She nods again. ‘Good.’

  I put the guitar back in its case, trying to think of something else to say, something that isn’t heavy. ‘You need to cheer this room up a bit,’ I say, looking around. ‘Put more of you in it. Don’t you have any photos of Clarence?’ When she shakes her head, I say, ‘I’ve got a few on my phone. I could get a couple printed to put up? And maybe some other little bits. Make it a bit more you.’ I wipe my eyes again.

  This is when her hand, shaky and cool, reaches out and takes a hold of mine. She squeezes, just lightly, and I smile. She smiles back. She mouths, ‘Thank you,’ slow and distinct.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I say.

  17

  ‘Pride and Joy’

  Brandi Carlile

  I turn nineteen on a blustery Tuesday. My bedsit is just as empty as it was on the last night I was eighteen, but my phone is full of messages and love, which is something. There’s a package waiting for me, a joint present from Caddy and Rosie – delicate falling-star earrings – and a card from each of them. I work during the day – Farrah makes me wear a ‘Happy Birthday’ badge that almost all the customers completely ignore – and then go to Sarah’s for dinner. She’s made carbonara with garlic bread, followed by chocolate truffle cake. When I get home, I’m full and happy. And then I’m even happier, because Caddy calls.

  ‘Happy birthday!’ she says.

  ‘Thanks!’

  Caddy and I made up the same evening we’d had our almost-fight – she called me, softened and conciliatory – but I’ve felt the strain underlying all our conversations ever since. Some tensions can’t be undone by wishing them away.

  ‘Did you have a good day?’ she asks.

  ‘It was OK,’ I say. ‘I was at work. Thanks for the earrings! I love them.’

  ‘You’re welcome! Listen, what are you doing next week?’

  ‘I don’t know … Work, I guess? Why?’

  ‘Do you work every day? How does it work with weekends when you’re on flexible hours? I’m basically asking you to come and visit. But it doesn’t have to be a specific day; whenever suits you.’

  I try not to yell too loud down the phone. ‘Yes! I am there. Let me check my calendar for when I’m working, but I can get my shifts switched around if I have to. I can come down for a couple of nights, maybe?’

  ‘Perfect. Oh my God, I can’t wait, Suze. There’s so much I want to show you.’

  I’m gripping the phone to my ear. ‘Do you want me to bring anything?’

  ‘Thanks, but no. Just you! God, it feels like so long since I last saw you. Do you look the same? Are you still blonde?’

  I laugh. ‘Shockingly, yes, I am.’

  ‘Good. The world would just be wrong if you weren’t blonde. Hey, how come you’re not out tonight?’

  ‘I had dinner at Sarah’s,’ I say. ‘And my mum’s coming tomorrow, so I don’t want to be hungover.’

  ‘Your mum’s visiting?’

  ‘Yeah.’ My stomach gives a nauseating churn. Part hope, part dread. Last time I saw Mum was about six months ago, not long before I left Southampton, and Brian had been there as a buffer. It’s been a long time since the two of us spent one-on-one time together. ‘As, like, a birthday thing.’

  ‘OK,’ she says, cautious. ‘Have a good time. Call me if you need to?’

  I smile. ‘I will. Thanks.’

  The buzzer sounds the next morning as I’m sliding the bracelet Mum gave me for my eighteenth birthday on to my wrist – silver with a topaz stone. I quickly take the stud out of my nose and take one last glance at myself in the mirror. Mum is a birthstone-bracelet kind of person, and she’d hate my nose piercing if she knew about it. I’d love to pretend that I don’t care what she thinks of me, but I do, and the thought of her face crinkling with dislike – or worse, disappointment – panics my fragile heart.

  I sprint downstairs to let her in at the front door rather than just buzz her up. When she sees me, she smiles.

  ‘Hello, my darling,’ she says, stepping forward and touching her lips to the side of my head.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. I go to hug her but she’s already stepping back, turning from me and closing the door. My arms fall empty to my sides. ‘I’m just up the stairs,’ I say, leading the way.

  When I turn to see her reaction as we walk into my flat, I see an expression on her face I don’t quite recognize, and I try to read it as she takes off her coat and glances over to smile at me again. And then I land on it, the word ‘hopeful’. She’s hopeful.

  It’s instantly contagious. Hope blooms up in my chest and I smile back, properly, reaching out to take her coat even though I don’t have anywhere to put it.

  ‘Well,’ Mum says, looking around the room. ‘It’s on the small side, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t need much space,’ I say, when what I should say is, Yes, it’s tiny, isn’t it? I hate it. And then maybe she’d say, Oh, baby, you can’t stay here on your own. And she’d pack up all my stuff, right now, and drive me home, and when we got there she’d make me saffron buns like she used to and we’d—

  ‘Maybe not, but it’s a bit drab,’ Mum says. ‘Still, I suppose you don’t have much choice on a coffee-shop wage.’

  Some of the hope fades, just a little. The gas turned down on a flame. ‘Not really.’

  ‘But you’re OK?’ She turns to me. ‘You’re managing?’

  ‘Just about.’ I try to smile. I’m still holding her coat.

  She smiles. ‘Good. That’s good. You know, I never lived on my own, not ever.’ She looks around the room again, shaking her head a little. ‘I’m not sure I’d manage.’

  I don’t know what to say to this. Whether to agree that, no, she wouldn’t, or say that I’m not managing really and can she rescue me? But no. I give my wrist a tiny pinch. I am managing. I am. I have a job and I pay my bills and I don’t stay in bed all day when I’m not working. I’m doing well.

  ‘Your dad sends his best,’ she says.

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  We look at each other. ‘Well,’ she says finally. ‘Shall we go?’

  She’s booked afternoon tea for us both in a hotel near the seafront called The Ogley, the kind of hotel with three varieties of champagne on the wine list and velvet seats set weirdly low so I don’t know how to sit properly.

  When we sit down at our table, Mum looks around, smiling. ‘This is nice,’ she says.

  ‘Ladies!’ a bright voice chirps from above us. I look up to see a beaming waiter standing beside the table, hands clasped in expectation. ‘Welcome to The Ogley. I’m Daniel, your server for today. Afternoon tea for two, is it?’

  ‘Please,’ Mum says. She’s polite but, compared to his effusive cheer, she seems almost rude.

  ‘You two look so alike!’ he says. Mum and I do not look alike. ‘Sisters?’

  I laugh, and he turns his beam on to me. ‘Nice,’ I say, but teasing, not meanly, as if we’re already friends. ‘Smooth. Gunning for that tip already?’

  ‘Damn, you got me,’ he says cheerfully. ‘That’s a solid line, though, right?’

  ‘Nah, it’s too obvious,’ I say. ‘You’ve got to be more subtle about it. Like –’ I put on a voice, that special enthusiasm of paid staff that I know well – ‘Is it a special occasion?’ I drop the voice, gesturing at Mum. ‘And then say –’ voice back on – ‘Perhaps your fortieth birthday?’ Drop the voice. ‘And then Mum’ll be so flattered, because that was ages ago, but it sounds sincere, right?’ I look at Mum for back-up, then remember who she is. I turn quickly back to the waiter before I can trip myself up. ‘You’ve got to put a
bit of truth in a good line. That makes it solid.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Daniel says.

  ‘I’ll bear your tip in mind,’ I say, and he laughs.

  ‘I like you,’ he says. ‘I’ll make sure you get the freshest stuff.’ He points to the menu. ‘Have you chosen the variety of tea you’d each prefer?’

  When he leaves to put in our order, I look over at Mum. She’s staring at me with an unreadable half-smile on her face.

  I can’t help myself. ‘What?’

  ‘I always forget what a performer you are,’ she says. She doesn’t say it like it’s an insult, but it’s not exactly a compliment either. I hesitate, wondering what to say, because I so desperately want her to love me, but then she smiles warmly and I let it pass. ‘So, tell me,’ she says. ‘How is life in Brighton?’

  I give her a highly sanitized version of my life, focusing on the healthy bits and leaving out the occasional breakdowns and insomnia entirely. Caddy and Rosie get the starring roles they deserve, complete with details of their courses and universities. I mean to tell her about Dilys, but I can’t find the words to explain the relationship we’ve somehow formed, because there’s part of me that knows she could say something that will lodge in my head and ruin it. So I move straight on to Madeline’s, which I describe at length, exaggerating how much I like working there and agreeing that, yes, management could be an option one day, even though it’s definitely not.

  Around the time I start talking about Kel and his student house, Daniel arrives holding a tea stand aloft, beaming. ‘Here we are!’ he says, setting it down on the table between Mum and me. He goes through the whole show of describing every item on the stand, like we need egg mayonnaise sandwiches explained to us, and I take the opportunity to look at Mum while she’s focused on him, nodding and smiling. She looks older than the image I’d kept in my head. Tired, though she’s always looked tired to me. You look so alike, Daniel had said. God, I hope not.

  I take a picture of the spread and upload it to Instagram almost without thinking about it, tagging the hotel and adding a quick ‘Shout-out to Daniel, best waiter ever’, before I put my phone down and reach randomly for one of the finger sandwiches.