by Rebecca Done
‘Hi,’ I say, without meaning to, when we eventually draw apart.
‘My dad liked stars,’ he says, while I’m gathering myself, heart still pounding from our kiss.
I swallow, remembering Kevin, the amateur astrologer. When the twins were still small, he’d take them up on to the hill behind the cottage and teach them all the constellations. ‘Yeah, he did.’
‘Sometimes I think he and Mum are up there together, looking at the same ones I am.’
For a moment I am too emotional to speak, but eventually I manage to produce words. ‘Yeah. Maybe they’re watching out for you now.’
We sit there for a while longer, staring up together at all the stars in our little patch of sky. Then eventually we meander back inside, hand in hand together in the darkness.
And so it is that on Thursday, I find myself sitting in my mum’s kitchen eating lemon drizzle cake, while she and my dad look on expectantly from the opposite side of the table.
I glance down as I sometimes do at the lock screen on my phone. Me and Alex on our wedding day, running hand in hand, laughing. That’s what I’m fighting for. That day, that moment.
‘Alex and I have made a decision.’ I take a deep breath. ‘We’d love to come and stay with you guys, for a while.’
Mum clasps her hands to her chest. ‘You really would? That’s wonderful news, Moll!’
Dad rushes round to where I am sitting, throws an arm round my shoulders, pecks me on the head. ‘Fantastic, darling. That really is good news.’
‘You’re sure?’ I say a little nervously. ‘This will be a big life change for both of you – you know that? You need to be prepared.’
‘You’re our only child,’ Dad says firmly. ‘We love you, and we’ll do whatever it takes for you and Alex to stay together. That you’ve been struggling to cope so long on your own is our greatest source of unhappiness, Molly, really.’
‘Well, there’s more good news. I’ve been offered my old job back,’ I tell them. ‘At the agency.’
Mum gives a little gasp of pleasure. ‘Oh, darling!’
‘So … we’ll have good money coming in again, I’ll be happier, more fulfilled …’
‘This really is wonderful news,’ Dad says.
‘Alex seems to think there’ll be more for him to do here. You know, he always used to say he was bored stuck out where we are in the middle of nowhere, but I thought I knew better.’ I shake my head. ‘I was so fixated on the idea that he was unhappy in London before his accident that I never considered … that things might have changed.’
‘It’ll be a big adjustment for him,’ Dad says, ‘but we’ll do everything we can to help.’
‘And maybe … we could think about that annexe,’ I suggest. ‘You know – in the longer term.’
‘We were considering it anyway, Molly,’ Mum says now, topping up my tea from the pot. ‘We already had all the plans drawn up and we thought … well, why not?’
‘I’m really excited,’ I tell them both.
‘So are we,’ Dad says. ‘We’re excited to finally be able to help both of you, in the way we always wanted to.’
‘And who knows,’ Mum says, forking up the last crumbs of her cake, ‘you might even be able to start thinking about …’
I smile and shake my head. ‘One step at a time, Mum. One step at a time.’
26
Molly – present day
About a week later, I call Graeme. We’ve not had any contact since his confession, but from the breathless way he answers the phone, I know he’s been waiting for my call.
‘I’m not going to tell Alex what happened that night, Graeme.’
He exhales relief down the line, but then there is only silence, which is actually not a bad thing, as it means I can say everything I need to.
‘But I want you to do something for me in return.’
‘Anything.’
‘I want you to leave.’
‘Leave …?’
‘Leave London. Leave England.’
‘Moll, come on …’
‘I’m being serious, Graeme. When you sold your flat four years ago, you dreamed of travelling the world. I think you’ve actually been dreaming of doing it since you left school, but you felt too constrained by making your dad happy, didn’t you?’
‘You want me to go and travel the world?’ he says, and I can almost picture his despairing smile.
‘Yes,’ I assert. ‘Go anywhere, Graeme. So long as it’s a long-haul plane journey away from here.’
‘Moll …’
‘We’ve all suffered enough,’ I continue emphatically. ‘I’m no psychologist but I don’t think you’ve ever got over what happened with your mum, or your dad, come to that. Take yourself off to a beach somewhere far away, heal yourself, recover. Find a new therapist. Learn to surf, learn a language, learn to love yourself. Do whatever it takes, for as long as you need. Can you do that for me?’
There is a long pause.
‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘I’d love to go, Moll, but … I can’t afford a plane ticket right now.’
‘I know. But I found out yesterday I’m getting a payout from Spark.’
In response to correspondence from my solicitor setting out my right to make a claim for unfair dismissal – based on Spark’s lack of fair processes and the disproportionate penalty they inflicted on me – Paul has agreed to make a small payout. They’re running on a shoestring, they don’t even have an HR department and they can’t afford a legal battle, so they’ve offered to settle instead of fight me in court. It’s not much, but it’s enough.
‘That’s great news, Moll,’ Graeme says encouragingly.
‘The money’s yours,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a few thousand pounds – enough to buy you a plane ticket and get you started.’
‘Molly, don’t be insane. I can’t take that money from you.’
‘Yes, you can. I need you to do this, Graeme. Take the money, book your plane ticket, come back feeling like a brand-new person and by then … I might be able to look you in the eye again.’
He exhales. ‘Molly, before his accident, Alex lent me money. I don’t know if he ever told you –’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, cutting him off. ‘Please just take this, Graeme. I need time to get over this too.’
‘But … I can’t leave you to cope on your own.’
I take a breath, tell him about my new job at the agency – all confirmed in writing this week – and about moving in with Mum and Dad. Yes, it’ll be a big change – especially for Alex – and there’ll be bumps along the road, but … we can do this. I know we can. But if Graeme’s living in London at the same time as we are, Alex will want to see him all the time. And I can’t do that right now. I need space. And so does Graeme.
Between them, Eve and Val are going to keep an eye on the cottage, until we’re in a position to finish the renovations.
I’m not doing any of this for Graeme. I’m doing it for Alex. Because I married Alex, and I love him, and I want to get through this. I want to. When I look back at how far we’ve come over the past three-and-a-bit years, I feel … proud. Proud we’ve made it this far. And I’m not going to let anything derail us now.
‘What are you going to tell Alex, when he asks where I’ve gone?’ Graeme says now.
‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘As soon as that money comes through, you’re going to tell him you’ve decided to go away for a while, and then you’re going to tell him whatever you need to, to make him feel okay about that.’
‘Okay.’ There is a long pause. ‘I can do that.’
‘So we’re agreed.’
He takes a deep breath. ‘Molly?’
‘Yes?’
‘I just wanted to say … thank you. For being a better person than me.’
‘Not better,’ I tell him, like always. ‘Just different.’
‘Alex was lucky to find you. You know … that night at Mike’s place, I knew it wasn’t me you wanted. I knew that, Moll.
You were just looking for the Alex you’d lost.’
I shut my eyes, permit a couple of stray tears to fall.
‘You’re made for each other,’ he says. ‘I can see that now. How you’ve dealt with everything … there’s no other girl for him, Moll. You’re the one.’
I manage a smile through my tears. ‘Come back feeling better, okay?’
‘You know what? I’m just going to follow your lead and refuse to give up. I’m never going to stop believing that things can improve. Starting today.’
After he’s hung up, I glance down at my phone, at my new lock screen. It’s a selfie of me and Alex that he took the other day then messaged to me, completely unprompted. We weren’t out to dinner, or dressed up for a night on the tiles, or anywhere special – we were only in the kitchen, and we both had flour all over our faces after a baking session got out of hand (and, for once, in a good way). It sums us up – mundane yet ridiculous, and occasionally, more able to laugh. We were at home, and we were happy.
Because life is no longer about who we were before. It’s about who we are now.
I receive an email a few weeks later, the night before Alex and I move back to Clapham.
Subject: Plans
Hey Molly
Well, as you know, I’ve told Alex I’m going away, and it went well. So there you have it – I’m going.
The (very) basic itinerary is South East Asia and then Australia – for no other reason than Australia is about as far away from England as I can possibly go, and you said you needed space and time. So with me there, you should have it.
Again, thank you for the money. I’ll repay you, of course. I don’t know how you found it in your heart to be so generous – materially and emotionally – but like I’ve always said, you’re a better person than me.
When I told you what happened between me and Alex that night, it could have gone any one of a million ways, and instead of doing what you probably would have liked to do, you considered Alex. Which is exactly why I should be pleased you married him in the first place.
I could leave you with some natty little tips about what I think you should do now, and who to call on if you need help, but you’ve already proved yourself to be streaks ahead of me in the life-competency stakes (not that you’ve ever needed to prove a thing). So I won’t do that. What I will do, though, is wish you both luck with all the love I have. I don’t know how long I’ll be away for, but I’m going to take your advice and make it as long as I need.
So … be good, be okay, email me if I need to know anything. I can be on the first plane out of anywhere if you need me. You know what I mean.
Molly, I need to tell you one more thing. Your name was the last thing Alex said before he shut his eyes that night, just after he fell. You were his first and last thought after it happened. Even though he’s not the brother I once knew, he’s still Alex – and I know that, deep down, nothing has changed for him.
So there you have it. I won’t be in touch again unless you need me, and perhaps this will give us both the space we need to move on to the next (hopefully brighter) phase of our lives.
Lastly, please delete this, and text me when you have. I need to go away knowing this is the start of a clean slate for all of us.
Thank you, from the bottom of my very dysfunctional heart,
G
27
Alex – 28 March 2014
A few days after Nicola tells me about her festive fling with my twin brother, Graeme takes me by surprise and invites me to London for the weekend.
I’m not sure even as I arrive whether I’m intending to bring up the subject of him sleeping with my ex-girlfriend. When I first found out, I thought I might – but as the week has worn on, I’ve mellowed somewhat. It’s almost as if – if I don’t think about it too much – I can pretend the whole thing never actually happened.
I mean, how much harm did it do, really? Yes, it was a bit crappy of Graeme – given he’s my twin and Nicola and I dated for six years, ending with her cheating on me – but it’s over now. It’s probably just another fling that Graeme has added to his ever-growing tally. It’s already in the past – do I need to rake it up just for the sake of it?
Plus, knowing Nicola, the whole thing was probably instigated by her anyway, and Graeme – whose brain spends a fair amount of time in his trousers – no doubt went along with it in the absence of anything else being on offer at the time. He’s been in such a bad place since Dad died, and we all make weird decisions when we’re hurting about something. He wasn’t thinking rationally.
No. I’ll leave the past in the past, and we’ll only talk about Nicola if absolutely necessary. Like if he brings her up, for example. It’s been so long since I’ve spent any quality time with him that I don’t want to do anything that might ruin the weekend.
This could be the weekend that we finally turn the corner, I decide, as I raise my finger to the buzzer. This could be the weekend that everything changes for good.
Things are already looking quite positive – Graeme’s finally opted to put down roots, of sorts. He’s decided to rent rather than sofa-surf, in a ridiculously swanky block out east that I know to be mostly inhabited by stockbrokers.
‘This must be costing you a fortune,’ I remark as he shows me around. The place is littered with unnecessary gadgets, like an ice maker and a wine fridge and a coffee machine to rival anything you’d find in a high-end deli.
‘Did someone a favour,’ he says with a shrug.
I pause to examine the toaster, the one that apparently cost more than the price of my first car. ‘What?’ I laugh. ‘You did someone a favour, and they gave you a flat?’
‘No, just … I get mates’ rates on the rent.’
I stare at him. ‘Come on.’
‘I’m being serious.’
‘What kind of favour?’
Graeme just shrugs and moves away. ‘There’s a gym downstairs,’ he throws over his shoulder. ‘We should work out before dinner. Just like old times.’
I’m so used to Graeme being bitter about everything that it takes me a moment to realize that he’s not being sarcastic.
‘Nobody does mates’ rates on rent,’ I say, unable to drop it because there’s something about this arrangement that sounds decidedly shady.
‘Yeah they do, Alex,’ Graeme sighs, like my life is so pedestrian and boring.
We’re hovering dangerously close once more to the topic of mortgages and cottages, so I decide for the moment to back off.
I don’t want anything to spoil this weekend.
‘Alex. Alex.’
I open my eyes, blink into the darkness. Did I imagine that Graeme just spoke to me? I’m crashed out on his sofa – my bed for the weekend, since this place is a bachelor pad with only one bedroom that occupies the entire (get this) mezzanine floor.
We had a good time last night, working out in the gym and sharing a Thai takeaway with just one beer apiece since we were feeling virtuous (I admit I was slightly relieved when he stopped at one. I’ve been so worried in recent months that Graeme might be turning into our dad).
I told him that, last week, I added his name to the cottage title deeds – so, effectively, it’s now half his. I’d been waiting for the right moment to let him know, having intended it as something of a grand gesture, something to show just how much he means to me, so when my invite to London came, I thought, Perfect timing. But when the moment arrived, it felt strangely flat. Perhaps, I reflected afterwards, Graeme simply wished Dad had left him half of the cottage in the first place.
Still, we had a good night – so good, in fact, that it was too late by the time I went to bed to call Molly and wish her goodnight. So I just texted her,
Great night, love you xxx
‘What?’ I say now, through a clag of sleep haze, half thinking I was imagining Graeme spoke, or that perhaps it was only an echo of the rain that’s violently whipping the enormous warehouse-style window next to the staircase.
I blink a couple of times to aid processing, and as my eyes begin to adjust I check my watch. It’s just gone two.
‘Alex, I need a favour.’
Graeme’s voice sounds closer now, so finally I sit up, turn to look at him. He’s standing on the wide landing halfway up the staircase that leads to the mezzanine floor, bare-chested in tracksuit bottoms. His face is illuminated by the street lights outside the window, giving him a strange risen-from-the-dead appearance that unnerves me slightly.
‘Sure, mate. Whatever you need. What’s up?’
‘I’m broke.’
I rub my eyes. ‘I know.’
‘No. I mean, I’m broke … and I owe people money.’
I stare at him. ‘What people?’
‘Does it matter?’
I get up then and walk over to the foot of the staircase, almost breaking a toe in the half-light on a cast-iron coffee table that’s a little too close to the bottom step. ‘Ow. Fuck.’
‘Hate that thing.’
I stare up at him. ‘Gray, who do you owe money to?’
‘Just some people.’
My heart hammers. Alcohol addiction. A drug habit. Dad’s problems passing straight down the gene pool to Graeme.
‘For drugs?’ I swallow, then say the word with the connotations I hate. ‘Alcohol?’
‘Please, mate,’ is all he says.
‘I’ve already lent you money, Gray.’ And I have – over two grand so far, and all without telling Moll.
But Graeme’s silence tells me it wasn’t enough.
‘Look, I’m not exactly flush myself,’ I say.
‘You?’ he says softly, but like he’s wounded, like I’ve said something really unkind. ‘You’re like … Mr Disposable Income.’
I stare at him, the rain thundering like applause for the new name he’s thought up for me. I only realize then, possibly for the first time, how much I hate those names. Golden Boy. Mr Moneybags. Mr Predictable.