I’ve been dreaming about Louisa, but I can’t remember the details. I reach out for Alex, but he’s not there. I get out of bed, stretch and walk over to my suitcase to find my slippers and dressing gown. I wonder if he could be in the bathroom, but I don’t hear any water running. I open the door anyway and peep inside. Just as I thought, he’s not in here. I freshen up a bit, and then I make my way downstairs to find him.
‘Alex?’ I call out.
I go into the sitting room, where the fire was crackling last night. It’s chilly in here this morning, and I wrap my dressing gown around me and knot the belt.
‘Alex?’
I walk down the hallway and peep into the kitchen. He’s not in here, either. There’s a strong smell of coffee, which makes me feel queasy even as my tummy rumbles.
As I’m hunting in the cupboards for teabags and a mug, I catch sight of the note. He has written a message on a Post-it and left it next to the kettle.
Gone training. Back in a bit.
Make yourself at home.
Mi casa es tu casa.
Alexxx.
I’m disappointed, of course I am. But it was nice of him not to wake me. He has left out some bread, butter and jam on the worktop.
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I look out of the window at a large tree in the back garden – I remember Alex telling me there was a damson tree, so this must be it. Its trunk is leaning at an angle that seems to defy gravity, but perhaps it’s the visual effect created by the grassy slope. Not far from the tree, there’s a swing set, and behind that, a thick wood.
The window bars give me the unnerving impression that I’m being kept prisoner. The rain is lashing down outside and the sky threatens to keep this up for a while. I don’t expect we’ll be wandering around Grasmere today after all.
The toast pops up and startles me, and this is followed by the telephone ringing again. I’m tempted not to bother answering, but then I think it might be Alex trying to get hold of me. I haven’t turned my mobile on yet, I realise, so he would have to use the landline. I run out into the hall, where the sound is coming from, find the phone and pick up the handset.
‘Hello?’
There’s no answer.
‘Hello?’ I say again.
Still no answer.
‘Alex, is that you?’
I wait for a second, but then there’s a beep as if the caller has hung up. I dial 1471. I think I’d recognise Alex’s mobile number if it was him. But the last caller’s number is withheld. Shrugging, I go back into the kitchen to eat my breakfast.
Sitting at the long wooden table, I feel a bit lost and very alone. To shake off that sensation, I picture Alex and me feeding our children at this table one day. I see myself making cakes with my stepdaughters, whose mother has finally forgiven Alex – for whatever it is she thinks he’s done – and let them come to stay with us. I close my eyes and inhale, imagining the mouth-watering smells wafting towards me from the oven and almost hearing the girls’ laughter.
I’ve always wanted lots of children. At least four. Ideally, two boys then two girls. Having kids was a dream that didn’t come true for me with Kevin. It wasn’t for want of trying. It was the overriding desire to have a baby that killed the passion in our relationship and made it go stale. Looking back, I think it was over long before I left. Or perhaps I’m just telling myself that so I don’t feel so bad about walking out on him.
Alex still isn’t back when I’ve showered and got dressed, so I decide to explore the house. On the ground floor, there are several rooms I haven’t seen yet. There’s another lounge, which also has an open fire, and opposite it, a study. It has alcove built-in wooden cupboards and when I open them, I see they’re empty.
As I discover my new home, I keep mentally comparing it with the house Kevin and I lived in, which we’ve just put on the market. The upstairs bathroom in Minehead would easily fit into either the laundry room or the cloakroom in the Old Vicarage.
Coming back through the hallway, just outside the kitchen, I notice a door near the staircase. I turn the handle, but it’s locked. Briefly, I hunt around for a key – on the wall, in the cupboard under the stairs – but then I leave it. I realise the door probably leads to a cellar and I don’t want to go down there anyway. I walk on towards the staircase.
Upstairs, there are five bedrooms altogether. Ours is the only one with an en suite bathroom, but there is another bathroom and a separate loo along the landing.
Although the views are better from the master bedroom – you can see Lake Grasmere – I prefer the bedroom at the back of the house, which, like the kitchen below, looks out onto the garden. It’s smaller and cosier, with some sort of period fire grate and surround. The walls are painted a warm peach colour, but I notice there are no pictures on them, and it strikes me that I’ve seen no paintings or photos – not even of Alex’s daughters – anywhere in the house.
While I ponder this, I push the last door open wider and step inside. Decorated in pink and lilac, it is a large room with two single beds. Fairies fly around on wall stickers and a giant stuffed cuddly dog lies on a multicoloured rug on the floor.
This must be Poppy and Violet’s bedroom. Then a thought pushes its way into my head. Alex’s daughters would be too old now for fairies and teddies. Alex’s wife walked out on him five years ago and the girls are in their teens now. He said he hadn’t seen them for a year. Surely if they’d come to visit a year ago, they wouldn’t have wanted to sleep in such a childish environment. They would probably each want their own space at their age anyway.
Briefly, this puzzles me. But then I reason with myself. Alex didn’t say the girls had ever come to stay with him before his ex-wife cut off all contact. Maybe they haven’t slept at the Old Vicarage since his wife – ex-wife now – left him. That would explain it.
Sitting down on one of the beds, I run my hand over the hearts on the quilt cover. Quite unexpectedly, a chill runs down my spine. I scan the room. It’s beautifully decorated. There are toys, games and children’s books everywhere. And yet, there’s something I don’t like about it. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. The sense that someone was very unhappy in here? No, that’s not it. Scared more than unhappy. In danger, even. As if something bad once happened in here.
I laugh at my silliness. I’ve always had an overactive imagination. Julie would have taken it seriously, though. My elder sister is into feng shui and mental wellness. She’s reluctant to set foot in Dad’s house now on the pretext that it has had negative energy and bad vibes since Mum died. I’ll have to invite Julie to stay with us at the Old Vicarage. She’ll have the chi flowing, or whatever it is you need to do, in no time.
I decide to start unpacking. Maybe when I’ve tidied away all my things, I’ll feel at home in this house.
Mi casa es tu casa.
Hopefully Alex will be home soon. That will help, too.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life, I say to myself. A completely different life to the one I’ve had until now.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sent: Mon, 01 Aug 2016 at 23:34
Subject: KISMET, KATE
Dear Katie,
I was thinking today how lucky I am that you sent me a friend request on Facebook. You can’t imagine how glad I am that we’ve reconnected after all this time. And speaking of Facebook, I was beginning to think I’d never get to see a photo of you other than with your family and friends on your wall. Thank you so much for your selfie! You’re beautiful!
I love you being part of my day. Thanks to all your emails and texts, it feels like you’re close even though you’re so far away. Plus I like to know what you’re doing and where you are. You’re very funny, and you made me laugh out loud this afternoon when I was in a boring meeting with my accountant.
Katie, you said this is moving too fast for you and you feel a bit overwhelmed, but I’ve never felt a connection like this be
fore. We’ve only been in touch again for a month, but it’s as if I’ve known you for so much longer. Perhaps it’s because of all we have in common. At the same time, I have this urge to make up for lost time. Two decades! You understand, don’t you?
I don’t believe in fate or anything like that. But I do wonder if things sometimes happen for a reason, and I think that you coming back into my life at this moment in time was meant to be! It feels so right. You’re the real deal.
You said Kevin was going to the pub with his mates tomorrow evening. Would you like to FaceTime? I love hearing your voice on the phone, but it would be even lovelier to see you!
Sorry if I’ve come on a bit strong this evening. I’ve been on the single malt! I’ll say goodnight now and leave you in peace! You’ll be my last thought before I go to bed and my first thought when I wake up. And I’ll probably dream about you, too. Hope that’s all right with you.
Night,
Alexxx
Chapter 2
~
I’m desperate to get out of the house, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to go outside the next morning, either. The rain is still beating down, although, looking out through the bars of our bedroom window, I can see a tiny patch of clear sky over the lake. My mother used to say if there was enough blue to make a pair of trousers for a sailor, the weather would turn out fine. Wishing I’d inherited her optimism as I stare at the sky, I reflect that the seaman in question would have to be fairly small.
I sigh, and Alex pleads with me to get back into bed. He’s lying on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. He seems to be appraising my bare body. I kneel on the bed next to him.
‘Lie on your tummy,’ I order. He doesn’t move for a second or two, but then he turns over. I start to knead his shoulders. He groans – in pleasure, I hope, rather than pain, but just in case, I massage his muscles more softly.
‘Is this new?’ I ask, running my fingers over his right shoulder. ‘I haven’t seen it before.’
‘Is what new? Oh, the tattoo. Well, I had it done before Justin Bieber if that’s what you mean.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Bastard has the same tat. It’s Banksy.’
‘I know that,’ I say, admiring the artwork inked onto Alex’s skin. The picture is of a girl with her hand stretched out towards a red balloon. ‘My nephew Oscar is a big fan. We’ve taken him to Bristol a couple of times to see Banksy’s street art and some of his works on display at M Shed.’
‘Well, Girl with a Balloon appeared on a wall somewhere in London, not Bristol,’ Alex informs me. ‘I still haven’t decided if I want the caption inked on next to it.’
‘What is it?’
‘There is always hope,’ he says.
I examine it again. The balloon is heart-shaped. It’s not clear to me if the girl has let go of the balloon or if she’s trying to catch it. Either way, it’s out of her reach. Before I can ask Alex any more about it, he jumps out of bed.
‘Breakfast in bed,’ he says. ‘You wait here.’
I’m left for a while to muse on Alex’s choice of body art design. I would have thought he’d go for something more athletic, but I’m not sure what exactly. I suppose you wouldn’t have the five Olympic rings unless you’d actually competed in an Olympic Games. Or the Nike logo unless they sponsored you. And a slogan like “no pain, no gain” would be a bit trite. But something along those lines. I didn’t even know he had a tattoo. I’m surprised at this, although I’d only seen him naked once before coming here, and on that occasion the lights were dimmed.
I allow myself to reminisce about that night. It was four months ago. I close my eyes and can feel myself smiling. I remember Alex stripping off his clothes in a few seconds flat and then climbing into bed. He lay on his back, propped up on his elbows, watching me undress as he waited for me to join him. I’d been amused and turned on by how keen he seemed. Thinking about it now, it’s hardly surprising I didn’t see the tattoo on the back of his shoulder.
I noticed the scars, though. At the time, I didn’t dare ask him about those. Now, I’m burning with curiosity.
Alex comes back into the bedroom, carrying a tray. Smelling the toast, I’m conscious of how hungry I am. I plump the pillows up behind me and sit up straight as he puts the tray down carefully on my lap and gets into bed next to me.
‘Don’t get too used to this,’ he warns, twirling a strand of my red wavy hair between his fingers and then taking a mug from the tray.
At first I don’t understand what he’s referring to, but then I catch him looking down pointedly at my tummy.
‘Lie-ins will soon be nothing more than a distant memory,’ he adds. ‘Or is the plural lies-in?’ He slurps his tea.
‘No. You were right first time. Lie-ins.’
‘Ask the language expert,’ he says. He puts his mug down on the bedside table, and then he starts to fondle one of my breasts. ‘And is it my imagination, or have these already got a bit bigger?’
‘It’s wishful thinking on your part, I’d say,’ I reply, mirroring his grin. ‘Seeing as we’re on the subject of bodies …’ I begin in a more serious voice.
‘Ye-es?’
Gently, I take his arm and stroke his wrists. ‘Can I ask about your scars?’
‘OK,’ he says, but then there’s an awkward silence and I regret bringing it up. ‘Well, it’s not a big secret. I was nineteen,’ he says eventually. ‘I’d left school. I was supposedly on a gap year, but I ran out of money very early on, got dumped by my girlfriend when we were in Australia and came home. I started to hang out with the wrong crowd, we were taking drugs, I got depressed …’
‘Go on,’ I say when he pauses.
‘Long story short, one evening I decided to end it all. I was a stupid, self-absorbed teenager. I ran a hot bath, got in and slit my wrists.’
I’d only seen scars on his left wrist. I resist the urge to turn over his right arm, particularly as he’s holding his mug and I don’t want to scald him.
He sees me peering at his other hand, though, and adds, ‘Well, my wrist. I did it wrong. Used my right arm. Apparently if you’re right-handed, like I am, you should start by slitting your right wrist. That way, you can finish the job off better when you need to swap hands. And I managed to cut into a tendon in my left arm. I was in agony even though I hadn’t cut nearly deep enough to kill myself. So, it was a botched job.’
I can hear my own breathing. It has become shallow. I’m uncomfortable talking about his suicide attempt, so I don’t say the words that have just wormed their way into my head. There are more foolproof methods than slitting your wrists. Nor do I point out that he should have cut vertically rather than across his wrists. How do I even know that? ‘I’m so glad it was a botched job,’ I say instead, nuzzling in to him as much as I can without upsetting the breakfast tray on my lap or the mug in his hand.
‘So am I,’ he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
And then it hits me like a punch to the stomach. If Alex was nineteen, I would have been seventeen. My chest tightens at that thought and I feel nauseous. I have a sudden vision of Alex throwing himself off a cliff and plummeting to his death.
I leap out of bed, making Alex cry out as I cause him to spill his tea. I make it to the bathroom just in time. Seconds later, he is next to me, holding back my hair with one hand and rubbing my back the other as I throw up into the toilet.
‘Morning sickness,’ he comments wryly when I’ve finished retching.
It’s not, but I don’t contradict him.
~
The sun comes out in the early afternoon and so Alex drives us the short distance into Grasmere. I’d rather walk, but I don’t protest; I’m just happy to get out of the house. There are lots of people out and about. From the car park, it’s a short walk to St Oswald’s church, where William Wordsworth is buried. We follow the path round to the back of the church, walking on paving stones with people’s names and hometowns engraved on them. From a
much bigger paving slab, I read aloud the first verse of ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’, Wordsworth’s most famous poem.
After Alex has shown me the Wordsworth family’s tombstones, we go by foot to Dove Cottage, a little further up the road. The sign on the house says The loveliest spot that man hath ever found. ‘It is really beautiful here,’ I say. ‘I can see why the area inspired him to write his poetry.’
‘He lived in this cottage with his sister, Dorothy,’ Alex says informatively. ‘They were very close.’
Unbidden, tears well up in my eyes, and I brush them away with my sleeve before Alex can see. I miss Louisa terribly. When we were little, we swore we would live together in the same house, with our husbands. Being without her is like being without a part of myself. Even now, all sorts of things remind me of her. Smells, songs, phrases. Not for the first time, I wonder if one day the void in me can be filled.
By now I’m used to feeling I’m not quite complete, but I feel a very special bond with Alex, similar to the one I once had with my twin sister. Alex and I like the same music, the same activities, the same TV programmes. He often reads my mind, just like Louisa did.
‘There’s a walk that goes from here to Rydal Mount,’ Alex says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘That’s the house he bought once he became rich and famous.’
‘Ooh, can we go and see it?’
‘Well, it’s about five and a half miles altogether,’ Alex says, ‘and there’s a bit of a hill.’
‘I won’t break, Alex.’
‘Yes, but you’re supposed to be taking things easy, the doctor said.’
‘She also said it would do me good to walk.’
‘It’s a bit chilly, though. Wordsworth died because he caught a cold you know,’ he says, elbowing me playfully in the ribs.
‘That was in 1850,’ I say, pleased with myself for remembering the date on the tombstone. ‘Anyway, if you show me the way instead of standing around pretending to argue with me, we’ll soon warm up climbing that hill you mentioned.’
He Will Find You Page 2