Love Will Tear Us Apart

by Holly Seddon

  ‘I’ve got you an early birthday present,’ he finally said and I noticed that his shaking hands were holding a box. Right there in our hall, he got down on one knee and snapped it open.

  ‘We took a vow, Howarth. We’re both single. And we’re both about to turn thirty. What do you think? Will you marry me?’

  A shock ran up my spine at first, but was almost immediately replaced with something like déjà vu. Something that felt like ‘well, of course’. Something that felt like warmth. Fractured images of the night of the storm twinkled into view, Church Street, Paul’s bed. The feeling of coming home to something. The potential to feel good, to feel comfort. The Loxtons. To be a Loxton.

  ‘Do you mean it?’ I asked, finally.

  ‘Yes.’ He didn’t look at me, he looked at his hands, at the ring sitting in its box. A tiny little diamond set into gold, simple and honest.

  ‘It wasn’t legally binding, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ he laughed nervously. ‘But I love you, Kate.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has someone put you up to this?’

  ‘No.’

  I took a deep breath, looking at his hair and his glasses, his mouth set in an awkward half-smile. I watched as he stood up straighter, and I stooped down a little. I looked at his eyes, his nervous, open face. The face I knew better than any other, even then. And I said yes.

  We went out for dinner. Our first date. Me wearing the engagement ring that I still wear next to my wedding band. We toasted our arrangement that night, and ordered champagne. I felt like I should call someone, like there was some kind of procedure I’d not fulfilled but there was no-one for me to call.

  ‘We should call your mum and dad,’ I said to Paul.

  He looked unsure. ‘I’ll call tomorrow. I’ve had too much to drink now’.

  Nerves silenced us on the taxi ride home. We got into the flat and brushed our teeth side-by-side in the bathroom. I went into my room and changed into my nightie, the nicest one I had, and called him in. ‘Would you like to sleep in here tonight?’ I asked.

  He smiled, coyly, I thought, but then he took a deep breath and strode across the room.

  He was wearing pyjamas I’d seen a million times, but seeing them that night, outlining his body, seemed almost comical. But I didn’t laugh, I slid down so I was lying on the bed. He looked at me, avoiding my eye, and then pushed my legs apart with his knee and lay half on top of me, carefully.

  ‘Am I too heavy?’ he asked, ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘You’re not too heavy,’ I laughed, breaking the spell. I felt him kiss me, gently at first. I’d kissed his cheek many times. I’d kissed his lips very few. It felt clandestine.

  He ran his hand up my thigh and I thought I caught him gasping. There was very little there to touch, a long narrow limb, a sharp knee.

  He knew my body. He remembered it from fifteen years before and I remembered his. He’d changed a little. Broader, taller, hairier. My hips were sharper than they’d been at fifteen. My bones clinking against his as we found a rhythm together. It was not wild and passionate. It was careful and gentle, awkward at first but somehow smoothing out into a feeling close to ease.

  Along with my body he knew my brain. He knew my plans, he knew my hopes, fears. My history, the future I’d had, the future I’d lost. From the simplest things like doctor’s appointments and the date my council tax was due, to the big things, the date my tube burst, the anniversary of my mother, the fact I couldn’t remember which day my dad died. He knew it all.

  I woke up again a few hours after we’d gone to bed and noticed he was still awake, looking at me. We were both back in our night clothes. He leaned across and kissed me quickly on my nose.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, smiling. ‘We can do this. We can make this work.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  November 2012 – Saturday evening

  The kids buckle in clumsily, they’re tired and droopy so I climb into the back and check they’re properly secure. The wind is bitter and wild. It seems to have picked up bits of sand and wet leaves to hurl at anyone stupid enough to be outside. I reach into the boot and grab the big car blanket, shake it out and lay it over the children. Hopefully they’ll sleep and we can just scoop them into their beds back at the cottage. I’ve delayed it enough, now I need us to get back so I can get on with it before I lose my nerve.

  As I open my door to get in to the passenger seat, the wind pulls it out of my grasp and I have to lurch after it.

  ‘This wind!’ I say, to no-one in particular.

  ‘Let’s get going, eh,’ Paul says urgently. As I slide into the seat and pull the door closed, the sudden quiet of the car disorients me. ‘I think this storm’s going to be a rough one,’ Paul says, as a nearby tree swings with a whoosh from one side to the other. ‘I want to get back as quickly as possible,’ he adds in a whisper.

  2002

  The night before our ceremony, Paul, me, Viv and Mick had gone for dinner at Chapter Two in Blackheath, the suburb where Paul and I hoped to buy a house eventually. ‘A family house,’ Paul had said, gripping my hand and looking at Mick until the older man looked down at his food. Fussier food than he was used to.

  ‘You left Tina at home then, Mick?’ Viv had asked, eyes playful.

  ‘She’s not wedding-day material, love,’ he’d answered.

  When Paul went to settle the bill and Mick nipped to the gents, Viv had fixed her sapphire-blue eyes on mine and said, ‘Are you sure about this? About the wedding?’

  I froze. I didn’t say, ‘What else do I have to be sure about?’

  I didn’t throw my hands up to the sky and hang my head and cry.

  I didn’t ask her if she thought people could start again from scratch, when they have nothing left to try.

  After a second or two I simply nodded and smiled. ‘Deadly,’ I said.

  She smiled broadly then, relief, I now think.

  We held the wedding in Chelsea’s Old Town Hall. We opted for the tiny Register Office, room for the two of us and our witnesses – Viv and Mick. Both Paul and I got ready at the flat, but Viv insisted that Paul leave before I put the dress on. He and Mick got a taxi ahead of us and had a pint in The Churchill Arms near the Town Hall.

  Viv helped me into my dress and I heard her take a sharp breath when she saw my back, the individual vertebrae peeking through thin white skin.

  ‘We need to get you fed up,’ she muttered as she popped in the final button.

  We’d ordered a cream vintage Bentley MK VI for the wedding car. It picked its way through the east-to-west traffic, standing out like a black-and-white photograph in a box of garish Polaroids. Throughout the stop-start ride, Viv and I talked about the wedding, the logistics, the car, the dress, the traffic. . . but nothing about the marriage. Nothing about what would happen after the wedding. The ‘from this day forward and as long as we both shall live’ part. I was grateful for that, and perhaps she was too.

  As the Bentley pulled up outside the elegant stone steps of the Old Town Hall, Viv picked up my hands in hers and told me I looked beautiful, and that my mum would have been so proud. I remembered my mum’s last words and I wasn’t so sure, but I loved Viv for the gesture.

  Our wedding song was ‘Heroes’ by David Bowie. Mick walked me into the little room, and down the almost-aisle between the two witness chairs, both of us stepping carefully like we were picking our way through nettles. I wore pretty rose-red ballet pumps, this was before they were worn by every woman everywhere, and a pale lemon dress with a false waist just under my bust leading to a full, petticoated skirt.

  I’d had my hair dyed back to its postal red, but the new salon I’d gone to near my flat hadn’t quite got it right. If I look at the photos now, I can see it. I doubt anyone else can tell the difference but I know now that everything was slightly off-colour.

  Mick wore a new grey suit that his girlfriend Tina had helped him to choose from the Great Univers
al catalogue. He proudly told us he was paying it off weekly, that our big day was worth it.

  Viv wore heels, which was something I’d never seen before, and a smart navy skirt suit. She had on a lilac blouse and a purple and gold butterfly brooch that I recognised from years before. Around her neck hung the gold-plated necklace Paul had bought her as a kid, now a slight green shade despite regular polishing and careful cleaning.

  Paul stood at the register desk, turning to watch as I entered on Mick’s arm. My husband-to-be looked clammy and white, wringing his hands. He’d had a haircut and wore a black suit and pale lemon shirt that we picked out together. He looked smart, and handsome. But seeing the outfit in situ, it reminded me of his old school uniform, and his first nervous days, and I nearly fled.

  As I got to him, he smiled. And I smiled. We all smiled. We could do this.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  November 2012 – Saturday night

  Paul drives carefully along the pitch-black country lanes that hadn’t seemed half as windy and perilous on the way to the restaurant. We’re still about twenty minutes away from the cottage, and for the last ten neither of us has said a word. The kids are sleeping in the back, sticky under their coats and blanket. Izzy’s hair has stuck to her forehead and I reach back to lower the blanket a little, always worrying about them overheating – a hangover from the baby years.

  The car surges on, Paul frowning with concentration as he steers against gusts of wind and bursts of sideways rain. The low rumbles of thunder and occasional lightning have picked up apace, pulling themselves together into a proper pattern. The gathering storm reminds me of giving birth. The terror as the scattergun and sporadic contractions stabilise and the pain starts to feel like an organised assault. Building to something.

  Ahead of us, the sky lights up blue, purple and white and the loudest thunderclap yet makes us both jump in our seats, snapping from our journey trance.

  ‘Fuck,’ Paul says, and we look at each other very briefly.

  ‘Should we be driving in this?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know.’ His uncertainty throws me. Paul is never uncertain. ‘I don’t know if there’s anywhere safe to stop though,’ he adds.

  I look at the satnav for answers.

  ‘It’s only fifteen minutes now,’ I say, trying to be positive but feeling nauseous from the wine and the buffeting wind. ‘I guess it’s worth driving for fifteen more minutes to get into the warm.’

  Paul doesn’t argue.

  As the lightning throws another huge firework into the sky, I notice that the hedge all along the other side of the road has been knocked on its side. A huge, thick bush just crushed like a paper cup. I look at Paul’s frown but say nothing.

  We’re about ten minutes away from Mousehole when I realise that I’ve not heard thunder for a little while. ‘I think we’ve passed through the worst of it,’ I say.

  ‘God, don’t tempt fate,’ Paul says, but he seems a bit more relaxed.

  ‘Ten years,’ I say.

  ‘Ten years,’ Paul agrees.

  ‘Ten years,’ I say again, and realise I’m crying.

  ‘Hey,’ he says softly, and puts his hand on my knee. ‘We’ll be okay.’

  I don’t know what happens first.

  All at once I hear the near-deafening creak above us, see the sky light up ultra-white and feel the weight as a huge tree is struck by a fork of lightning and crunches onto the roof of our car.

  Everything shifts, we skid and then stop sharply, held in place by the chunk of charred wood like some malevolent giant teasing us with his thumb.

  The engine is dead, the sky is black now and I have no idea which way we’re facing.

  I can’t move my head, I can’t turn around or see Paul. I can feel the roof above me dipping and catching strands of my hair in its jagged metal. I can feel wind and damp air inside the car, and for a moment I can’t hear anything over the roar of my heartbeat in my ears. And then pain. Waves of pain from above, from my left side and finally radiating out from my chest. I struggle for breath.

  I can see more lightning shooting out of the sky ahead and dancing across the sky towards us, like a drunk ballerina. The car has completely spun around and we’re facing away from the hill, lying across the road, nose towards the sea.

  I can hear the growl of the thunder, building itself up to bellow again.

  ‘The kids!’ I cry, and finally manage to turn my head a little to see the side of Paul’s face. In the dark, I can make out the silhouette of his chin, the sharpness of his nose. His glasses are gone and he’s perfectly still, his hands still gripped around the wheel. Lightning bursts the sky open again and I see his eyes wide in the brilliance of the brief light.

  I try to turn in my seat but it’s no use. I can’t move, I can’t look back and I can’t see the children.

  ‘Mummy?’ Harry murmurs.

  ‘Oh Harry! Harry! Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m okay, what happened? Did we crash?’

  ‘I don’t know, is Izzy okay? Can you see if your sister’s okay?’

  This seems to shake Paul out of his shock. ‘Oh God,’ he says, trying to move in his seat to look behind at Izzy. ‘I don’t see her! I can’t get out of my seat! Izzy!’

  Harry unclips from his seat belt and climbs across to his sister and tugs at the blanket. There she is. Still curled up in her seat, breathing heavily, asleep, toy cat in the crook of her elbow.

  ‘Oh, that girl,’ Paul says. And then he exhales a rattling breath and closes his eyes. He thinks for a moment while I stare dumbly.

  ‘Stay in your seat, Harry, we’re going to call for some help,’ Paul says.

  ‘Okay, Daddy.’ He sounds so little. He is still so little, really.

  Paul manages to turn the key once; the engine is dead but we can at least see each other now, illuminated by flickering dashboard lights telling us that many things are wrong with the car. Both of us are pinned in place by airbags. We have some kind of powder on us that exploded like a flour bomb when the airbags deployed. I’m fairly sure that mine has broken some of my ribs, but I breathe slowly and the pain becomes more like a stitch as adrenaline kicks in.

  I try to stay calm, try to ignore how close we are to the edge of the cliff. It can’t be more than ten metres. The thought of the sea below, black and furious, sends a chill down my spine.

  ‘I can’t find my phone,’ Paul says quickly. ‘Can you see it anywhere?’

  I can feel something in the footwell with my shoe but I can’t reach down to get it. I can’t even unbuckle. I gasp for air that’s never enough.

  ‘I can’t reach it, Paul,’ I pant. ‘Can you reach my handbag? My phone’s in there.’

  Paul manages to free his left hand and reaches up to turn the overhead light on. I can see the strap of my handbag, can touch its corner with my knee if I move carefully. But neither of us can reach it.

  ‘Let me get it,’ I hear Harry say in the back, his voice startling me.

  ‘No, baby,’ I say, ‘you can’t come up here, there’s no space.’

  ‘I can go around the outside.’

  ‘No!’ Paul and I say at the same time.

  The wind has picked up again and is dancing all around us, bits of debris, grit and sand hitting the sides of the car like waves. Right ahead of us, the lightning spikes down and nearly hits our windscreen as the thunder roars overhead.

  ‘Daddy,’ Harry says. ‘Daddy, please. I can get it. I can hold on to the car and I can open Mummy’s door and I can get your phones. Please, Daddy,’ he pleads.

  ‘No, Harry,’ Paul says, abrasively and then softens. ‘You can’t, darling. It’s not safe. Someone will see us soon and call for help.’

  I can feel blood trickling down my left temple from somewhere under my hair but decide not to say anything. I don’t want to scare Harry, I just want him to go back to sleep and stay warm. Suddenly, without warning, Harry has opened his door and the freezing wind rushes in, waking Izzy who shrieks, ‘Daddy!’<
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  ‘No, Harry!’ Paul and I both call but it’s too late. All we can do is watch as he tentatively feels his way around to the front of the car, along the bonnet and round to my door. I can see the wind rippling his coat. I watch his face tighten with concentration, so like his father as he grips my door handle and starts to pull. The door opens a crack, groans a bit but doesn’t budge. Harry yanks and yanks and all we can do is watch and wait.

  It doesn’t move.

  The lightning just ahead illuminates my boy’s face and we can see the tears of frustration contorting him, his hair soaking onto his head as rain appears and is torrential in seconds.

  ‘Please, Harry,’ I call through the tiny gap he’s opened. ‘Please get back into the car.’

  He keeps yanking, crying and yelling with exertion and won’t stop until Paul yells across at him: ‘Please, Harry, we need you back in the car, we need you to stay safe.’ Beaten, he inches back and climbs in next to Izzy.

  We try flashing our headlights, on and off, on and off. We think we can remember Morse code, we certainly knew SOS when we were in full storm mode as kids.

  Dot, dot, dot. Dash, dash, dash. Dot, dot, dot.

  ‘Or was it. . .’ Paul says to himself.

  Dash, dash, dash. Dot, dot, dot. Dash, dash, dash.

  No-one appears. We can see the distant lights of Mousehole, but have no hope of reaching them.

  Izzy goes back to sleep but Harry fights it until he can’t hang on any longer and we see his head droop onto his shoulder. The car is still and quiet, just our little family tucked up under a broken tree, hidden. The crack in my door is freezing my left side and my teeth start to chatter.

  ‘I hope they’re warm enough,’ I say to Paul.

  ‘They’ll be okay,’ he says, more to himself than to me.

  I know he’s not sure if that’s true but we have to believe it.

  We give up with the headlights and put the overhead light on in lieu of a better plan. I feel my eyelids tugging downward, and marvel at the body’s ability to prioritise sleep even in the eye of an emergency. I’m still struggling for air.