by Hilary Boyd
Once he was back, seated, the two glasses of red wine on the wooden table between them, there was another awkward silence.
Fin fixed his eyes on Flora.
‘Can I go first?’ he asked.
She nodded, holding her breath as Fin seemed to be preparing himself for a speech.
‘Listen, I’m so, so sorry, Flora. It was a terrible thing I did, disappearing like that. I want you to know that I’ve regretted it almost since the day I left.’
‘Why, Fin? Why did you do it? There wasn’t even a note.’
He sucked his lower lip, almost gnawing on it. ‘I just freaked about us agreeing to have a baby – the whole trapped, commitment thing.’
Flora shook her head. ‘Not good enough. I can understand you freaking out, but couldn’t you just have said that to me? Told me you weren’t ready?’
‘But you were in your late thirties, I knew it was then or never.’
‘Yeah, well it turned out to be never, didn’t it?’ Flora made no attempt to keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘You left me without a single word, Fin. Nothing, nada. Just walked out. That’s a terrible thing to do to anyone, especially someone you said you loved. I had no idea where you were, what was going on. I thought something terrible had happened to you. I rang the hospital, filed a missing persons report … it never entered my head that you’d left me. It was Mick who finally rang me, nearly two weeks later, and mentioned he’d seen you in Tibet.’
Fin’s face was rigid with tension as he listened to her diatribe. ‘I know, I know all that, I asked him to call you. And believe me, I don’t feel good about any of it. But I came back, Flo, less than a year later, and you were already engaged to someone else. What was I supposed to think?’
She stared at him, stopped in her tracks.
‘Sorry … you came back?’
‘Yeah … you … didn’t you know?’
‘Wait. What do you mean, you “came back”?’
‘Well, obviously I went to our place, the Brighton house. And the woman who opened the door told me you’d sold up about two months before. I’d tried your phone and email, but they were all cut off, so in the end I rang your sister.’
‘You talked to Prue?’
‘Eventually, yes. I rang for days, and she wouldn’t return my calls. But then eventually I tried from a friend’s phone and caught her. She was livid with me, understandably. She said you wanted nothing more to do with me, that I’d made you ill, but that you were fine now and you’d met someone else and were really happy. She said you’d just got engaged, and that if I came anywhere near you she’d call the police.’
‘When was this?’ Flora asked, in a small voice.
‘I know exactly when it was, because I’d just got back from a climb in Peru. It was August of the following year.’
‘She told you I was engaged?’ She spoke almost to herself, a growing spike of anger forming in her gut.
Fin was staring at her. ‘You mean … you weren’t?’
‘Of course I wasn’t. I hardly went outside the door for the year after you left, even to work.’
‘That bad?’
‘I got depressed, I mean seriously. A sort of body-shock thing.’
‘Because of me … that’s terrible.’
There was silence.
‘I wish I’d known.’
‘You would have if you’d called.’
‘I did call. I’m telling you.’
‘After a year? I wouldn’t call that concern for my welfare exactly.’
‘No, well … I was mostly in Tibet, then South America … there was a lot happening …’
He ground to a halt, clearly seeing the dangerous look in Flora’s eye.
‘OK, I get it. I fucked up. I know that, and I can never apologise enough to you. I was a complete arse, a selfish moron, running away. But Prue shouldn’t have said that, about you getting engaged.’
‘She shouldn’t, I agree.’ It was hard to know what she felt about hearing that her sister had so radically taken over the managing of her life. ‘But she saw how ill I was, and blamed you. She was just trying to protect me.’
‘Still.’ Fin drained the last of his wine and looked across at her glass. She’d hardly touched it. ‘I’m getting another.’
While he was at the bar, she tried to compose herself. She felt as if a hurricane had blown through her, laying waste to the reconstructed emotions she’d so carefully and laboriously put in place since her breakdown. What was Fin really saying, she wondered, beyond his desire to apologise and be forgiven?
‘Drink up, Flo. You look awful.’
‘Thanks.’
She looked at him. His sun-bleached hair, usually wild and sticking out in all directions, had been combed into a parting, smoothed uncharacteristically flat. But as the evening went on, the hair was beginning to claim back its natural shape, the sides creeping inexorably outwards. It looked comical, but Flora was suddenly touched that he should have made the effort for her.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Your hair.’
Fin self-consciously ran his hands over his head, then laughed.
‘My friend, Paul, the one I’m staying with, said I should try and look smart if I was seeing you. He thought the hair was the main problem.’ As he spoke, he ruffled his hair until it took on its usual rumpled, chaotic contours. ‘Better?’
She nodded and they both began to laugh.
‘Flo …’ Fin reached across to take her hand, and for a second she allowed it to sit there, the familiar touch tearing at her heart.
‘Don’t,’ she said, pulling away.
Fin’s look was questioning.
‘I don’t even know why you’re here,’ she said, almost angrily. ‘Is it just to hear me say I forgive you?’
‘Well, yes. I do want you to forgive me.’ He looked down at his glass, twiddling the stem between his fingers, his tall figure, always out of place in urban surroundings, slumped awkwardly on the low bar stool. ‘But not for the sake of it. Not just to make me feel better. That’d be pointless … and futile.’ Now, he looked up at Flora, fixing his grey eyes on her face, and said, ‘I want you to forgive me, Flo, because I still love you. I never stopped.’
There was a loud shout of laughter, male, from somewhere behind her. Other voices joined in. Flora turned her head towards the sound, as a reflex. But she didn’t see what she was looking at, wasn’t aware of any more external noise. All she heard were Fin’s words, echoing, clanging, clamouring for attention in her head.
‘Flo?’ Fin was peering at her, his expression tense, waiting.‘The date … the man you were meeting the other night. Is it serious?’
She found her voice enough to reply. ‘No.’
He didn’t say anything, managing not to look relieved as he kept his face carefully neutral.
‘So … do you still have feelings for me?’
Flora could see he was struggling. This sort of conversation was as unfamiliar to Fin as if she were speaking Chinese. During their eight years together they had never delved into the whys or wherefores of their relationship, just got on with it.
She felt the tears behind her eyes and fought against them. But the tension of the past couple of weeks, since that day in Waitrose, had taken its toll.
‘Flo … please, don’t … I can’t bear it when you cry.’ This time when he took her hand she didn’t resist. ‘I can’t tell you what it means to me, to be sitting here with you again. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you …’ His words were delivered softly, a note of reserve in his voice as he watched her.
‘Yes, but you loved me before, didn’t you?’ She tore her hand away from his and looked for a tissue in her coat pocket. ‘If that’s what you mean by love, you can bloody well keep it.’ She paused to blow her nose. ‘How could you have done that, Fin? How?’ She knew she was raising her voice, but she didn’t care.
Fin sat there, his expression stoical, as if he’d been expecting this, and worse.
/> ‘You say you came back to find me as if I should award you a fucking medal. You even blame Prue. But it was NEARLY A YEAR after you left before you made any attempt to get in touch. Is that really love? Tell me: is it?’
He hung his head. ‘No, no of course it’s not.’ His eyes met hers again. ‘But I’ve changed, Flo, really I have. This fall last winter, I nearly died on that mountain. Then spending so much time pinned to a hospital bed with my leg in traction … I had time to think. And all I could think about was you.’
Flora gave a short, sarcastic laugh. ‘Oh, I see. It’s only when you’re almost dead that you remember you love me. When your full-time mistress, those bloody mountains, has finally let you down.’
‘Fair comment. But that’s not the way it was. I’ve never, ever stopped loving you. I knew it then, and I know it now. I was just a pathetic idiot running away from responsibility, and once I’d gone it was harder to come back. By that time I was living a different life, trying not to think of what I was missing. Because I knew, even as I ran, what I’d done to you. I may behave like an idiot, Flo, but I’m not stupid.’
‘I think I need to go home,’ she said. She felt suddenly exhausted.
Fin looked panicky. ‘Flora, please. I knew this meeting would be hard for both of us. But we needed to talk, to get it all out into the open at last. You will see me again, won’t you?’
She hesitated. Can I do this? she asked herself. Can I risk loving him again? But as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer: she had never stopped loving Fin McCrea; even in the darkest throes of rage and despair, she had always hoped.
‘Give me your number.’
His face broke into a smile. ‘Great, that’s great.’
She wrote it down and they both rose to go.
‘Just one more thing,’ he laid his hand on her sleeve. ‘I meant everything I said tonight. I can’t take back what I’ve done, but please believe me, I would never, ever behave like that again. I told you, I’ve really changed.’
Flora couldn’t face waiting for a bus. She walked for a while, the breeze cooling her hot cheeks, happy to be away from him and have time to think about what he had said. Because on paper it was so clichéd: the never-stopped-loving-you line, the I-don’t-know-how-to-say-how-sorry-I-am line, the one that bleated ‘I’ve changed, I’ve changed.’ She knew he was sincere, but had he really changed? Did anyone ever properly change? It was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.
She saw a taxi and hailed it. Fuck the expense, she thought, as she sank back gratefully into the seat.
*
She didn’t sleep well. She would doze off and then start awake, the conversation with Fin churning in her mind. And then there was Prue. The more she thought of it, the angrier she became. OK, she knew her sister had done what she thought was best, and she’d been the one at the sharp end of Flora’s illness. But not to tell her that Fin had been in touch … that was wrong. Wouldn’t it have been better for her emotional health to have dealt with Fin back then, to talk to him, have it out, as they had tonight? Get it all behind her? Or get back together, perhaps, when there was still time to have a family. Instead, his ghost presence had festered in her psyche for two more years, never fading, everything still unresolved. It had been a major obstacle in her getting her life back.
Flora wished she had someone she could talk to. She had lost touch with most of her friends in Brighton when she’d been ill – mental illness had a devastating effect on friendships – and anyway, she and Fin had led such an exclusive life together, there had never seemed the need for anyone else. Now she suddenly felt very alone. But she knew the reaction she would get, the advice she would receive, if she told anyone about Fin. Don’t touch him with a bloody bargepole, would be the resounding response.
CHAPTER 7
27 September
Thursday was quiet. Dorothea seemed in good spirits. Dominic was coming to tea, the ginger cake was in. Flora, tired from the broken night, plodded through the day, asking herself the same question over and over again: Is it safe to love him? Her heart told her it didn’t matter if it was safe or not. She loved him, end of. Her brain told her that she absolutely could not risk being ill like that again – the thought of sliding into that grey, exhausted hopelessness was hideous. Depression could recur, she knew that, but deliberately to put herself in the path of the person whose behaviour had triggered it seemed perverse, insane even.
As soon as Dorothea was in her bed for her afternoon nap, Flora sank onto the sofa without even bothering to make herself some lunch. Fin loves me. The words sounded so unbelievable that they brought tears to her eyes. And the tears progressed to crying – quiet, stifled sobs she couldn’t control. They felt like sobs of relief, as if the long years of holding that crushing loss were finally over.
Then she heard the doorbell. She got up to answer it, cursing to herself as she hastily wiped her eyes and blew her nose on a tissue from her pocket. It was Dr Kent.
‘Hi, Flora. Umm …’ He paused, obviously noting her distress. ‘Sorry to drop by unannounced. I haven’t got long, but I was passing and I thought I’d let you know the results of the stomach x-ray,’ he said, delving in his bag to retrieve the report. ‘Baffling really. It says there’s no evidence of any abnormality.’
She held her finger to her lips and pointed to Dorothea’s bedroom.
‘Oops, sorry.’ He dropped his voice.
His eyes rested on her teary face, but he rushed on, making no comment.
‘She hasn’t been complaining about it for a few days,’ Flora whispered.
The doctor shrugged. ‘Maybe it was wind then. But palpating her stomach, it certainly seemed tender on the right side – both times I checked it.’
‘At least we know there’s nothing serious.’
‘True, and I don’t think there’s any point in doing an ultrasound unless it gets worse again.’
There was silence between them.
‘So … everything OK?’
She smiled. ‘Sort of yes and no.’
‘Want to talk to Dr Simon about it?’
‘I shouldn’t but, in brief, old love who – as I told you before, I bumped into in the supermarket – leaves me broken-hearted, comes back three years later and declares his undying love. But can I believe him?’
‘Hmmm. Tricky one. Back to the Mars Bar.’
‘But can’t people change?’
‘Not in essence, no, I don’t think so. Although – to use the better-known leopard/spots analogy – it’s possible to be mistaken about someone’s real spots in the first place.’
‘Explain.’
‘I mean you can misjudge people, either for good or bad. We do it all the time.’
‘So this guy behaves badly, but at heart is a saint. Hmm … like it.’
‘I’m afraid in my experience the other option’s more likely. The putative saint-at-heart is usually a reprehensible cad.’ A shadow passed across his features. ‘Do you love him?’
She hesitated, suddenly not wanting to tell him the answer.
Dr Kent held up his hands. ‘Sorry, this is getting a bit personal.’
‘No, I started it. I did love him. And, yes, I suppose I do love him still. If you can love someone in any realistic way, when you haven’t seen them for three years.’
‘So you’re thinking of getting back with him?’
‘Not yet.’
He gathered up his bag. ‘Love’s a bit of a lottery, Flora. You could win, but most of us don’t.’
Despite the lightness of Simon Kent’s tone, Flora heard an uncharacteristic cynicism. She wondered what had happened to him.
She went back to the sofa much calmer. Fin made one mistake, she told herself. He’s really sorry. Everyone makes mistakes.
*
‘Is he here yet?’ Dorothea was fretting; Dominic was late.
‘No, but I’m sure he will be very soon.’
‘He said three.’
‘He’ll have got held
up in traffic probably.’
Dorothea’s glance held a touch of scepticism. ‘You think so?’
‘Shall I make you a cup of tea now?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll wait.’
It was nearly four when Dominic finally turned up.
‘How’s Aunt Dot?’ He employed his usual stage whisper when Flora opened the door.
‘She’s fine. A bit worried when you weren’t here at three.’
Dominic raised his hands in horror. ‘Heavens, did she think I was coming at three? I said four.’ He must have seen Flora’s sceptical glance. ‘Honest to God, Flora, I really did say four.’ The expression in his owl eyes looked hurt.
‘Anyway, go through, I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Did you manage to sell … my mother’s sewing table?’ Dorothea was asking her great-nephew as Flora brought the tea tray in.
Flora saw Dominic hesitate. ‘Not yet, but the auction isn’t for another week. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s over.’
‘I … I seem to remember my mother saying it was quite valuable,’ the old lady went on. She hadn’t mentioned this before, in fact she’d seemed quite dismissive of the table when Dominic first drew attention to it. Flora never got used to the strange tricks old age played on the brain. It made it so hard ever to know her patient’s thought processes, or work out what she remembered and understood minute by minute, day to day.
‘It’s a nice piece, Aunt Dot. But don’t get your hopes up. The auction house has put a fair price on it, around the two hundred, two hundred and fifty mark. It’s just not popular at the moment, that sort of Victoriana.’
‘I think Mother said … it was earlier than that,’ Dorothea said slowly, the glance she gave her nephew suddenly beady. ‘Georgian perhaps?’
Flora caught a tiny flicker in Dominic’s eye before he replied.
‘Georgian, of course. Silly me. Been one of those days.’ He sighed theatrically and wiped his hands on his voluminous white cotton handkerchief.
After tea, Dominic had insisted he carry the tea tray to the kitchen for Flora.
‘Did you tell Rene … about the table?’ she asked.