by Sharon Booth
He was at my side in a moment, scooping me up and placing me on the bench. "You're not well." He sounded panicky.
"I'm fine." I took a deep breath. "I just haven't eaten today, that's all." It was a big fat lie. I'd eaten a huge lunch at Mum and Dad's, as well my own body weight in boiled sweets on the way to York station with Brad and Tamsin and the girls, but I had to think of something to say. I could hardly come out with the truth, could I?
He shook his head. "This has to stop, Cara," he said. "You must eat properly."
I looked at him in surprise. "What are you talking about? I eat all the time."
He bit his lip, as if considering whether to pursue the subject, then he burst out, "I know! Mrs Fairweather told me all about it. It's okay, I understand. We both do. We can get help for you."
I couldn't think of a response to that, since I didn't have the faintest idea what he was talking about. I simply gaped at him, wondering if he'd gone mad.
"The eating disorder," he said gently, taking my hand. "It's okay. We can help. Let us help. You don't have to go through this alone."
Realising my mouth had dried up, I swallowed hard. "What the heck are you talking about?" I managed eventually. "What bloody eating disorder?"
"Your eating disorder," he said. "Bulimia, is it? I've been doing some research, and there's a very good clinic—"
"Hold it right there." I stood and faced him, hands on hips, my strength suddenly returning. "Before you start booking me in for therapy, let me make one thing very clear. I do not have an eating disorder. Unless you count an addiction to Carroll's Caramel Choc Bloc an eating disorder, that is."
"It's all right. I can help. You don't have to pretend." He held out his hand, but I waved it away crossly.
"Stop saying you can help," I said. "I don't need any help. I don't have an eating disorder. Why on earth would you think I did?"
"You seriously want to do this?" he asked, his brows knitting together.
"Oh, believe me, I seriously do," I assured him.
He sighed and shook his head, then shrugged. "Okay. Firstly, Mrs F said you kept refusing food. She said you were always rejecting biscuits, puddings, that sort of thing, but that you also sometimes skipped lunch, or breakfast. And you always, always left something on your plate."
"And that's it, is it? By that definition, almost every woman in Britain's had an eating disorder, at some point, or other."
"Then there was that incident with the sweets."
"What incident with the sweets?"
"You said you dropped them in the road when I nearly hit you with my car, but did you? Or was it just that you binged on them and felt too ashamed to admit it?"
I almost laughed. "If you call a little bag of sweets a binge, you're an amateur," I assured him.
"I saw what you were looking at, that day on the laptop," he burst out. "I saw it, Cara! The information about eating disorders. You were clearly looking for help then, and I should have said something, done something. I spoke to Mrs F about it, and she voiced her concerns. She said you were getting thinner and thinner."
"Of course I was," I said incredulously. "That was the plan! I was a barrel when I arrived here. I'd been stuffing my face with chocolate and crisps for weeks, and I just wanted to get back into my old clothes comfortably. Nothing sinister about it."
"So, how do you explain the missing food?"
I stared at him. "What missing food?"
"It's been happening for over a week now. Tinned food, stuff out of the fridge, chocolate, even one of the guests said his breakfast had been stolen."
"You're kidding, right?" I shook my head and sank down onto the bench beside him. "You think I've been pinching food?"
"No one's angry," he assured me quickly. "It's a symptom. We understand that. We're just worried about you. We didn't want you to rush off after every meal and throw it all back up again, so—"
"So, you made damn sure that I wasn't left alone after dinner," I said slowly, light finally dawning. "That's why Mrs F always wanted me to sit with her and watch television. Oh, God." And that was why, on the night she'd been going off to visit her sister, Ethan had stepped in and insisted I had dinner with him. I'd assumed he wanted my company, when all the time he'd been guarding me for Mrs F.
I was such an idiot.
I took a deep breath. "Okay, Ethan, cards on the table. I honestly have no idea who's been pinching food, if food truly has been going missing. Although, let's face it, it's been a bit hectic around here lately, and Mrs F has had a lot to deal with, what with the party preparations and her passion for Michael. It could be that she's simply lost track of what she had in stock. As for the website—yes, I was looking for information, but not for myself. I was checking up on my sister. I thought she might have bulimia, or anorexia. I was wrong. She was just bloody miserable because she thought her husband didn't love her any more. Turns out she was also wrong, but that's another story. As for the not eating puddings and biscuits bit—like I said, I'd piled weight on because I was bloody miserable, too, but went the opposite way to my sister. Coming here was a new start for me, and I was determined to pull myself together and eat sensibly, which I did mostly, until you challenged me to finish that Triple Whammy Burger and I couldn't resist. So, there you have it."
He watched me as if hardly daring to believe I wasn't lying. "And that's it? Honestly?"
I touched his arm—against my better judgement, I might add, but he looked so shell-shocked, I couldn't help it. "That's it. I swear to you. I do not have an eating disorder."
He put his head in his hands. "Thank God." He peered down at me, clearly embarrassed. "I've been an idiot, haven't I?"
"Not at all," I assured him. "You've been kind and caring and thoughtful, and I'm very lucky to have friends like you and Mrs Fairweather."
He smiled at me. "Can we forget this just happened?" he pleaded.
"I think we probably should," I agreed, "although, you'd better put Mrs F straight. No wonder she's been clucking round me like a mother hen, bless her."
"She thinks the world of you," he told me. "We both do."
I glanced away. I couldn't go down that road with him, however appealing it might seem.
"I have some news for you, anyway," he said abruptly, and I looked back, relieved at the change in his tone.
"Oh, and what's that?"
"I've enrolled Adele at the local primary school. She starts in the nursery class in September."
My heart plummeted into my shoes. "That—that's a change of heart," I managed. "Thought you didn't want her to go there?"
"It wasn't that I didn't want her to go there," he said. "I just didn't see the point because I wasn't sure where she'd be living. Now it's settled. Mother and I had a long talk, while you were away. She's told me she plans to split her time between New York and the house in the Cotswolds, which, to be honest, makes more sense. She has friends in both places, unlike here, where she really knows no one. She's asked me to take on responsibility for Adele, and I've agreed." His mouth twitched. "Let's face it, I always have taken responsibility for her, but we intend to make it official. My mother's just not cut out to take care of a four-year-old. I'd like to say it was down to her age, but she wasn't exactly cut out to look after me when I was that age, either. I love her, but she never really felt like a mother figure."
"I'm sorry, Ethan. You missed out on that," I said, thinking of my own lovely mum.
"Yes, I did. I'm not sure I realised how much, until recently. I want Adele to have better than that, and I think she will."
"That's good," I said, not at all sure how he planned to achieve his goal. Nursery school was all very well, but it was no substitute for the love of a mother. I tried to sound calm as I said, "I'll look for another job. I'd better go online and find the nearest agency. I'm sure I'll find something, and I'll be out of your way in no time."
His whole demeanour changed. "Out of my way? My God, Cara! That's it, is it?"
"What do you wa
nt me to say?" I said, confused. "I'll stay on until September, of course. I won't leave Adele without a nanny."
"Is it that easy for you?" He loomed over me, his face a mixture of anger and pain. "You'll just walk away? You'll leave me without a backward glance?"
"Leave you? I don't understand."
"You do understand," he said bitterly. "You just won't face up to it. Did what I said to you here the other day mean nothing to you? We kissed! Did that mean nothing, either?" He rubbed the back of his head, staring at me with pain-filled eyes. "For fuck's sake, Cara, I thought we were past this." He dug into his pocket and handed me a plastic bag of fifty pence coins. "Keep these for Adele," he snapped. "I have a feeling I'm going to use them all."
"You're being ridiculous," I said.
"Am I indeed? Whereas you're being cruel! I told you how I feel, and I may as well have said nothing, because clearly, you're not interested. It's like you're playing some warped game with me. One minute you're kissing me back, the next you're cold and uncaring. What the hell do you want from me?"
Well, it wasn't going at all how I'd expected. "I only came to see you to thank you for the sketch," I muttered sulkily.
"You saw it?"
"I did." I half smiled at him, trying to appease him. "It's amazing. You did that from memory?"
"It was easy," he said, his voice harsh. "Your image is etched on my brain."
"You made me look beautiful."
"Cara, you are beautiful. I drew what I see, don't you understand that?" He reached for my hand. "Cara, I love you. Please tell me you feel the same way about me."
No, no, no! I knew it would only take one word, and I'd be lost forever—doomed to replay past mistakes like some hideous version of Groundhog Day. "Whatever you think you feel, it isn't real," I told him. "It won't last. Someone else will come along, and you'll forget all about me. Just trust me on this."
He stared at me in silence for a moment, his face pale. Then, slowly, he said, "Who broke your heart, Cara?"
I was about to deny that my heart had ever been broken. I intended to shrug it off, make light of his comment, but out of nowhere, tears sprang into my eyes, and my throat felt full and choked. "I did!" I burst out, without even meaning to. I threw the bag of coins on the ground. "I broke my own heart. And I can't do it again."
"You? I don't understand."
"I broke my heart!" I repeated, aware that my voice was becoming unattractively shrill, yet unable to shut myself up. The dam, it seemed, had burst. I'd had no idea that I even felt that way. "I'm responsible for all of it. I was so desperate for someone to accept me just as I was, and to be proud of me, that I didn't see what was happening. How unsuited we were. Me and Seth, I mean."
"Seth? Is he the man who made it easy for you to leave?"
"Yes. Eventually. You see, Seth may have taken advantage of that desperation, but it was me—I allowed it to happen. I didn't fight back. I didn't insist that he grow up. I just went out and got a job to support him—the first job I could get. And I turned a blind eye when he had an affair because, you know, maybe that was all I could expect. And I spent years just feeling more and more of a failure, and that put barriers between myself and the people who loved me. I didn't feel good enough for any of them, so I lost them. My parents, my brother and sister .... They all seemed to have perfect lives, whereas mine was a mess. How could I spend time with them and not give away how miserable I felt?"
I choked back a sob and, determined to make the situation clear to him, ploughed on. "So, I stayed away, and their lives went on without me, and I didn't get to know my nieces, and I didn't even know my brother and his wife were having problems, and when I saw my dad he looked so ill and tired .... How could I not know that? But I didn't, because I allowed myself to drift away from them, and I allowed myself to build a life with a man that was no good for me, and to hang out with people who meant nothing to me, and whose lifestyle I didn't approve of and didn't fit in with, and all the time I was thinking, there's something wrong with me, why don't I fit in? And the truth is, I was never meant to fit in, but it took me far too long to realise it. They weren't my people, you see. I shouldn't have been with them, and it only happened because I let myself down so badly. I wasn't true to myself, to my own values. I got what I deserved. The life I have now—this little life—is the one I created for myself.
"So, yes, I broke my own heart. And now it's up to me, and me alone, to mend it. I can't hand that responsibility over to anyone else. I'm on my own, and my happiness depends on me staying that way and making a new life for myself. A bigger, better life, while I still can."
I became aware that I was crying, but, even more astonishing, I realised that so was he. Tears ran down his cheeks, and it was all I could do not to wipe them away.
"You don't have to hand responsibility over to someone else," he said thickly. "Everyone must take responsibility for their own life, but that doesn't mean you can't be with another person. That you can't allow someone into your heart. What are you afraid of? That you'll make the same mistake again? That you won't have the courage to be your own person? That you'll be absorbed into the shadow of anyone you let in?"
"Yes! Exactly that! I am afraid of that. I'm not enough, do you understand that? I'm not enough, and if I allow another man too close to me, I will disappear. And I just can't do that again."
"Christ, Cara." He sank back onto the bench and stared at the ground. "What the hell happened to you?"
And so I told him. I sat down beside him on the bench and told him it all, about meeting Seth, about turning him, in my mind's eye, into something he wasn't. How I'd created some fictional life around a man who could never live up to it. How Heathcliff had turned out to be nothing but a dream—a wisp of a fantasy, born out of a longing to belong to someone who thought I was enough.
"You are enough!" His voice was hoarse as he turned to me and gripped my shoulders. "Listen to me," he said desperately, "you're more than enough. You're kind, loving, caring and funny, smart and loyal, interesting, and so beautiful. What more do you want to be?"
"I want ..." I shook my head. "I don't know what I want. To be proud of myself. To make my family proud of me."
"How could they not be proud of you?" he demanded. "It's impossible!"
"I don't have a good job like Redmond and Tamsin have. Had. And they've given my parents grandchildren. I didn't even get the chance to do that. I've done nothing to be proud of."
"You're mistaken, Cara. Your gift is in your nature. You're one of life's nurturers, and what's wrong with that?"
"There's got to be more to me than childcare," I pleaded. "I need a real job. I need to spread my wings. Don't I?" Did I? I wasn't even sure what I wanted any more.
"I am no bird, and no net ensnares me," he murmured.
My eyes widened. He'd read Jane Eyre?
He stood up and began to pace. "A high-flying career doesn't define a person. You told me yourself that I should step away from my business and devote more time to my painting. You said I had a gift for it, and that I should nurture that gift."
"You should," I said weakly. "I meant it."
"And I mean this." He stopped in front of me and stared down at me with pleading eyes. "Your gift is with people. You said you never had a career in mind, that you just fell into childcare. But maybe that's where your talent has lain all along. What's wrong with caring for people? What's wrong with caring for children? What's wrong with spending your life making a home, making a family, loving that family with all your heart?"
"Have you never heard of feminism?" I half sobbed.
"Of course I have! I wear my feminist badge with pride, as, I might add, did my own father—as all the women he promoted on merit would testify. But feminism isn't just about building a career. It's about having the choice. If you wanted to do something—if you had a career in mind that you really wanted to pursue, I would support you all the way. You must know that. But for God's sake, don't assume that, if you don't want a caree
r, if deep down inside, all you want is a home and family, you're somehow failing, or letting anyone down. Don't be afraid to admit that to anyone, least of all to yourself. It's your choice, and you're free to make it. Just, please, Cara, choose honestly. Be true to yourself."
It was as if a fog was lifting. As if light was breaking through the thick mists that had blinded me for so many years. I knew, with blinding clarity, what it was I wanted, more than anything in the world. It was what I'd always wanted, but I'd lied to myself. I'd persuaded myself it didn't matter, didn't count. Well, it mattered. In the end, it was all that mattered.
I thought, for a minute, that we were both crying again, until I realised that it was raining. His hair had glued to his head, and I knew mine must be the same, and that I must look a fright.
"Cara?"
His eyes burned into mine, and, not stopping to think, I launched myself into his arms. I sobbed, while he held me tightly and stroked my hair.
"I don't want to leave you," I told him desperately. "My heart would break."
"You don't have to leave," he said. "I won't let you leave."
"But your wife? I can't betray her, and neither should you."
"We wouldn't be betraying her. It's not a real marriage. I mean, not in the way you think. I swear to you, I'm going to sort this out. I'll meet with her, and I'll end this, once and for all. I want to marry you, Cara. Will you marry me?"
It was madness. There was no other way to look at it, really. In the back of my mind, there was an uneasy awareness that he'd said he would contact Antonia, yet he'd told Marcus that he didn't know how to. And what did he mean, it wasn't a marriage? They'd been living apart for so long. Surely, if they'd wanted to end it, they could have done so before then?
Yet, I found myself nodding, and then I told him that, yes, I would marry him, and he laughed and kissed me, his hands cupping my face. Then we ran back towards the house with the rain pouring down on us, as if the gods were throwing giant buckets of water at us in disapproval.