The Beauty of the End

by Debbie Howells

  “Look, can I buy you a drink or something?”

  Or something . . . I took a deep breath. What was I thinking? Get a grip, man. You’re not Noah the nerd, you’re cool.

  I bought her a vodka and Coke, glad that I really was eighteen and no longer had to worry about John the owner challenging me about my age, and hardly believing how shit the timing was, seeing her there, just when I was about to go away.

  “So, what are you doing here?” I placed our drinks on the table, trying not to spill them, and pulled out the chair opposite her.

  “I came to stay with Bea,” she said, nodding over to the blond girl at the bar still being chatted up by Will. That sophisticated creature was Bea? In the two years I hadn’t seen her, she’d changed beyond belief.

  “So where do you live?” All of a sudden, I had a million questions. “What are you doing?”

  “London.” Her eyes wore a slightly guarded look. “I have a flatshare. I just got a job in a restaurant there. Cindy’s Diner. Nothing special but Cindy’s really nice and it pays the bills.”

  “Who do you live with?” Avidly trying to picture this new life she had, about which I knew nothing.

  “Her name’s Edie. She works at Cindy’s, too. . . .”

  As she talked, I hung on her every word, wanting to love what she was telling me, but in truth, what I felt was disappointment. She’d been so clever, so smart. And I knew there was nothing wrong with it, but she was destined for greater things than being a waitress.

  “Tell me about you.”

  Her smile made my heart turn over. “There’s not much to tell. I’m off to university next week. To study law.”

  She sat back and folded her arms. “Wow, Noah! That’s brilliant. But I guess you were always going to study something like that. I’m pleased for you.”

  Her voice was quiet, her eyes bright as they held mine. Suddenly, it was there. Right in front of me. The chance I’d been waiting for, all my life.

  “I have a week,” I said quickly, feeling a sudden heat in my cheeks, seeing Will and Bea coming over and knowing the time to do this was now, before it was too late. “Before I leave. Can I call you?”

  A look of surprise crossed her face; then she nodded.

  * * *

  Hastily I wrote down the number she gave me. The rest of the evening passed in a blur, as did a long night in which sleep evaded me. I ended up lying there, gazing at the ceiling, hardly daring to believe my luck, wondering what tomorrow would hold, until eventually I must have slept, waking the next morning, my heart hammering in my chest as soon as I remembered.

  The house quiet, I leapt out of bed and called her. In the seconds the phone rang, before she picked up, I imagined a million reasons why this wasn’t going to happen. I could have written down the wrong number or she could have changed her mind, found any number of excuses. But then she answered and the same smile I’d seen last night was there in her voice.

  We arranged to meet in town early that afternoon. Having chosen my clothes with care, I took enough money to buy lunch, from the precious supply I’d earned over the summer and carefully saved, to take to school. But then April was worth every penny.

  I got there early, waiting on the bench outside the shopping center, checking my watch every few minutes, feeling the same fear I’d felt when I’d called her, still half expecting her to stand me up.

  But my worries were unfounded. And as she walked toward me, her hair falling softly down her back, her frame small in loose-fitting jeans and leather jacket, I felt myself fall in love all over again.

  “Hi.” I stood up, suddenly self-conscious.

  “Hi.” She looked up at me, smiling like there was something amusing her. “You look nice.”

  Awkwardly, I glanced down at my cotton shirt and neatly ironed trousers, which suddenly felt wrong but were all I had. “Thanks.” Then I added hurriedly, “So do you.”

  “Thank you.” This time, her eyes smiled back at me. “So, what did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know.” I felt foolish. “We could have lunch—if you haven’t eaten? Or go for a walk? Or see a movie, if you like. Only I don’t know what’s on, but we could find out. . . .”

  As we walked across the street, I babbled on, until I felt her hand slip under my arm, and the softness of her skin on mine stunned me into silence.

  We settled on Cornish pasties in brown paper bags, bought from a small corner shop, then made our way toward the park. We shouldn’t waste such a beautiful day, April said, her hair glinting in the sun. So we walked, away from the parched flower beds, the chatter of the people sitting in groups on the grass, toward an empty bench under the shade of a tree.

  I’d waited so long for this. Dreamed that it would be as if we were soul mates, who, because of the bond each of us recognized, would instantly confide our innermost thoughts. But it wasn’t quite as I’d hoped. The easy and relaxed banter of old friends, as I thought of us, was absent, conversation stilted, skirting around the one subject that in the end I had to ask her about.

  “I was really worried about you,” I said eventually, referring to the last time I’d seen her, just before she moved away. “Before you left, you said you’d write.”

  Her face was a picture of astonishment. “But I did. Several times, Noah. When you didn’t reply, I gave up. I couldn’t see the point.”

  “I never got any letters.” I was filled with relief that she’d written, but also anger that her letters had never reached me, as I imagined someone, who could only have been my mother, intercepting them.

  “My mother.” I frowned. “Since my father died, she does crazy things.” Which was true, but if I thought about it, she’d been strange before he’d gone. Today, however, was not about my mother.

  “Well, I wrote to tell you I was fine. And to thank you for finding me that time.” She broke off, gazing into the distance, as if remembering. “Anyway, then I wrote another letter when I moved again, to give you my new address.”

  Which made two, at least. Possibly more, their contents to remain forever a mystery to me.

  “I never got any of them,” I said hotly.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She shrugged, but her face was turned away from me and I couldn’t tell if she meant it.

  “But it does.” I was quietly furious.

  “Really, Noah. It’s okay.” I felt her hand on my arm.

  It wasn’t. So much time had been wasted, time during which I’d believed I meant nothing to her, because someone who thought she’s known what was best for me had taken the decision out of my hands. That it was behind us, in the past, made no difference.

  I continued eating, not tasting the rest of my pasty, only the bitter tang of resentment, in silence until April spoke.

  “Tell me about your classes.”

  I was still angry, but not wanting to waste the day, I let myself be distracted. It was the last time we spoke of it—for many years. I went on about the course options I’d chosen, the work experience I’d done that summer, the reading list I was ploughing my way through, thinking she’d find it boring, but she listened intently.

  “So, when you’ve qualified, you’ll be a solicitor? Hey! That’s impressive.”

  But I didn’t want to talk about myself. “I always thought you’d continue studying. You always did well—in school. Before. . .” My voice died away.

  I wondered from her silence if I’d pushed her too far.

  “If things had turned out differently, then maybe I would have. But now, I don’t have time,” she said. Her voice was bright, but I liked to think there was regret there, too. “Now that I have rent to pay, I need to work.”

  “It doesn’t mean you never can,” I said more gently. It seemed so unfair that someone so talented should go to waste. “You should think about training while you work.”

  But she’d shaken her head and placed her small hand on my arm. “You don’t get it, Noah. It isn’t always that simple. Not for everyone.”

&
nbsp; * * *

  We met the following day, lapsing into an easier familiarity, then again, the one after that, on a glorious late summer afternoon, the sun hot and the air still, when we walked up Reynard’s Hill.

  Her cheeks were flushed, from the climb, the sun, and I wanted to believe also from being with me. Then as the path leveled out, it was like standing on top of the world, the jagged edge of it softened by bleached grasses and the tiny pale stars that were dried scabious flowers. As we stood there, I felt the last three years fall away. The disappointments, the broken dreams, the hurt, so that I was alone at last, with my goddess.

  “I love it here.” Her voice was wistful. And as she spoke, I forgot all about my earlier anger. None of that mattered. She was here, now. It was suddenly so simple.

  “I used to think you were a goddess,” I said humbly. “That you were from another world.”

  She turned to me, her eyes huge with astonishment.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I had no idea. No idea at all. Oh, Noah . . .”

  In that exact moment, as I looked into her eyes, saw the flicker of her pulse in the skin of her neck, I knew that I hadn’t imagined it, that she felt it, too, the magic between us that I had always known was there. Then she stepped toward me.

  That was when I leaned down and kissed her. A long, sweet kiss that was everything I’d dreamed of and much more. Her lips were soft, her hair like silk between my fingers, and when she kissed me back, my heart became hers forever.

  “For years, I’ve dreamed of this,” I murmured into her hair. “Only if I’m dreaming now, I never want to wake up.”

  “It isn’t a dream,” she said, reaching a finger to my lips, as we stood for several moments, not moving. Then she took my hand and placed it against her heart.

  But all I could feel was her warmth through her clothes, the soft swell of her breast. My fingers moving, searching, questioning. She didn’t stop me.

  This time it was April who kissed me. Who led me under the trees, where we lay on fallen leaves and very slowly she let me undress her.

  * * *

  It was dark by the time I got home. I crept in, wondering if anyone would be able to tell just by looking at me. As I closed the front door behind me, my mother called out from the kitchen.

  “Noah? Is that you? Where’ve you been?”

  As I thought of April’s letters, resentment coursed through me. I prepared to confront her, but then her face came into view, wearing the anxious expression that these days never left her. I couldn’t do it.

  “Do you remember that girl, Ma? The one I helped—from my school, a few years ago?”

  My words were tempered, not just by her world weariness but by the knowledge that she wouldn’t understand, that she’d never known how love could truly make you feel. The rush that was joyous, tolerant, impulsive all at once. I knew she’d never loved my father that way. You couldn’t know love and end up empty, as she was.

  I watched her closely, not sure she’d even remember. Her medication meant her brain worked slowly at best—and at her worst, she jumbled words and lost threads, hearing as if through cotton wool. Change had crept up on her slowly, unnoticed, the way it did with people you saw all the time, until the day I’d properly looked, shocked, seeing a stranger.

  A troubled expression flickered across her face. “The girl who was hurt.”

  “That’s right. It was strange,” I said slowly. “She said she’d write. And she never did—or did she write to you, Ma?”

  I watched her eyes flicker again, then shift toward the window. “I don’t remember,” she said, more clearly than she’d said anything in a long time.

  The helpless fury that rose up in me was pointless. The moment had long passed—three whole years ago. Turning away, I went to finish packing.

  She was lying. She remembered, I was almost certain. For whatever reason, she’d taken the letters before I’d seen them. It was another reason I couldn’t wait to get away from there.

  * * *

  April and I had arranged to meet again the following day, our last before she returned to London.

  This time, we would stay in touch, I’d decided. No matter what. London and Bristol weren’t a million miles apart. I could get the train up to see her on weekends and she could come to stay in Bristol. But that night, I couldn’t sleep, instead replaying every second of that afternoon. The incredible feeling of losing myself in April’s body, the scent of her,. as I lay there restlessly, hating the thought of us being apart.

  In the darkest, most silent hours, the solution came to me, so obvious I wondered I hadn’t thought of it before. The world wouldn’t miss another lawyer. Instead of going to university, I’d go with April back to London. Get a job. We’d be together. My mother wouldn’t like it, I knew that, but I was eighteen. I was an adult. I was leaving anyway. It was up to me where I went.

  Now I’d made the decision, sleep was out of the question. I got up and found some paper, then, sitting at my desk, wrote my mother a letter. It was a cowardly way to do it, but this way, I’d be certain she couldn’t stop me.

  And with the letter written, as the dawn light crept through my curtains, at last I slept.

  8

  I slept until midday, lying in bed as the hazy recollection of the previous day drifted over me, the magnitude of what I’d decided only mildly shocking in the light of day. It was inevitable, that much was clear to me. Then seeing the time with horror, I leapt out of bed, afraid I’d miss April, imagining her reaction when I told her I was coming with her. As I showered, I rehearsed what I’d say.

  University’s not for me. . . . I can’t stand more years of studying.. . . I thought I’d go to London and get a job.... I’d say it casually, as though it wasn’t important to me, frightened she’d try to change my mind, when the truth was the thought of being away from her was killing me.

  And I knew she felt the same. After yesterday, I’d seen it in her eyes, felt it in the way her body responded to mine. I looked at the bag I’d packed the previous night. At all my uni stuff still piled on the floor, thinking only fleetingly of the law career I was turning my back on. Then, after glancing at my watch again, I tore down the stairs and out the door.

  In my haste, I was halfway down the street when I realized I’d forgotten my wallet. I sprinted back and let myself in, cursing the time I was wasting. It was as I came downstairs for the second time, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. The envelope on the hall table, with my name on it.

  The handwriting was unfamiliar but as I ripped it open, almost as if I’d guessed, I felt my heart start to pound, then as I read it stop altogether, as my dreams, my hopes, my plans for the future, all of them melted away.

  Dear Noah,

  I’ve decided to go back to London early. I think it’s for the best. You are sweet, dearest Noah. The sweetest boy I’ve ever known, but even a goddess can fall from grace. I don’t deserve your devotion or that pedestal you put me on.

  There’s too much you don’t know about me. But I don’t want you to know, I just want to remember what we had.

  I read it again, hearing a sob that seemed to come from deep inside me. I couldn’t lose her. Not now, after the last two days, when it had become clear we were meant to be together. I’d been heartbroken the last time she left, when I was fifteen—or so I’d believed at the time. But it was nothing compared to this. Wave after wave of utter despair washed over me, and as I drowned, I felt a new kind of pain grip my heart, then rip it in two.

  Ella

  We weave the first strands of friendship like a spider’s web. For a therapist, she’s cool. But then I get caught.

  “So what about when you have friends round?” she asks, casually, the next time I see her.

  I hesitate, because casually is anything but; and it’s the f word. It was there the minute I walked in, because it always is. It was just a matter of time before we got to it. It’s taken her three appointments. Mostly they get there in one
.

  “It’s complicated.” I think how I’m going to explain, it’s just like my clothes.

  “My parents insist on the right kind of friends. The ones who get invited over to our house, that is.” I pause, then look directly at her. “It doesn’t work though, does it? I mean, you can talk about stuff with anyone. . . .”

  Like this crap, I’m thinking but don’t say.

  “Only it doesn’t make you close. They have to, like, really get you. . . .”

  Like laugh at the same stupid crazy things and share secrets.

  “I do have those kind of friends.” I add hurriedly, “Proper ones,” before she thinks I’m a total loser. “Only they’re at school.”

  She nods slowly. “They don’t come over to your house?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t really want them to, because then my mother would get to know their mothers, and she’d be in the middle of everything . . . and it would ruin it. School’s different.”

  What I really mean is, when I’m there, I’m different. It’s the same when my parents go away. I’m more like me, or at least the me I want to be.

  “So your mother organizes your life,” she says quietly.

  Not just organizes, she freaking controls it—that’s why I like it when she goes away.

  “She probably wants what she thinks is best for you.” She adds, “Is that so bad?” Yet another question fluttering around, a little annoying fly I want to swat away.

  There’s a vase of stiff, scentless roses on the windowsill. Roses. Rose garden. My mother, every-fricking-where I go. I glance at my watch, thinking of her, perched on the grey sofa on the other side of the door, flicking through Vogue magazine or maybe the paint charts the interior designer brought her, checking her phone every few minutes. Inconvenienced, because Gabriela had to sprain her wrist, today of all days; that she’s had to shoehorn my appointment into her diary yet again, when she should be somewhere else.

  Feeling a jolt as another strand of the web gives way.