“You’re cold.” Pulling her against my own body, still warm from sleep.
For what felt like ages, we sat there, neither of us speaking, until eventually April spoke.
“Do you ever think . . .” Her voice was a whisper. I felt her shudder against me. Then she added, “That you can be too happy?”
“Nope.” Ignoring the shiver running down my own spine as through her hair I kissed her neck. “Sorry. Not possible.”
But when she turned to face me, her eyes were troubled. “I’m serious, Noah. It never lasts, does it? Happiness?”
Her words held the ghost of fear. I reached out, stroking the fall of hair off her face.
“Hey, what is this?” I said more gently, watching for the smile to flicker momentarily on her lips, wanting to reassure her. “Nothing’s going to happen; you know that. We’re allowed to be happy.”
She didn’t smile. Looking away from me, she shook her head. “It isn’t always that simple.”
I held her against me, knowing her despondent mood would pass, until her voice came out of the darkness. “Do you ever think, Noah? About life—and death? Because nothing’s certain, is it?”
“Except love,” I said, pulling her closer, ignoring the flicker of disquiet I felt. Doing what I always did, believing what I wanted to believe. Turning from the shadow of the past.
14
Was April right? For a while, were we too happy? A lifetime’s worth of happiness condensed into a few months, until its quota had been exhausted so that after, there could only be sorrow? It was a cloud that hung not just over April. This time I felt it, too.
April spent a lot of time out walking, alone. But then it passed, as it always did. Christmas came. Apart from a brief visit to the care home that these days my mother rarely left, we spent it together. Laughing at the Christmas tree I’d bought, which was tiny yet dwarfed April’s flat and was ludicrously hung with the bling of lights and shimmering baubles; opening the many presents we’d bought each other; eating and drinking far too much.
Even then, every so often her question came back to me. Was it possible to feel too much happiness? I watched the fairy lights flicker, then spark brightly again, as I thought of Will’s last-minute invitation for New Year’s Eve, back in Musgrove at his parents’ house. It would be some party, I knew that. I’d been to many over the years, all with free-flowing champagne and mountains of food. I pictured it—the grand, lavishly decorated house with the enormous tree just inside the front door, towering above the equally glittering guests.
When I mentioned it to April, far from showing the enthusiasm I thought she would, she hesitated. “We could, if you want to. To be honest, I thought we were going to spend it here. Just the two of us.”
It was how we spent most of our time—just the two of us, in the moments we weren’t working, still caught in that blissful state that didn’t need other people. Like April, I was content to spend them with her.
When I awoke on Christmas morning, I lay there, listening to April’s quiet breathing beside me as a fleeting memory came to me, of that Christmas with my parents after I’d just met April in school. Their idea of Christmas was a quiet, traditional affair. In my wildest schoolboy dreams, I wouldn’t have been able to imagine this. Yet, just lying there, with April sleeping beside me, I was the happiest I’d been my entire life.
That word again. Happy . . . I’m not sure if it was the magic of Christmas, but this time, it didn’t haunt me. All day, the rare sense of peace, of at last being where I was meant to be, stayed with me. The rest of the world barely existed, bar the muffled sounds from the flat above us, the distant strains of church bells, the rumble of a passing car far below.
Having already given April my presents, I felt in my pocket for the last one, which I’d thought so long and hard about but had yet to give her. It was quick, I knew that, but I couldn’t see the point in putting off what I believed was inevitable. I was waiting for the right moment, which never seemed to present itself.
I found it that evening, when she finished her phone call to her old friend Bea. Grabbing her hands and twirling her over to the sofa, where she sat down, I took a deep breath and fished in my pocket.
Her answer was in her eyes. Even before I went down on one knee in front of her and asked.
The ring was a perfect fit. I persuaded April we should go to Will’s party—not least because I wanted to show her off and tell the whole world we were going to be married, already imagining a country house wedding with April in a beautiful dress and all our friends crowded around us.
“We should check out some venues,” I told her. “Places get booked up.”
“Hey! I’ve only just said yes! There’s no hurry. . . .” She was laughing, but I could see her excitement in her eyes. “We’re young, Noah! We have our whole lives ahead of us!”
“Oh, but there is . . .” I was impatient, aware of ten long years of waiting condensed into this one moment.
* * *
I’d called Will to tell him, expecting a cool reaction and a lecture about being too young to tie myself down, but, to my surprise, I was wrong.
“Congratulations, mate. Happy for you—both. Put her on will you? So I can tell her myself?”
In my bubble I handed the phone to April. “Here, honey . . . it’s Will. He wants to congratulate you.”
As she took the phone, I saw her lips tighten. “Thanks.”
Then she listened, in silence, before adding, “I’m not sure.”
She turned away from me after that, so I couldn’t clearly hear what she was saying, before a minute or so later hanging up.
“What aren’t you sure about?” I said.
She looked blankly at me.
“You said something about not being sure,” I said, curious.
“Oh.” A frown flickered across her face as she glanced away. “He said he’s looking forward to seeing us. You know, on New Year’s Eve. He was talking about announcing our engagement.”
“Wouldn’t that be something! He’s a good mate, isn’t he?” I pulled her into my arms, thinking of Will’s party again. How unexpectedly great life was. So much had changed this last year, I couldn’t help but wonder what the next would bring.
Then I felt her sigh against me, as her eyes sought mine.
“I’m so happy, Noah. But sometimes . . . Don’t you wish we could run away? From everything? Go somewhere it’s just us . . .”
Her voice was quiet—and wistful. I felt a sudden flash of disquiet.
Gently I pulled away from her, looking into her eyes. “Hey, if that’s what you want, we’ll do that. We can go away, get married on a beach somewhere. Anywhere. Just us.”
I meant every word. It could have been a small-town registry office for all I cared. I thought she was talking about our wedding, but she could equally have been talking about our future. And I’d have moved to the other side of the world with her. All that really mattered was being together.
* * *
Over the next few days, we told our friends, then lightly sketched the outline of our wedding day, April at last conceding that a country wedding somewhere not too flash or ostentatious, now she’d thought about it, would be amazing.
Then early on New Year’s Eve, before breakfast, she went out, alone. “I just need to get one or two things,” she said, reaching up to kiss me, before pulling on her big coat, then winding a scarf around her neck.
“I’ll come with you. I could do with a walk.” I looked around for my jacket, then hesitated, remembering I’d promised to call my mother.
“I’ll just make a quick call. Two minutes—okay?”
But she shook her head. “It’s okay. You stay here. I won’t be long.”
Though she didn’t say, I guessed it was one of those times she wanted to be alone. After calling my mother for the briefest of conversations, I switched on the television, picking up the end of an old film, then watching the one that followed, only at the end realizing April still wasn�
�t back.
I was starting to get anxious when I heard her key in the door. When she came in, instead of flushed from the cold, her face was pale.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Still in her coat, she came and sat on the sofa, staring at the carpet, before pulling off her boots.
“Not really. I don’t know. I was walking I think I got cold.”
I took her hands in mine. They were like ice. “You should have called me.”
She shook her head. “It’s my fault. I should have come back—but I went and sat in the park. I thought it would pass, but it hasn’t. I just feel really sick, Noah. And I ache.”
“It sounds like flu.” I watched as she slipped her coat off and curled up on the sofa. Then I fetched a throw from her bed and gently covered her.
She didn’t protest, just closed her eyes. A few minutes later, from the rhythmic sound of her breathing I guessed she was sleeping. An hour later, she hadn’t moved.
Much later, as it was getting dark, gently I woke her.
“You’ve been asleep for hours,” I told her softly. “I don’t think we’re going to get to Will’s.”
She lifted her head. “Oh, Noah . . .” Her head sank back onto the sofa. “I’m so sorry. I know how much you wanted to go tonight.”
“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a party.” I’d been looking forward to it, but it wasn’t important. There would always be other parties.
“You should go. I’ll be fine here on my own.”
“I’m hardly going without you,” I told her, imagining walking into Will’s alone. “And we can see Will anytime.”
It was true. I called him and explained. Then we saw the New Year in, just the two of us, April curled up against me, revived enough by midnight to share the champagne we’d been planning to take to the party.
The next day, she felt better. In just a few days, she was herself again. And then the holiday was over and it was back to work.
15
2016
As I stand at the back of April’s cottage, nowhere is there any sign of forced entry. Had the door been open when the police found her that night? No doubt they’d have locked up when they left and taken the key. I’m wondering also if there’s a spare key, hidden for whoever might need it, somewhere not too obvious. When I’d moved into my aunt’s cottage, I’d found my own front door key where I’d been told it would be, under the clichéd upturned flowerpot, cracked from frost. Mad, I’d thought at first, inviting just anyone into your home like that, until I’d seen the old windows and rusted, ill-fitting locks that wouldn’t keep anyone out. That sanctuary was illusory.
Here, the windows are locked tight and there’s no upturned flowerpot, just a flat, moss-covered stone placed deliberately near the door. When I lift it enough to feel underneath, I find what I’m looking for.
The key fits the back door, and as I push it open, the wind suddenly picks up. Then out of the corner of my eye, I see a cat watching from a corner of the garden, before it streaks toward me and without hesitation vanishes inside.
I’m not sentimental, but there’s something poignant about walking in on April’s life, frozen the moment she left. Her coat thrown over a chair, the suede boots left underneath where she’d slipped them off, the heels faded from wear; her keys on a work top, as if she’d just come in from a walk.
In the middle of her kitchen table are unopened letters, next to a bowl of green apples and a pile of newly folded washing on which the scent still lingers; in a heavy jug on the windowsill are stems of lilac, cut, I’m guessing, from the bush I’d noticed in her garden.
As I explore, there are so many signs, small, but of disproportionate significance, that she hadn’t planned to kill herself. From the seed packets, a neat bundle held by a rubber band waiting to be planted once the soil had warmed, to the page ripped out of a magazine advertising a weekend break in the French Riviera—in autumn. A half-written shopping list, tickets for a theater production in a month’s time—all of it suggesting she was planning on being here.
The more I look around, the more I’m convinced I’m right. It’s a home that’s cared for, a refuge, that feels loved. Nowhere is there any indication of a disturbed mind. If she’d been in the grip of depression, there’d be no flowers, no bowl of apples, no neatly folded laundry.
April would have tidied, too, I’m sure of it. Left things in order, hidden her most private self from the prying eyes she knew would come here, after. The police, her next of kin, all picking through the remnants of her life. It wasn’t her way to leave herself on display to strangers.
Something must have happened between her and Norton that night, whether she killed him or not, that was so terrible, sent her somewhere so dark, so hopeless, that ending her life was her only option.
I’m wondering what it could have been when my eye is drawn to a sudden movement in the doorway, as the cat reappears, staring watchfully at me, before arching its back. I take a step toward it, stopping when it yowls ferociously. As the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, in a moment of absolute certainty, I know without any shadow of a doubt.
April wouldn’t have abandoned a cat.
I ignore the cat as I explore further, through a door that leads into a small sitting room with pale, bare floorboards and soft-colored furnishings, my conviction growing. It’s as if April’s just gone out—for a paper, maybe, or to call on a neighbor; as if any minute, the back door will swing open and I’ll hear her footsteps in the kitchen, the sound of her soft, clear voice.
I skim a bookcase full of titles on various therapies, take in the few photos, of April with groups of other nameless people, of someone I don’t know holding a baby.
Another doorway leads down the single brick step that’s worn smooth with age, into what appears to be her study. In a corner, there’s a small desk, with two armchairs angled by the window. Possibly a consulting room, if she’s still working as a counselor, which from the books she’s collected seems likely, and I picture her sitting there with her clients. Wonder how it is to inhabit someone else’s world.
Nowhere is there evidence that anyone else lives here. For some unknown reason, I’m relieved to know that, assume she must have married and divorced, yet kept the name Rousseau.
I’m halfway up the stairs when I pause, overwhelmed by the strangest sense that I’m not alone, startled by the faintest trace of footsteps treading the stairs just behind me, then turn to find no one there. Frozen, as a ghostly hand I can’t see brushes against my skin, as I think of her unconscious body in the hospital, so lifeless, empty of the energy, the essence of what makes her April, as I consider also that maybe that part of her has come home.
Another image comes to me, of that last night, of April coming up these stairs, for whatever unknown reason, with no choice, her despair so great it still echoes here. Feeling it crawl under my skin and become my own.
It’s a picture that stays with me, grows more vivid, so that my heart is thudding as I enter her bedroom. The bedcovers are disturbed, and there’s a tipped-over vodka bottle on the floor. The image of April swallowing pills and vodka flashes through my mind. It’s followed by another of the police arriving, having traced her address as soon as they found her phone, the sound of them breaking in, then the urgency in their voices as they find her. Was she unconscious, already floating somewhere else, as they carried her body down the stairs?
My thoughts are broken by the cat, leaping onto the bed, looking at me expectantly. This time, when I reach out my hand, it blinks back at me, as if reading my mind, then comes over and rubs its head against my hand.
“I know how you feel,” I tell it, listening to the throaty purr. “Come on, buddy. Let’s find you some food.”
* * *
I find a box of dry cat food down in the kitchen and tip it into an empty bowl, watching while the cat wolfs it down, then hear the phone ring in another room. After three rings, my ears prick up as it goes to voicemail.
�
�Hello, you’ve reached April Rousseau. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back.”
It’s unmistakably April’s voice. There’s a brief pause before a woman speaks.
“Hello? April, it’s Sadie Westwood. We had an appointment today.... I don’t know what happened, but I was hoping you could fit me in, tonight—or maybe tomorrow, if it’s easier.... Can you call me, please?”
The voice wavers, almost tearful, then the caller leaves a number and hangs up. I frantically look around for a piece of paper, repeating the number to myself, and then jot it down before I forget, guessing she’s almost certainly a client, but not wanting to play the message back, or leave any other trace of my presence when the police come here.
Realizing there are likely to be more clients like Sadie Westwood, who have appointments, who ought to be told, I go back to April’s study, where in one of the drawers of her desk I find folders containing client details. It’s on impulse that I take them. Noticing her diary, I pick that up, too. Then as I walk back through the sitting room, I find myself drawn again to the photos, picking them up in turn, curiously studying the faces as new questions come to me. Does she have a family? And if she does, do they know?
Outside again, I’m about to lock the door when a furious yowl alerts me to the fact that the cat is still inside. I open the door, and it streaks out, vanishing into the trees. Locking up, in a moment of rashness I consider keeping the key, but decide against it and slide it back under the stone.
Just moments later, I’m in my car pulling on my seat belt when a few meters farther down the lane, a police car pulls up. In my driving mirror I watch as two uniformed police cross the lane and go through April’s gate. As one of them talks on his radio, I can’t help but wonder: Coincidence? Or was I right? Was I being watched?
* * *
Back in my room at the B&B, I eat the sandwich I bought earlier and pour myself a drink, then another, enough to allow the tension to ebb away but not sufficient that when I sleep I don’t dream vividly. As my eyes close, I’m back in April’s cottage. Long grass bleached to the color of hay has grown up against the windows. I’m in her study, where the light casts shadows and twisting tendrils of plants creep silently through broken windows and cracks in the walls.
The Beauty of the End Page 8