The Beauty of the End

by Debbie Howells

  She frowns. “I’m familiar with the principles of cause and effect—but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  I try again. “Okay. Here’s another example. In theory, you could say the first two years of my life are missing. I don’t remember them; I was too young. And there are no photos. They got lost when we moved.”

  She looks stricken. “That’s terrible.”

  I nod. “It’s annoying. But the effect is the world has been spared another set of cutesy baby photos, because of the useless moving company. Agree?”

  It sounds flippant and I’m not. Some days it makes me really sad, but there’s nothing I can do. The photos have gone. Her eyes follow mine.

  “Okay. Look at it this way. If you hadn’t done something bad, you wouldn’t have written the letter about it in the first place. So you wouldn’t have to hide it.”

  I pause to check she’s got it.

  “The letter is caused by the bad thing you did,” I say slowly, watching her. “And then the letter becomes the cause of being found, because it exists.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve no idea what you’re telling me here.”

  I give up; then it all comes out in a rush. “Okay. Where I’m going is, I found something.”

  Then I feel the flush of guilt in my cheeks. Neither of us breathes. If you had a pin and dropped it, you’d hear the high-pitched ting of metal hitting the wood floor as it bounces, then rolls.

  I wonder if I’ve told her enough. But not too much.

  She holds the kaleidoscope of my thoughts. Twists it. “Somewhere you shouldn’t have been looking?”

  I meet her eyes.

  27

  2016

  I hadn’t known that Will’s betrayal still cut far deeper than April’s. That I’d forgiven her, but not him. That not only do I dislike Will, I don’t trust him.

  But as long as April’s in a coma, as long as he’s voicing his opinions of her, because he’s a famous surgeon and because status is power, people will listen to him.

  Back in my room, I try to ignore the whisky bottle, putting the kettle on instead, wishing I had access to April’s mobile, which is impossible, because, as I already know from Will, the police have it.

  Then drinking my tea, I pick up her diary again, starting all over again at the beginning of January. By the time I reach the end of March, a routine’s emerging, with the same names cropping up each week at their usual appointment times. For example, Daisy Rubinstein favors Thursday mornings and Caitlin Merrow does every Friday at midday without exception. Sadie Westwood’s name is there, more often than not crossed out and penciled in again, which, after speaking to her, doesn’t surprise me at all.

  Every fortnight or so, usually on a Tuesday, she’s written clinic. There are other, more random entries related to dental appointments, or reminders to herself. Then two weeks ago, an entry that’s simply the letter B, written beside the North Star.

  I stare at it, feel myself frown. My first thought is of Norton. Bryan Norton. Could she have seen him more than once? Or had she gone there for some other reason? Could the B stand for Beatrice? Are they still in touch? Even occasionally, maybe, because they’d been close, for so long. If they are, Bea might know something.

  Once again, I wish I had April’s phone. But with most of the world connected by the Internet, as I’ve found out, it’s not easy to disappear. When it comes to social networking, I’m not a natural, but for the first time in about three years, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it before, I click onto Facebook—and I’m in luck. When I search for her name, I find April uses it, too. In just seconds, I’m looking at a list of her friends.

  As I scroll down the brief list, the only Beatrice is a Beatrice Fairchild. I don’t recall Bea’s surname, but I recognize her face. Like us all, older, but when I click on it, still the same glamorous Bea I remember.

  From the looks of it, Bea isn’t someone who splashes her life across the Internet either. Her profile is private, which seems somewhat out of character for the Bea I remember, who was highly sociable, with a flamboyant, devil-may-care streak. But, as I know too well, things happen. People don’t stay the same.

  Curious to know more, I google her, but the only B Fairchild is unlisted, and without more to go on, such as a place or occupation, she remains unremarkably, obstinately invisible.

  But at least with Facebook, I can ask.

  Hello, Bea, I hope this reaches you. I’m not sure if you’re still in touch with April but there was an accident and she’s unconscious in hospital—the Princess Royal, in Tonbridge. There’s more, though. She’s in trouble, which is why I’m hoping you might be able to help.

  I hesitate, then add my mobile number—I’d rather have a verbal conversation than a digital one—then hit send.

  * * *

  Out of the rest of April’s Facebook friends, I recognize no one, but, I figure, it would be more surprising if I did. I turn my attention to her clients again, but when I continue making calls down the list, it’s clear the relationship April has with them is professional only. Everyone I speak to knows little of her personal life.

  But later that afternoon, when I call Daisy Rubinstein, April’s regular Thursday morning appointment, she invites me over to talk to her.

  April clearly had a following—the Rubinsteins’ house is twenty miles away, which strikes me as a long way to drive just to talk. It’s a modest house in a quiet neighborhood. Ordinary. But as she shows me in, I start to see she’s anything but.

  “I don’t know April well, but if there’s anything I can do to help?” Daisy has long straight hair, and even with the huge dark circles under her eyes that tell their own story, she’s pretty.

  “Before, I didn’t tell you the whole story. April’s on life support. She took an overdose. The police suspect she may have killed someone, then tried to kill herself, only they broke in before the pills had done the job”

  “God.” Daisy looks shocked. “So, what does this have to do with you?”

  “We were friends,” I tell her briefly. “A long time ago. And I’m . . . well, I was, a lawyer. I knew her very well.” I hesitate, wondering how much to tell her. “Would you agree that there are some people who are incapable of harming others? I believe April’s one of them, but I need to prove that.”

  “I see.” I watch her twist and turn the facts I’ve given her, trying to make them fit with the April she knows. Then she frowns. “I’m sorry, but I’m having trouble with this.”

  “So am I. I suppose what I’m asking for is any insight you might have, as her client—professionally or personally.”

  Daisy frowns. “I can tell you how I met her. It was my GP who suggested contacting April. He said that she might help a little, that she was a good counselor. Anyway, when I met her, I was seven months pregnant. My unborn baby had been diagnosed with an incurable condition.” Her voice is low and accented, and suddenly she looks tired beyond belief.

  “It’s a long story—but my baby had an infantile form of Tay-Sachs disease. You may have heard of it. . . .” She glances at me.

  I shake my head.

  “No,” she says, as if to herself, then looks at me. “Don’t worry. A lot of people haven’t. Basically, it’s a progressive disease of the nervous system. And incurable. Even when you know it’s there, it’s invisible—to start with. And so you wait, watching, knowing that over the course of just a few months, it will slowly and cruelly take your child’s life. Just as they start to know your face, they lose their sight. You want to talk to them, reassure them, and then you realize they can’t hear you.” Her voice falters. “Their sense of taste goes; then they can’t feel when you touch them. Eventually they become paralyzed.” She breaks off, looking at me, stricken. “That’s when you know you don’t have long.”

  I’m shocked, trying to imagine how it is to be presented with such a diagnosis. To have a sick child you can’t comfort. To always know the torment that lies ahead. For a moment, neither of us s
peaks.

  She goes on. “There is no treatment and I was faced with the remaining two months of my pregnancy, carrying my baby, knowing he would suffer, then die—or having a termination.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say humbly. “I can’t imagine.”

  “You can’t. I couldn’t. Not until it was happening to me. I would go and see April. Do you know her house? We’d sit in those chairs in her study, by the window that looks out onto her beautiful garden. I’d scream and cry, and she’d just sit there. I swear. . . .” She pauses again. “I knew nothing would change, and I can’t explain it, but she knew, deep inside, how I felt. Not just that, though. It was like she took some of the weight of my hideous burden. God. I’ve often wondered how many burdens she must have carried, because not many people could do that.”

  I know nothing about parenthood, but I know about loss. Even so, I can only glimpse the hell Daisy has suffered. Is still suffering, for all I know. But it’s only a glimpse. And Daisy hasn’t told me if her pregnancy went to term; if her baby is still alive. Then in her next breath she answers both of my questions.

  “Losing a child changes you forever. . . .”The silence is broken when she gets up.

  “I’m sorry,” she says suddenly. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. I didn’t mean to burden you. I think I can only tell you that April’s extraordinary. There isn’t a name for what she does, but I truly believe she shared my pain and, in doing so, made it more bearable. Will you let me know? How she’s doing?”

  Feeling her eyes on me, I find myself nodding. “Of course. And thank you—for talking to me.”

  Outside in my car, I sit for ages, in silence, humbled by such honesty, thinking about how impossible Daisy’s choices were, how cruel the reality for her and her child. How fine the line between life and death.

  28

  The next morning, there’s still no response from Beatrice. Planning to visit the hospital, I get up later than planned, shower, then head to the dining room for breakfast. I pour a cup of coffee and pick up a couple of the papers lying on a side table

  Knowing exactly what I’m looking for, but not happy when four pages in, I find it.

  MURDER SUSPECT IN ATTEMPTED SUICIDE

  An unnamed woman is suspected of murdering Bryan Norton, before attempting to take her own life. Police were unable to give her name, just said that they were not looking for anyone else in connection with the case. Norton, 76, was found stabbed in his car late last Monday night outside the North Star pub.

  It’s mentioned in the other paper, too. God knows how they got hold of this. So now the speculation will start. Someone will find April’s name and her relationship to Norton. The past she’d left behind will catch up with the life she’s built for herself, the people who hold her in such esteem. Who rely on her, trust her. What impact will it have on them?

  What little appetite I had gone, I get up and drop the papers in the bin. Then I head for the hospital, my head full of thoughts about the unfairness of what’s happening. How whether she’s guilty or not, the world will know what April tried so hard to keep hidden.

  * * *

  As soon as I enter ICU, I see the familiar face of one of the nurses.

  “Morning, Mr. Calaway.”

  “Good morning. How is April?”

  “She’s doing okay.” Quiet, guarded words that don’t raise my hopes, that tell me she’s no worse, but nor is she better.

  It’s not a surprise. I nod my thanks, continuing along the corridor toward April’s room.

  “You’ve just missed another visitor,” the nurse calls after me.

  I turn round. “Who was that?”

  The nurse shakes her head. “She didn’t say who she was. She had fair hair. A little shorter than I am. She was here for some time. I think they must be friends—she seemed quite upset.”

  Bea. She’d read my Facebook message. It must have been her.

  “How long ago?” I ask the nurse, my hopes rising.

  “She left only a few minutes ago. I’m surprised you didn’t pass her on your way in.”

  “Thanks. I think I know who she was. I might just see if I can catch her,” I call over my shoulder, already jogging down the corridor because there are many ways in and out of there, a three-dimensional maze of stairs, lifts, corridors. Once I’m through the swing doors, I break into a run, take the stairs, then at the bottom glance left and right, desperately searching for a glimpse of her.

  There’s no sign. I gamble then, going for the left corridor, which is the most direct way to the car park, breaking into a run, apologizing to the tide of people sweeping toward me, until I’m outside. But as I jog up and down the parking lanes, scanning the cars, there’s no sign of her.

  * * *

  “Did you find her?” When I get back, the same nurse is waiting for me.

  I shake my head. “She must have gone. Was it the first time you’ve seen her here?”

  The nurse nods. “Apart from you, and that lady today, there’ve been no other visitors—not while I’ve been here—that’s if you don’t count Mr. Farrington. Such a wonderful man. She’s lucky to have him looking after her.”

  Will, again. Inexplicably I’m struck with irritation that everywhere I go his glittering presence is inescapable.

  Pushing him from my mind, I continue along the corridor to April’s room, noticing straight away, it’s different in there. In spite of the rules, there are flowers.

  Ella

  It’s 2013. Monday, the sixteenth of July. A day of powder puff clouds and crystal rain. I’m excited, looking for my passport, because I’m going to Tuscany to stay with Kat.

  “It’s in your father’s office.” My mother’s voice floats down from upstairs, where her hair is being curled and pinned and sprayed in readiness for a dinner party.

  “The top drawer of his desk.”

  I’m skipping down the long hallway, the tiles cool under my bare feet. Round the corner to the quietest part of the house, the hem of my dress swinging, as I think about this other world I need to pack for. About pale sand and turquoise water; pasta dinners and how it won’t rain even once and the Italian boys Kat talks about; the midsummer sun and the haze of heat over the hills.

  I’m back in the cool damp of an English summer, pausing outside my father’s office. It’s habit. I’m not supposed to go in there, but it’s okay today because my mother told me to. Opening the door, breathing leather and furniture polish and silence.

  Walking across the thick carpet. Perching on the edge of his chair, spinning, just halfway round, then back again. Pulling open the top drawer, finding my passport, just as my mother said. My eyes pulled to the drawer below, the one with a key. Wondering what he locks away. Idly trying the drawer, expecting it to be locked shut. Surprised when it opens.

  Not meaning to pry, as I leaf through what’s there. Pick up the letter. Only as I read it, realizing what it is. A moment when time freezes, burned forever on my retina. I’m halfway through reading the second time, the names sinking in, when I hear footsteps. Folding the letter hastily. Laying it where I found it, closing the drawer just as the door handle turns. Getting to my feet as the door opens and my mother comes in.

  Only half her hair pinned up.

  Holding up the passport for her to see, turning away from her. Checking out of the corner of my eye that the drawer is closed.

  “I was calling you. Didn’t you hear me? Come and let Celia do your hair.”

  Silencing a hundred questions I can never ask, I follow her. Electric shock tangled with guilt. Excitement banished. Happiness gone.

  Does she know my father’s secret? Am I the only person who doesn’t know?

  Monday, the sixteenth of July 2013. The same day as five minutes ago. Time resumed, forever changed.

  29

  Having looked up the clinic where April works part-time, I find it’s in Guildford. It seems a long way from where she lives when there are other clinics much closer, but maybe she has
an expertise they felt was needed there.

  The roads are clear and the drive doesn’t take long. It’s midday when I pull up outside the large, converted town house, realizing too late, as I go inside, that any clinic that’s any good is likely to be busy and that I haven’t exactly thought this through.

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?” The receptionist looks up from her desk.

  “I don’t. Actually, I’m here about one of your therapists. April Rousseau.”

  “Oh? One moment.” She glances down and quickly finishes typing something, and I notice pinned on the cerise cardigan she’s wearing, the gold-edged name badge says “Elizabeth.”

  “What about her?” She looks up again.

  “I’m a friend. I’m also her lawyer.”

  Elizabeth glances behind her, then leans toward me. “ don’t know what’s happened, but there’s enough gossip about that poor woman. She left a voicemail, explaining she didn’t know when she’d next be in, so to please fit her clients in with other therapists.”

  I frown. “When was this?”

  “Sometime the other night. Late. I picked it up the next morning. She sounded terribly upset. I tried to call her back, of course, but she didn’t answer. Has something happened?”

  “Yes.” I glance around, wondering if there’s a manager I should talk to. I judge Elizabeth to be trustworthy, knowing I need as much help as I can get. “Look, it’s important—is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “I don’t know.” She looks doubtful. “I’m on my own just now.”

  But I look past her as one of her colleagues walks in.