by Helen Cox
‘Again, direct, but thanks for the update.’ He laughed, and then we watched the sun go down over the water together.
Chapter Twenty-five
‘Hey, El Greco!’ Ryan shouted across the diner and laughed to himself. He was looking relaxed in a silver shirt and a pair of navy chinos. His sunglasses were perched on his head and he’d caught the sun a bit around his nose. Glaring at him, I made my way over to the red, faux-leather booth. Trying to ignore the all-too-familiar smell of fried eggs and brewing coffee. When Ryan asked me to meet him at the Broadway Diner, Crouch End, I thought the place might have a vague Americana ambience. I hadn’t expected to step into an anglicised version of The Starlight Diner. This was a typical Ryan thing to do. He probably thought he was funny. Actually, there was no ‘probably’ about it. He always thought he was funny.
‘This place? Really?’ I said, sliding onto the leather seat so we were sitting almost opposite each other.
‘Oh, come on. You can’t spend your life wallowing. At some point you’ve got to crack a smile about the crap that’s happened to you.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ I said, trying not to make eye contact with him in case I did start smiling about the sheer ridiculousness of it all. ‘If you ever do anything remotely sensitive by me I’ll die of shock. And don’t call me El Greco.’ In a bid to do something that wasn’t moping around the house thinking of Jack, I’d started a life-drawing course at the local community college. Unfortunately, the only two people I had to hang out with, Mum and Ryan, had taken a concerning amount of pleasure in ridiculing me over my early attempts at artistic greatness. Ryan’s unwelcome nickname was a new low.
‘El Greco was quite the artist. You should take it as a compliment.’
‘You don’t mean it as a compliment,’ I said, pouting my lips to one side. ‘You know, I’m starting to meet new people at college. Artists just like me. And pretty soon I won’t be forced to put up with your digs anymore.’
‘New people?’ said Ryan ‘Steady on. You might actually be embracing life.’
My eyes couldn’t get any narrower so I slapped the back of his hand.
‘Still need to work on those anger management issues though.’ He laughed.
‘Do you practise being a pain in the arse?’ I asked.
‘No, like all my skills it just comes naturally.’ He had this cheeky smile he used when he thought himself funnier than he actually was. Every time I saw it I couldn’t help but laugh and unfortunately he probably thought I was entertained by his jokes rather than his face. Poor, misguided fool.
‘What’re you going to eat?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’ I looked at the menu. ‘You do realise I lived off this kind of stuff for four months because I couldn’t afford to buy food?’ I was only half-serious but a fake American diner in North London did seem a weird place to take someone who’d spent the last few months waitressing at the real deal.
‘Oh. Right.’ He looked a bit put-out but after the “embracing life” crack, not to mention his distasteful choice of lunch venue, I wasn’t in the mood to show mercy. This place had opened just a couple of months ago so I suppose for him it was a novelty. For me though, it was the last place I wanted to be. Well, second to last. I could’ve been in the company of Boyle, I guess.
‘It’s alright,’ I said in my most weary tone. ‘I’ll just have a burger.’ A waitress in a red T-shirt and black mini skirt slunk up to our table.
‘What’re you folks havin’ today?’ she asked. Biting our tongues in an attempt not to laugh at her dubious American accent, which had a decided east London twang about it, we ordered a burger a piece and a couple of shakes.
‘C’mon, surely this place brings back some happy memories for you?’ said Ryan once the waitress had skulked off back to the kitchen. ‘Your American adventure wasn’t all bad?’
‘No.’ I smiled, remembering Walt, Julie-Ann and Angela, Mona and Alan. ‘I met some good people.’ But of course I was then remembering the couple of bad apples from my time in the Big Apple: Boyle and Jack, and my face dropped. Ryan noticed, reached over and knocked his knuckle across my chin in a way I should have found patronising but instead made me smile.
‘So…’ Ryan started, his green eyes suddenly serious and staring straight into mine.
‘So,’ I parroted without really knowing why.
‘Now you’re officially back in the land of the living, you ever going to tell me what happened between you and this Jack character?’ Ryan pushed the menus to one side, clasping his hands together. He never was one for subtlety but it was sort of refreshing.
‘What do you mean ever? I’ve been back a week.’ I crossed my arms and rested them on the table.
He smirked. ‘Yeah, and I’m sure bottling it up for a whole week has done you the world of good.’
‘I will tell you. Just maybe not while we’re sitting in a fake American diner. It’s weird,’ I said, eyeing the gaudy interior.
‘Well, actually…’
‘What now?’ I narrowed my eyes.
‘You don’t need to tell me. I sort of already know what happened.’ He fiddled with the cap on the ketchup bottle sitting at the edge of the table, fixating all his energy on it.
‘Mum?’ I looked at him sidelong. She knew I’d been through hell with Jack but I wouldn’t put anything past her when it came to Ryan. She seemed convinced that if she meddled long and hard enough, Ryan and I would just cave under the pressure and announce an engagement.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I caught a snippet on the local news the other night. It was about him, Jack, coming to London to promote his new film and they showed a clip off some chat show that featured you and his ex-wife…’ He looked at me. My eyes had widened. I could feel my lips trembling at the edges.
The waitress chose this opportune moment to come over with our milkshakes. We sat in silence as she took longer than either of us would’ve liked setting them down and arranging a red serviette beneath each glass.
‘He’s here? In London?’ I said when she’d gone. I looked around the diner as though he might be sitting on one of the other tables. I’d spent the morning painting on canvas in the lounge, my easel set up near the patio doors. There, sunlight poured in through the long windows, Mum’s carefully planted pansies and tulips bobbed their heads at me from the garden and sparrows and robins pecked at the bird feeder. I hadn’t had time to change before meeting Ryan for lunch. I was sporting an old pair of paint-splashed dungarees Mum didn’t want any more with a matching paint-splashed T-shirt underneath. As for my hair, I’d left it largely unattended and plaited back to keep it out of the way as I worked. This was not entirely the look one goes for when there’s a possibility of running into an ex.
‘Esther,’ Ryan said, trying to re-establish my attention, ‘he’s not in this diner. To be honest, I don’t think Crouch End is a likely stopping off point on a whirlwind promotional tour. But anyway, the TV show said he wasn’t here till next week.’ I nodded but couldn’t shake the idea that at any moment he would round the corner, looking and smiling and smelling the way he did. Why wasn’t the Atlantic wide enough to escape the threat of running into him? ‘Anyway, surely the most shocking element of that interview is that you’ve fallen for somebody who starred in a film called ChinKillers,’ Ryan teased.
‘One day you’re going to tell me all the embarrassing details of your past love affairs and then we’ll be even,’ I said.
‘And give up this entertaining advantage I have over you?’ He grinned. ‘Having watched that clip, I don’t blame you for being angry though.’
‘Ugh. I can’t believe you saw that either. I mean, like things weren’t already unbearable enough. My most embarrassing moment will be preserved for all time. Just what every woman needs. I hate him for putting me through that. I hate him.’
Ryan, recognising one of my rants when he saw one, had the sense not to stoke the kindling.
I let out a sigh and looked down at the table. ‘Except I don’t. Of
course I don’t. Can’t.’ I pressed a hand to my temple. ‘Being angry would be so much easier if I didn’t still love him.’
‘Do you think he still loves you?’
‘I don’t know.’ I raised both eyebrows and took a sip of my milkshake, which was OK but not a patch on the ones Mona used to make. ‘The last time we saw each other he was trying to explain, you know, about why he was still married. I didn’t really give him the chance to…I was so hurt. I still am.’ I swirled the straw in my drink, punching patterns in the foam.
‘Did he know about what happened over here. Before you moved to America?’ I could see where Ryan was trying to circle the conversation around to, and I didn’t like it.
‘You want to know if he knows I lied to the police and then to everybody else, including him?’ I’d lowered my voice but my breathing was huffy and the rage I spent most of my time trying to suppress flushed my cheeks.
‘Please don’t get angry.’ Ryan reached a hand across the table and put it on top of mine. ‘I’m not your enemy, I’m your friend.’
I pursed my lips and gave a gentle nod.
‘Sorry. I’m not angry at you, how could I be? You’ve been a good friend. Always. Even when I had no one else. Except Mum, and you know what she’s like.’
‘Kind? Loving? Supportive?’ There was that over-confident smile again.
‘Interfering.’ I shook my head. ‘I’m angrier with myself than anything else.’
‘What for?’ He still had hold of my hand.
‘Well, there’s a pretty long list. But lately? I mean, why have I hated myself in the last few weeks? When Jack found out what happened with Michael, he just forgave me. Instantly. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t question it. In fact, he told me he loved me. Right then. But when he told me his dark secret, I, well, I wasn’t quite so understanding.’
‘Some might argue hiding a dead husband is different to hiding a living wife,’ said Ryan. He didn’t sound convinced but he was trying.
‘Is it? I’ve been wondering…’ Again the waitress interrupted. She set down the burgers and asked a tirade of questions about mayonnaise and napkins and did we want another drink, even though we’d hardly taken three mouthfuls of the milkshakes we had.
‘What have you been wondering?’ Ryan asked when we finally got rid of her.
‘Whether it’s all just lies. And all just forgiveness. I’ve always hated it when a man does something truly despicable to a woman and then she turns around and just forgives him. I may still hate myself over what happened with Michael but I have the sense to hate him too. And I don’t think that’ll ever stop. But when it comes to Jack…’
‘What?’ Ryan pushed.
‘Well, he didn’t set out to hurt me. He was just in a terrible situation, like I was once. He made some bad choices. The worst choices, actually. But I’ve done my fair share of that too. Maybe I’m wrong about the forgiveness thing. Maybe that’s what’s supposed to happen when you really love somebody, you forgive them. I mean. What if that’s what I’m supposed to do?’
‘Maybe the person you should forgive first is yourself,’ he said.
‘Maybe… you’re not the first person to suggest that course of action. But I don’t know how.’
‘Esther, I’ve known you a long time. Even when you were married and pushed everyone else away, I hung on.’
I looked down at the table. I’d sort of forgotten about that – how I cut myself off from my friends so they wouldn’t have to see what was happening to me.
The bruises.
The swelling.
The depression.
‘I know you still hold yourself responsible for what happened to Michael. But you can’t blame yourself.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me.’ I said, my eyes still on the table. ‘But Ryan …’
‘Look…’ he lowered his voice. ‘I’d have thought twice about calling the emergency services that day. And I bloody work for them.’ I took in a sharp breath. The day before I left for America. That’s the last time we’d talked about this. And back then Ryan had said pretty much the same things he was saying now. But I hadn’t listened. I was too busy digging my escape tunnel, deep beneath the ocean.
‘Ryan, I know you think Michael deserved it but it wasn’t my choice to make.’
‘He was dying.’ Ryan’s voice was little more than a murmur. ‘You hesitated over saving him but that’s not the same as killing him. You need to forgive yourself.’
I looked long into his eyes before nodding and giving his hand a squeeze.
And then, never one to labour a point, Ryan changed the subject to what he was planning to do with the extra holiday he’d taken off work for the next couple of weeks. If the last seven days were anything to go by, tormenting me about my art classes would be a major theme. I listened, marvelling at my fortune in having a friend like Ryan and, at the same time, I began to think about forgiveness. About forgiving myself, for everything. And how I could, at last, make that happen.
Chapter Twenty-six
‘Esther!’ Mum called up the stairs for the fourth time in the last eighteen minutes. ‘Have you opened it yet?’
‘No, Mother!’ I shouted back through my bedroom door, gritting my teeth. ‘You’re not helping. Please. Just give me some time.’ If I decided to stay in London I needed to get my own place. There was no privacy here and I had to get out before I shapeshifted completely back into my adolescent form.
If I stayed in London…
I stared at my writing desk. Made of oak, in another life I sat up to it to complete homework assignments and, later in that life, to grade them. Before I left for America it had been decluttered of all the red pens and spare paperclips and now the only item on it was the letter that’d arrived that morning.
The postmark was from America and I recognised the handwriting from a note he’d left on the pillow one merry morning-after. He’d gone out to buy us coffee and bagels. The note had been clear I wasn’t to get out of bed, under any circumstances, until he returned. That the night before had left a lasting impression on him. And, more important than anything else, that he loved me. I still had the note somewhere. Tucked away in my copy of A Room with a View. Like Jack it was out of sight but not out of mind.
I sighed.
I stared.
I sat up to the desk on a rickety, hard-backed chair, the cushion recovered by Grandma in yellow silk sometime during the make-do-and-mend era, and reached for the letter.
Before putting it straight back down.
I tutted at myself and picked up the letter again. Ripping at the seal, I unfolded the paper and tried to hold it still enough to read. My hands were shaking. Which was stupid. It was just a piece of paper. Just words in an envelope. I’d faced a lot worse than that before.
But they were words written by him.
More than words.
Thoughts. Feelings. Truth.
I read.
Dear Esther,
Where do I even begin? I know you never want to see me again and I’ve done all I can to respect that. After what happened between us, the least I could do was honour that wish, though every second of every day I’ve wanted to reach out to you. Wanted to be close to you again. Despite everything else, it felt good to be part of this world when I was with you. Since this whole ordeal began I’ve felt so alone. But not when I was with you. And that’s so selfish, isn’t it? To want you back when you want to forget me.
I was going to leave you alone. I really was. But, even after you left, I kept talking to you. Mostly in my head but sometimes out loud and I decided that wasn’t healthy. It was a sign I still had some things left to say. Some things that I couldn’t live on without telling you. So I settled for writing this letter. Which I understand you may never read but I had to try.
You see, there are some facts I don’t feel I conveyed that day when you found out the truth about me. I know that day was an emotional time for you, and that’s putting it lightly. In fact, I can see you
rolling your eyes at that phrase right now. But it was devastating for me too. Everything fell apart. I fell apart. And because of that I didn’t tell you, I didn’t underline some very important things. And I need to. You already know I’m sorry so I’m not going to repeat that here. You’ve heard my apology. Saying sorry again won’t undo what I did. But what follows, you must know. You must believe it, please.
I’ve had a lot of time to think over my actions and I have to admit, they don’t seem much like the actions of somebody who cares for you. Looking back, they seem like the actions of someone who was using you to feel better about themselves. Nothing could be further from the truth. I can just about live with the fact you’ll never forgive me for what happened. Just about. I deserve nothing less for what I put you through. But what I can’t live with is you entertaining the idea, even for a millisecond, that I didn’t care about you. That I didn’t love you.
When I met you in the diner that day, I thought, as you did, that my life in England was of the past. That Laura had disappeared for good, save the odd letter sent to my old address back in London. I hadn’t seen her in almost a decade and truthfully, though I sought her out to sign those damn divorce papers, I never thought I’d see her again. I was in a desperate state about that as I realised she’d never give me the satisfaction of being truly free. But I thought the worst I’d ever have to confess to you is that I had an estranged wife who nobody could find. That’s what I confessed to you, the night we went out drinking. That’s bad enough, of course, but I had no idea what Laura had planned. If I had, I would’ve done a thousand things differently rather than drawing you into this torturous situation. It was only when that letter came through to my New York address I realised Laura would follow me wherever I went. And then, I got scared because part of me knew, even in that moment, I would lose you. That Laura would find a way of tearing us apart, and I was right.
I’m as much to blame for keeping secrets, I know. But none of my actions were meant to hurt you. It was simple fear. Weakness, Esther, not cruelty; please believe that. I let it get the better of me and for that I may never forgive myself. Letting fear control me, risking what we had, only confirmed to the world what I knew the moment we met: I didn’t deserve to be with you. You deserve a strong man. A noble man. The kind of man I dream of becoming, someday, if I can ever sort out the mess from my first marriage.