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just been plunged into ice-cold water without warning – her mouth somewhere between a smile and a scream.
Their eyes met. For a second, before the lights came back up
again, Tom had Esme’s complete attention. And before the people
and the party took her there would be this one, perfect moment he
would remember her by for years to come.
The yell of ‘surprise’ came sharp and loud, beginning at the front
of the room and working its way back, like a Mexican wave, ending
their all-too-brief time together. Esme reacted with a duly surprised
scream, clasping one hand over her mouth as Laura put a glass of
prosecco into the other, and immediately made to pull her towards
her closest friends.
‘Wait,’ Esme said, firmly. Wresting her arm from Laura’s hand and
approaching Tom instead, whose heart, lungs and probably liver were
all now collected somewhere near the back of his throat.
‘You?’ she said, a hint of a smile creeping onto her face.
‘Me.’
‘All you?’
‘Mostly. Are you—’
‘Taking it all in,’ she said. With that she leant forward, kissed
Tom on the lips and was quickly dragged away from him, into a
melee of those closest to her.
It took Tom ten minutes to find Esme again. By that point she was
two drinks down and looking at the cake and food table, which was
also stacked with presents, cards (and more bloody balloons).
‘Do you hate me, then?’ Tom said, taking her hand.
‘Well, hate’s a bit strong.’
‘Annoyed?’
‘Hmm,’ she said.
‘But do you like it?’
‘Well, we’re only ten minutes in.’
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‘Right . . . yeah,’ Tom said, looking down at the floor.
‘Look. Shall we go outside for a minute? I could do with collect-
ing my thoughts.’
‘Oh . . . sure,’ Tom said, certain that this would be it. The moment
she lost her temper with him for ignoring her and doing what he
wanted. They worked their way through the busy ground floor of the
pub, full of Sunday walkers looking for tables and well-to-do families in possession of them. Esme led Tom out of the big, heavy wooden
door and onto Fleet Road, where a small group of drinkers smoked.
‘You hate it, don’t you?’ Tom said, when they were alone.
‘No.’
‘You can just say, Es. Don’t pretend. I’d really rather you didn’t
pretend.’
‘Tom, I love it,’ she said with a smile.
‘Really?’
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘It’s amazing. And even more amazing that you
managed to keep it a secret.’
‘It was hard. Especially your—’
‘Mum?’
‘Good guess,’ he said.
Esme kissed him. He could taste prosecco on her lips. It was not
a drink he was familiar with – fizzy wine rarely the choice for people who want to get drunk with great speed and efficiency.
‘You okay?’ Esme asked.
‘I am.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘No. Sorry. I thought . . . never mind,’ Tom said, looking over at
the group of smokers.
‘I said to be clear, I still hate parties.’
‘Okay.’
‘And the surprise thing means I’ve not managed to do my make-
up properly. Or my hair.’
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‘You look amazing.’
‘Tom,’ she said, silencing him. ‘What I mean is that I love that
you did it. That all these months you’ve been doing stuff like inviting people and sorting out cakes and decorations. And all just for me.’
‘Good,’ Tom said, but he was still only half listening. He recog-
nised one of the smokers. It was a face he hadn’t seen in about ten
years. One he’d hoped to never see again. Worse, the smoker now
seemed to recognise him.
‘One thing though,’ she said. ‘Those balloons are a bit low. People
keep knocking their—’
‘Hang on.’
‘I said the balloons,’ Esme said, waving a hand in front of his
face. ‘Tom, are you even—’
‘Fucking Murray!’ the familiar, nearly forgotten voice said, almost pushing Esme out of the way to get to Tom.
John, the smoker’s name was. Or Jonno, to the friends that
convened every night in the kitchen of Tom’s halls at the University
of Hertfordshire, before going to the student union bars or the clubs
in nearby St Albans. They were all engineering students. Tom remem-
bered their little in-jokes. Drunk was ‘well-oiled’. They referred to
their usual crawl around three pubs as ‘the track’. They were always
civil to him, but never friends.
John grabbed his hand and shook it firmly. He was obviously
drunk, swaying gently on the spot with a cigarette still lodged in
the side of his mouth.
‘How you fucking been then? Haven’t seen you in time, son. You
did a bit of a disappearing act.’
This was how he talked, Tom remembered. Even in his late teens
he spoke like a fifty-year-old welder leant over the bar in a flat-roofed pub.
‘I’m alright,’ Tom said. ‘I’m at my girlfriend’s thirtieth, actually.
We were just in the middle—’
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‘Happy birthday!’ John said, almost shouting at Esme while shaking her hand. ‘Fucking thirty, eh? Creeping up.’
‘Anyway,’ Tom interrupted. He was desperate to get rid of John
before the conversation turned to the past, to the subject of how
they really knew each other. A knot had formed in his stomach from
thinking about it. Or rather, from Esme learning about it. Why did
all of this have to happen today?
‘We better get back. People will be wondering where you are,’
Tom said, trying to move away.
‘You live round here then, do you?’ John said, ignoring him.
‘Not far.’
‘Nice. Me and the boys are on a bit of a mission round North
London. Gary’s just moved up Chalk Farm. Fucking fortune,’ he
said, adding no context to who Gary was, or what was a ‘fucking
fortune’.
‘Yeah,’ Tom said, dismissively. ‘Look, we’d better . . .’ Tom said,
trailing off as he took Esme’s hand and moved towards the door back
into the pub. She looked confused by the whole thing. ‘Come on.’
‘Fucking hell. Alright then,’ John said, now affronted by Tom’s
determination not to speak to him. ‘I was only saying hello. Thought
you might at least give me the time of day, after what happened the
last time I saw you.’
‘Tom, what—’ Esme said, but he cut her off.
‘Sorry. We just—’
‘Whatever mate. Whatever. You just fuck off back to your party.’
Tom and Esme turned away in the direction of the pub. Before
they did, however, John called out to him again.
‘Good to see you’re off the booze. Fucking pisshead,’ John yelled
,
a parting shot. The rest of his group were looking over now, as was
every other smoker.
Tom took Esme’s hand, made for the heavy, brass-handled door
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and led her towards the stairs and the party. But he could feel her resisting, pulling back.
‘Stop. Tom, stop.’
‘What?’ he said, turning to face Esme. He felt sweat across his
brow. His heart was beating fast, relieved to get away from John but
worried that she had already heard too much.
‘What do you mean “what?” ’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to tell
me what that was all about?’
‘I knew him at uni.’
‘Yes. But that’s not really how I’d expect you to greet an old
friend. What was he talking about when he said “the last time”?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He called you a fucking pisshead.’
‘Es,’ Tom said. He was about to tell her it was nothing again. But
when he looked into her eyes he realised he couldn’t. Not this time.
‘It’s not as bad as it sounds.’
‘Well tell me then.’
‘After the party.’
‘Now, Tom. I want to know now.’
Hesitant though he was, Tom spoke.
‘We were at uni together,’ he said. ‘I had some problems . . . in
my first year.’
‘Problems,’ Esme said. He could see her joining the dots together.
Connecting the things he’d told her in the past with what just hap-
pened outside the pub. ‘With alcohol?’
‘Yeah. With . . .’ But Tom couldn’t bring himself to say it. ‘It’s
why I don’t drink. When I was younger I used to drink too much.’
‘Bad experiences.’
‘What?’
‘You told me you had a couple of bad experiences.’
‘I did,’ Tom said. ‘But . . . it was more than . . . it was more than
a bad experience.’
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Esme was looking at him. She seemed almost scared by what he was saying.
‘There was one night when I took a few pills,’ he said, unable to
meet her eyes. ‘John found me.’
‘Found you? For fuck’s sake, Tom. Come on. You’re giving me
half a story.’
‘Fine . . . just let me . . .’
‘Let you what? Tell me what happened,’ she said forcefully. A
few people at the bar were looking at them, while at the same time
trying to not get caught gawping.
‘I’d stolen his beers from the shared fridge because I didn’t want
to go out to get any. Apparently when he came to ask me about it he
couldn’t get in my room. He heard something unusual. So he kicked
the door in. I was there, out cold . . . then John called the ambulance.’
‘Unusual?’
‘Like retching. I think.’
‘Tom are you telling me what I think you’re—’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Es, no. I was just drinking too much.’
‘Because it sounds like you—’
‘Esme no,’ he said. Tom was determined now. Intent on pulling
her away from thinking it. ‘I just wanted to be out of it. I found the pills and that was it. You know?’
‘Not really Tom, no. I’ve never felt like . . . that.’
‘Es.’
‘And that’s why you dropped out?
‘I struggled with uni, okay?’ he said firmly, aware that other
people in the pub were watching. ‘I’m sorry that happened, but it
was the right decision to leave.’
‘And were you ever going to tell me this, Tom? For four years
I’ve thought that you’re sober because you didn’t like how it made
you feel.’
‘I don’t!’
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‘And now this.’
‘Es, I was going to tell you. Just not now.’
Esme looked up at him. Tom had never seen her like this before.
He couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad. Either way, it confirmed his decision not to say any more. Not yet, anyway.
‘Some surprise,’ she said.
‘Es, I’m sorry.’
‘Let’s just go back.’
Esme turned away and started back up the stairs. He was about
to call out to her, when the door opened and John stepped in. They
looked at each other for a moment.
‘Es,’ Tom called, turning away.
When he got back to the party, Esme was already with her friends
over the other side of the room. He wanted to go over and see
her, but knew that doing so would make things worse. This would
have to wait. Maybe later that evening they could talk. Although
Tom hoped that she wouldn’t want to. Things had gone far enough
already.
He was looking over at her when he felt a push in his back.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ came a voice from beside him. It was Neil,
accompanied by a thin, pale-skinned girl with red hair. ‘You remem-
ber Stace, don’t you?’
Tom nodded, unable to concentrate. He was still looking over
at Esme, who was chatting and laughing and drinking as if nothing
had happened downstairs.
‘Everything alright, mate?’
‘Fine.’
‘Right. Good to chat as always, Murray. We’ll go get a drink,’ Neil
said, turning to his girlfriend. ‘Watch out for those balloons. Some
dickhead has hung them too low,’ he said, at which Tom marched
over to the bar, picked up a pair of scissors, and began to cut the
ribbon of every balloon in the pub.
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CHAPTER TEN
5 – 6 am
ANOTHER BED,
TWO MONTHS BEFORE WE MET
April 2007 – The Royal Free Hospital, London
‘Hey,’ Tom croaked, when he noticed her stirring. She opened her
eyes with what looked like great difficulty, as though someone had
glued them shut during the night. But just as soon closed them
again, refusing to wake up.
‘Annabel,’ he said. Still nothing.
He swallowed what little saliva he had to lubricate the back of
his throat.
‘Visiting hours don’t start until nine, love.’
‘Seriously?’ came her croaky reply. Annabel stretched out and sat
up a little groggily. ‘You’re seriously making a joke now?’
‘Sorry. Gallows—’
‘Don’t even think about finishing that sentence. I’m not in the
mood for jokes, Murray. Fuck knows why you are.’
Annabel had been asleep on an avocado-coloured, faux leather
armchair. She was dressed like she was going out, in tight fitted dark-blue jeans, a white shirt and a jacket, her hair ruffled and untidy.
She looked so uncomfortable, Tom thought – she surely couldn’t
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have been sleeping on it for more than a couple of hours. As she came round, she looked surprised to see him awake. Or perhaps she
was just surprised to find herself in hospital at five in the morning.
It was still dark. In the silence he could hear footsteps and trol-
leys in the corridor, the sounds of a hospital getting ready to tackle the morning. Before long the doctors, nurses, visitors would gather
around his bed to talk about him as if he wasn’t in it.
‘You’re up, then?’ Annabel said.
Tom nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to speak again. Instead
he offered a little wave, lifting his hand out of the itchy blanket that had been draped over him.
Annabel stood up and walked to his bedside. Tom pointed at
the plastic cup full of water, a white straw sticking out of the top.
Annabel offered him a sip, which he took. The feeling of the water
on his mouth and throat was shocking and welcome – the first drops
of rain on heat-parched ground.
She dragged the armchair across the room, towards his bed.
‘You don’t have to—’
‘I know,’ Annabel said. ‘I want to.’ She took the cup and replaced
it on the table next to his bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Terrible. My throat . . .’
‘They said it would hurt.’
‘It does.’
‘I’m supposed to tell a nurse that you’re up. They almost didn’t
let me stay.’
‘Give it a minute,’ Tom said, looking into his best friend’s eyes.
As he did, he tried to piece together what had happened. Yes-
terday afternoon he had returned to his studio flat with a bottle
of vodka. Time was it would’ve been two. But now, after years of
sobriety, it would only take one. The visit to the little shop near his block had been the only time he’d left the house in five days, since
returning from a music lesson with a fourteen-year-old boy with an
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expensive grand piano placed in a bay window that looked out over Primrose Hill. He’d spent the entire lesson unable to concentrate,
feeling dizzy and uncomfortable, hot and nervous. Sick and nauseous
for no reason that he could explain.
‘You alright?’ Joel, the boy, had asked.
‘Fine,’ he had lied.
As before, it was the anxiety that came first. Twitchiness and
panic. The feeling that he wanted to scream and smash things, to
tear the skin from his bones. To run and hide.
Try explaining that to an over-privileged teenager who didn’t even
want him there in the first place.
Soon after came the creeping self-hatred. The feeling that he
couldn’t trust anyone else around him; a retreat into the four walls
Jamie Fewery Page 13