‘Don’t patronise me.’ He looks up at me, hurt pride flashing across his face.
‘I’m not,’ I protest. ‘You’re getting all this out of perspective, you’re overreacting.’
‘I’m overreacting?’ He spits the words back at me and I flinch.
‘Fergus, I didn’t mean …’
Oh god, what’s the point? I throw my hands up to my face, pressing my forehead against my palms. Instead of making things better, I’m just making them worse. It’s like a car careering out of control and I don’t know how to stop it.
But I have to try.
‘I didn’t want you to get hurt,’ I say again quietly, taking my hands away and daring to meet his gaze. ‘I know what it’s like to feel rejected.’
‘Yeh right,’ he snaps. ‘How would you know how it feels to be rejected?’
I pause. I can’t tell him. I can’t tell him about Seb, he’d never believe me.
‘I … I can’t explain …’
‘Funny that …’
‘But it’s true, I do, you have to believe me,’ I plead, fighting back tears.
‘Believe you?’ he cries scornfully. ‘Why should I believe you? You don’t even believe in yourself.’
His accusation catches me by surprise.
‘You work some office job you’re no good at because you don’t have the guts to believe you’re talented, to follow your dream, to even try what you are good at …’
I stare at him speechlessly.
‘I saw that bag at your granddad’s. It was amazing, you’ve got real talent, but you’re just wasting it, throwing it away because you don’t have the balls to believe in yourself, because you think you’re not good enough—’
‘Says you!’ I retort with a snap of impatience, suddenly finding my voice. ‘You didn’t have any confidence before that audition, you didn’t think you were good enough.’
‘But I still went, didn’t I?’ he argues. ‘I still tried.’
‘Because I sent you that email,’ I fire back.
‘Oh please, don’t flatter yourself Tess,’ he replies, his voice hard. ‘I would have gone anyway. You think I’m not used to rejection? I would have put myself out there, I would have tried, because if you don’t try, you’ve failed anyway.’ He pauses to sweep a hand through his hair, which is sticking to his face with the rain, then peers at me intently. ‘What are you so scared of, Tess? Why are you so scared of being you?’
‘I’m not scared of anything,’ I say hotly.
‘Is that why you spend the whole time pretending to be someone you’re not?’ He looks at me across the darkened street, his eyebrows raised pointedly. ‘I thought I was supposed to be the actor.’
Somehow, somewhere, this conversation has turned around and now the focus is on me and I don’t like it.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The movie? The concert?’ he challenges. ‘Snowboarding?’
I’m suddenly reminded of our conversations: talking about the Star Wars DVD he helped me find and me admitting I didn’t like sci-fi; the time I confessed to wearing earplugs to listen to Seb’s indie band, liking naff music instead, and him making me laugh about the Nolans; how happy I was to get his text when I was sitting alone in that café in Chamonix, calling him up to hear a friendly voice, confiding how I really felt.
‘And there was I thinking Sara was the fake,’ he says with a hollow laugh.
‘I’m not a fake!’ I cry defensively, snapping back. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But even as I’m denying it, I know he’s said something out loud that I don’t want to hear, voiced some of the doubts that have been growing inside that I don’t want to face up to.
Then, for a moment, neither of us speaks and we just stand there under the streetlamps, our ribcages rising and falling, the rain soaking through our clothes. Hurt and anger hanging in the air, thick like exhaust fumes, forming an impenetrable wall between us. Once so close, now so far apart.
‘You sure about that, Tess?’ he says finally, after a long pause. ‘Because I’m not so sure. I thought I knew the real you, the person underneath it all, but now I don’t know. I don’t know what’s real and isn’t real.’ He flicks his eyes up to meet mine. ‘Do you even know yourself any more, Tess?’
As our eyes meet, I see something that makes my heart constrict. Disappointment. Then he turns and walks away. Only this time I don’t call him back. It’s too late. Standing motionless in the rain, I watch his figure gradually getting smaller and smaller, blurring into car lights, as he disappears out of view, out of my life. Gone.
When I finally arrive home, the flat’s cold and empty. Fiona’s left a note saying she’s out with Tallulah at obedience classes and, tired and wet, I run a bath, then curl up on my bed with Flea and my laptop.
That’s when I find the email.
With everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten all about it, but now with a heavy heart I open it:
Dear Sara,
Thank you for being so honest with me, and now I want to be completely honest with you. When I first saw you in the café I thought you looked adorable, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. In fact I was probably a bit obsessive. Not in a scary-stalker way, but in a that’s-all-I-can-think-about way.
But now I’ve realised it was to stop me from thinking about someone else. To try to stop myself from falling in love with them. I didn’t do it deliberately, if that’s what you’re thinking – at the time I wasn’t aware of what I was doing. But it didn’t work anyway. To tell the truth it did the opposite.
You see, in a funny kind of way it took a ‘missed’ connection to make me see a deep connection I already have, to finally face up to the fact I’m in love with someone. And that someone is my friend, Tess. Only the thing is she’s in love with someone else.
Anyway, this is probably too much information so I’ll stop. I hope you don’t think I’ve led you on, or messed you around, and I’d like to think we can part friends, even though we never met. It was never my intention to deceive anyone; as it turns out, the only person I was deceiving was myself.
I wish you all the best with your life in Thailand, and the elephants (btw I know you made that bit up about the Buddhist monks – I admit you had me going at first, but thanks anyway for trying to let me down lightly). Oh, and one last thing, a piece of safety advice: how do you stop a charging elephant?
Take away its credit card.
(The bad jokes are always the best.)
Fergus
I smile as I finish reading the email, but tears are blurring my vision. I didn’t think I could feel any worse than I did. But I was wrong. Like I’ve been wrong about so many things, I realise, a sob rising in my throat.
I stare at Fergus’s words on the screen, watching them blur and smudge like a watercolour left out in the rain. I feel dazed, like it’s almost too much to take in. I had no idea he felt this way about me, was in love with me – WAS, I remind myself sharply. The past tense. Because whatever feelings he had for me are gone. I saw to that. My mind throws up an image of us in the street, the way he looked at me, and my heart aches. He’s been so honest, and I’ve been so dishonest. How can he ever forgive me?
How can I ever forgive myself??
A single tear breaks free and spills down my cheek. Followed by another, and another. I don’t try and stop them. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
Chapter 35
A plane flies overhead, streaking a trail of white across the unbroken stretch of clear blue sky. I watch it for a moment, squinting in the sunshine, then open my compact to check my make-up. Oh dear. Despite the lashings of mascara and concealer, my eyes still look puffy and bloodshot. I add a bit more red lipstick, then dig out my sunglasses from my bag and stick them on. There’s nothing else for it, I’ll just have to hide them.
It’s lunchtime the next day and I’m sitting on a bench outside St Mary’s Church. It’s surprisingly mild, as if winter suddenly got mix
ed up with spring overnight, and a few confused crocuses have poked their heads above ground, lulled into a false sense of security that the last of the frost is gone. Snapping my compact shut, I return it to my backpack and pull out a carrier bag. Inside is a pair of black satin stilettos I found in a charity shop. They were still in the box but had these ugly buckles on the front, so I replaced them with a pair of gorgeous art-deco butterfly brooches that I found in a junk shop instead. I tug off the boots I wore to the office, and slip them on. They go perfectly with the dress I’m wearing.
All done, I check my watch. I’m early for once. But then I made a special effort, after all.
There’s the sound of crunching gravel and I look up to see a car approaching down the driveway. A silver mini, an old-style one, is rattling towards me, the suspension bouncing up and down as if its two passengers are on a trampoline. It comes to a halt with a rather worrying grinding of brakes, and the door is flung open.
‘Well, here we are,’ comes a cheery voice, and a head of brightly coloured dreadlocks emerge. ‘Made it finally!’
It’s Mel, from Hemmingway House, all smiles and dangly earrings.
‘Sorry we’re a bit late, completely my fault.’
‘No it’s fine,’ I smile, jumping up from the bench and giving her a hug.
‘Oooh, fab shoes,’ she gushes, looking down at my feet. ‘Very snazzy.’
‘If you’d paid as much attention to my directions, we would never have got lost,’ grumbles a voice from inside the car.
‘Hi Gramps,’ I smile, popping my head inside and leaning over to give him a kiss. ‘Hang on, let me come round and help you out.’
‘Nonsense, I can get out myself,’ he protests, swinging open the door. Over the roof of the mini I see his walking stick waving around in the air. ‘What do you think I am, an old man?’
Mel and I exchange grins, before rushing to his aid. Despite a lot of insisting that he’s fine and can manage himself, he finally allows us to help hoist him out.
‘See, nothing to it,’ he announces, eventually standing upright. He glances at his reflection in the windscreen and begins adjusting his trilby.
‘Well, I’ll leave you two to it,’ says Mel, lowering her voice and turning to me. ‘I’ll just wait in the car.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘For Sidney? Of course not,’ she grins. ‘Take as long as you want.’
I give her a grateful hug, then turn back to Gramps. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes, I think that’s everything.’ Satisfied with the angle of his hat he smiles, then suddenly looks stricken. ‘I forgot to buy flowers.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ says Mel, pulling a bunch of bright yellow chrysanthemums out of the car. ‘We bought them on the way, remember?’
‘We did?’ he says doubtfully, scrunching up his forehead. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ I say swiftly, before he can get upset at his failing memory. Linking my arm through his, I give him an encouraging smile. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ I wave to Mel. ‘See you in a little while.’
Waving back, she climbs back into her car and I hear the soft sound of the radio playing as we set off walking arm in arm, Gramps with his cane, me in my stilettos, along the small path that leads behind the church to the cemetery.
‘You look wonderful darling,’ he says, as soon as we’re by ourselves.
‘So do you,’ I smile, returning the compliment.
Gramps has never looked more dapper. Underneath his single-breasted overcoat, he’s wearing his best charcoal grey pinstriped suit, ‘made from the finest Italian cashmere, I’ll have you know’, with a purple silk lining and a matching cravat, perfectly pinned over a crisp white shirt.
‘Who starched those collars?’ I ask, both impressed and a little worried. Last time Gramps did his collars, he left the iron on and nearly burned down Hemmingway House.
‘Miss Temple kindly offered,’ he says casually.
‘Miss Temple starched your collars?’ I echo in disbelief. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Mel?’
‘No, it was Miss Temple,’ he insists. ‘She’s been very helpful of late – practically a changed woman.’
I feel a beat of concern. There’s no way Miss Temple would do anything as kind as starch his collars. He’s obviously confused. ‘Are you feeling OK today, Gramps?’
‘Don’t fuss dear, I’m fine,’ he reassures, patting my hand. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, she wanted me to pass on a message. Now, what was it … ?’ He taps his head with his forefinger. ‘Ah yes, she says the next time you visit, you must join her in the staff room for a sherry; something about forming closer bonds with friends and family.’
‘That’s a message for me?’ I’m astonished. Miss Temple has never shown any enthusiasm for forming a bond with me on any previous visits. On the contrary, she can’t seem to wait to get rid of me.
‘Yes, for you and that nice chap you brought with you the other evening.’
So that’s what all this is about. I feel both relieved and sad at the same time.
‘You mean Fergus,’ I say, feeling a pang at the mention of his name. I haven’t heard from him since our row last night, and I don’t expect to.
‘I mean your new boyfriend,’ he replies with a raised-eyebrow look.
Oh, god. I’d forgotten about that.
‘Ah yes, there’s something I need to tell you,’ I confess.
‘Now now, I’m only pulling your leg,’ he winks, before turning back to focus on the winding path. ‘You don’t have to explain anything, I’m just happy you’ve found someone.’
‘Well that’s the thing,’ I try again, ‘you see, there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding because of Phyllis …’
‘Has she been interfering again?’ he frowns.
‘Oh, don’t be a meanie, Phyllis is such a sweet old lady,’ I chastise. ‘And she likes you,’ I add, nudging him teasingly.
‘She likes everyone,’ he dismisses with a tut. ‘She got caught in Billy Rothman’s room at the weekend.’
‘So?’ I challenge.
‘Well, they weren’t playing Scrabble,’ he says, glancing sideways at me over the tops of his glasses.
‘No!’ I gasp. To think I was taken in by her shortbread fingers, I realise, feeling shocked. And, I have to admit, secretly rather impressed. She must be eighty if she’s a day. Talk about Girl Power.
We keep walking, the sound of our footsteps crunching on the gravelled path as we enter through the iron gates into the small graveyard. It’s nice here. Too often cemeteries are depressing and gloomy, all marble mausoleums and plastic flowers, but this one is surrounded by trees and close by the river.
‘So come along, tell me, what has Phyllis been up to this time?’ he says after a pause. ‘I hope she didn’t cause any trouble between you and your new fellow.’
‘No … no, not at all,’ I shake my head, figuring how to explain about me and Fergus.
There’s no easy way, I’m just going to have to come straight out with it.
‘Because I haven’t seen you look that happy in ages my dear,’ he continues, before I have a chance to say anything, ‘and anyone in that room could see how he felt about you.’
My chest tightens. ‘They could?’
‘And how you felt the same way.’
What?
‘I know you thought you could hide it from me,’ he chuckles, misreading my astonished silence for admission, ‘but you can’t hide feelings like that. And I should know, that’s how I felt about your nan.’
‘I know, but …’ Flustered, I open my mouth to deny it, to tell him he’s been silly, that he’s got it all wrong, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings or disappoint him, not today of all days … Except, that’s not all. There’s something else stopping me. I falter, trying to make sense of my conflicting emotions as a flicker of doubt illuminates something buried deep down inside of me that I didn’t know was there until just now; that I hadn’t admitted was there
. A feeling that maybe he hasn’t got it wrong, I have.
‘Well, here we are.’
I focus back to see we’ve stopped walking and are standing in front of a small, simple headstone:
Enid Connelly
1930 – 2007
Beloved wife, mother and grandmother
Our bodies may not be eternal
But thankfully our love is
I’ve read those words so many times but they still bring a lump to my throat.
‘I do miss her,’ he says quietly.
‘I know you do,’ I say, reaching for his hand and squeezing it tightly.
I help him place the flowers on her grave, the bright yellow blooms standing up proudly in a vase, just as Nan liked them, and then for a few moments we just stand there, arm in arm, lost in our own private thoughts and memories. So often in life we have to find the right words, say the right thing, but there are some times when words aren’t necessary. You don’t need to say anything. You just need to feel it.
After a little while he pulls out his silk handkerchief and dabs his eyes. ‘Right, enough of this sad stuff,’ he says, pinning on a smile, ‘we’re here to celebrate.’
‘Absolutely,’ I nod firmly, swallowing the lump in my throat. ‘Why do you think I wore these stilettos? So I can kick up my heels …’
He laughs gratefully at my bad joke and I smile supportively.
‘And that’s not all …’ Unlooping my rucksack from over my shoulder, I rummage inside, then pull out a half bottle and two plastic tumblers.
‘What’s that?’ he asks.
‘Champagne, of course. What else do you drink on your wedding anniversary?’
His face lights up with astonishment and delight. ‘What would I do without you, eh?’ he chuckles.
Don’t You Forget About Me Page 31