Dead Romantic

by Ruth Saberton

  “No!” he wails when I fish one out and scrawl my signature across the page. His big brown eyes are wide and sad. “No!”

  Even spectral children learn the word no. I try to ruffle his ghostly hair apologetically, but Aamon isn’t having this and storms across the office, sending documents, books and paper clips flying around the room.

  I do my best to ignore his protest – ducking a few times, it has to be said – and I still manage to place the letter in an envelope. I seal it straight away, before I can change my mind. With a shaking hand, I write the Professor’s name on the front; then I deliver the envelope to his secretary. There’s no going back now. Even before I’m back in my office tears are rolling down my cheeks and splashing onto the carpet.

  I’ve resigned and Simon’s won.

  Chapter 27

  I’ve never resigned from a job before so I’ve absolutely no idea what the etiquette is in these situations. For an hour or so I continue to work on my lecture notes, jumping every time I hear footsteps or voices outside my door in case it’s the Prof wanting to discuss my decision, but eventually I admit I’m far too jittery to concentrate. For once my office is deserted, which puts me even more on edge; everything feels off-key and wrong. When I type the same sentence twice I know it’s time to acknowledge defeat. I can’t concentrate at all. I’d be better off getting out of here and working somewhere else where I won’t need to listen to everyone chatting excitedly about Christmas parties or have to watch Simon gloating.

  This afternoon is my designated research time, so I’m even more cheesed off when an email pops up from Simon regarding the Everyday Egyptians exhibition, complete with a great long list of jobs he needs me to do. I stare at it in disbelief. These are the kind of tasks you’d usually assign to a very junior member of the department; my experience and expertise are far more useful applied elsewhere, and it’s more than clear that Simon isn’t so much sticking the boot in as the entire Hunter welly factory.

  By the time I reach the third bullet point on his list I’m fuming. I know exactly what he’s trying to do here – provoke me until I snap, so that he has further evidence that I’m unstable and not fit to be doing his job, yada yada – but, even so, it’s quite an insult.

  I fire back a quick email saying that I’ll be doing my research off-site and suggesting that Dawn takes charge of these jobs. Then I shut down the computer and pull on my coat. Down the back stairs I go, mobile in hand, and out of the door that leads onto the street.

  I feel like I’m playing truant! This is so completely out of character for me. As I stride along the pavement, the wind slicing my cheeks and blowing my hair into wild tangles, I find that I’m smiling. Yesterday’s snow has melted to grey mush and the sun is shining. The streets are full of people meandering along with their noses buried in guidebooks or sitting under heaters at pavement cafés, tucking into huge plates of pasta and sipping white wine. My pace slows and with every footstep that puts Simon further behind me I start to feel better. Why haven’t I done this before?

  I walk for another fifteen minutes. I’m warm now so I unwind my scarf, enjoying the cold air against my skin and the noise and bustle of the city before ducking into a coffee shop to top up my caffeine levels. I order a skinny latte and then settle into a faux leather sofa, brushing aside the muffin wrappers and crumbs to make a space for my cup. The windows have steamed up, the coffee machine hisses away, and the murmur of voices and clatter of spoons against china rise and fall in a tide of sound. The place is swathed in Christmas decorations. They make me nostalgic for the tree Mum always used to dress so beautifully before Tolly and I smothered it with clumsy homemade adornments. I sip my coffee thoughtfully, surprised and pleased that these memories no longer sting quite so much as they once did.

  I smile when the seasonal track playing in the background changes from John and Yoko singing about war being over to the instantly recognisable tones of Alex Thorne and “One Christmas Kiss”. It’s odd but even though he’s been such a pain in the neck, I’m actually quite missing having Alex about. I guess maybe the urgency has left him now, so he doesn’t need me anymore.

  Well, either that or he’s off eyeing up girls with Hank.

  Rafe’s lyrics bring a lump to my throat. Ignoring the old lady in eighteenth-century dress who’s complaining bitterly that this was her coffee shop and that she made a much better job of clearing the tables, I unlock the screen on my iPhone and send Rafe a message.

  Bad day at the office! How are you? I type, then struggle with the age-old conundrum of whether or not to add an x at the end of my message. Leaving it off looks unfriendly; more than one seems a little too keen, stalkerish even. But will putting a kiss on my text be giving too much away? I swear my PhD didn’t take this much thought.

  In the end I add the x then let the text fly. After that I sit and stress until the phone pings with his reply.

  Missing you! When can I see you again? X

  He sent an X back! That has to mean something, surely? It’s ridiculous just how delighted I am. Life was certainly simpler when all I thought about was work, that’s for sure.

  Left work early so am free this afternoon… x

  While I wait for a reply the song reaches its conclusion, with Alex singing sadly about how he never knew love could hurt like this. I hope that isn’t an omen.

  Been busy day - can’t get into town tonight : ( x

  Oh. I stare at the screen, crestfallen. I hadn’t realised until this point just how keen I was to see Rafe again. While I’m thinking of what to say next, the text alert pings again.

  Really want to see you and soon x

  My coffee is cool now and I finish it quickly. An idea starts to take shape in my mind. So Rafe is busy, writing songs I guess, but he says he really wants to see me and I know I really want to see him. I’ve just been listening to the song he wrote about me and it’s made me realise that there’s no point in wasting time anymore. We’ve squandered far too much already. If I get moving now I could make the three o’clock train to Riverside Halt and surprise him. I know this behaviour is unlike me, but today is my day for being impulsive.

  we’ll catch up very soon, I type, talk later x

  I shove the phone in my bag and gather up my coat. Moments later I’m hailing a taxi to Marylebone. For once the traffic is on my side and the cab sails through the streets with ease. Before long I’m sitting on the 3.18 to High Wycombe as it winds its way out of London and I’m glimpsing snapshots of people’s lifestyles: some of their back gardens are filled with toys, some are strung with washing, and others are weed-strewn and piled with old furniture. All these people and all these lives, I think to myself. In thousands of years’ time will people like me study them and conjecture about them? Will researchers sift through the detritus of these people’s everyday existence to pose hypotheses and theories, without ever understanding their hopes and dreams, fears and passions? That’s what I’ve done for years, after all. I studied my mummies, discussed their possible ages and speculated over the causes of death – but I never really got it, the fact that they’d once been as alive as me, that they’d cried and laughed and loved. Then it dawns on me that this is exactly why the Prof and so many others are so dedicated to what they do and, of course, the very reason why my family have been so passionate about Aamon.

  Alex has enabled me to appreciate this, and getting to know Aamon has taken me even further away from the person I used to be. When he was just a historical figure, an obscure pharaoh from a forgotten time, I’d been able to explore my theories happily. Did his stepmother have him killed in order to rule in his place through her son? It had seemed a possibility and the injuries to poor Aamon’s body had certainly been strong evidence in favour of this idea; I can remember how excited I’d been when I’d discovered those. Excited? My skin crawls with shame. Now Aamon isn’t a relic but a cheeky little boy who likes playing football, keeps me company and has a dreadful habit of knocking my phone off the hook. The idea of anyon
e wanting to hurt him turns me cold. His stepmother’s crime needs to go down in history – and not because it’s an interesting detail, but because it was evil and wrong and people need to know about it.

  And this is the point when I finally realise that I’ve changed. I’m not the person I was a few months ago. My certainties about life, and death, have crumbled away and now everything looks different. It’s not just that I’ve developed the ability to see those who’ve long since passed away: my behaviour has altered too. Would the old me have left my job in the middle of the day and raced back to the Home Counties to be with a man I’ve only known for a couple of weeks? Or forgiven my father and chosen to spend Christmas with him? Or cared about Aamon the child rather than the artefact I’ve been studying? I think I know the answers to these questions, and they make me very grateful indeed that I had my accident. The things I’ve lost have been more than compensated for by everything I’ve gained.

  While I mull these thoughts over the train tears through Buckinghamshire, the landscape falling into shadow as the sun puts her head down for a nap on the pillowy hills. My stomach folds with excitement at the thought of seeing Rafe again.

  Dusk is falling by the time I reach High Wycombe, so I treat myself to another cab rather than waiting for the branch-line train. As the journey takes me through the winding lanes, I grow more excited with every mile that brings me closer to Rafe. At last the car pulls up outside the gates of Mellisande, after steering around a white BMW parked by the kerb at a careless angle. I jump out and call to the cabbie to keep the change. Shoving the gates open, I sprint up the pathway, skirt Rafe’s red Ferrari and leap the three steps up to the front door.

  “Rafe!” I call, hammering my fist against the ancient wood. “Hello! Rafe! It’s me, Cleo!”

  I pause, expecting to hear the approach of his footsteps, but there’s nothing.

  “Rafe?” I thump the door again and then jangle the old bell too, but there’s still no response. I frown for a moment, the romantic reunion that I’d envisaged with such delicious anticipation thwarted – although it has to be said that Rafe doesn’t have a great track record when it comes to answering his front door to me. Now what?

  I knock again; still nothing. Then a thought occurs to me and I laugh aloud because the answer is glaringly obvious. Of course Rafe can’t hear me! He’s bound to be in the recording studio, which I know is soundproofed. Buoyed by this realisation I abandon the porch and retrace the path I took the last time I was here. The garden is shrouded in shadows and the Thames beyond is invisible as it flows silently back towards the city I’ve just left. The sky is clotted with heavy clouds, heralding more snow perhaps, and my eyes strain to pick out the route. When I turn the corner and head for the back of the house I’m relieved to see fingers of yellow light stretching into the creeping darkness. That’s the recording studio, so I was right: Rafe is busy working and couldn’t hear me knocking.

  The curtains of the studio haven’t been drawn. Rafe must have been so absorbed in what he’s doing that he hasn’t noticed the night falling. I smile because this is exactly how it is for me when I’m working. Hours can pass and I won’t have noticed. Sometimes I even go an entire day without eating – something Susie can’t understand at all, but that I know Rafe will relate to. Moving against the outside wall I slide along the perimeter of a flowerbed, taking care not to stumble, until I reach the window. Then I slowly peer around the edge.

  My eyes take a moment to adapt to the brightness in the room, a brightness that illuminates the couple deep in conversation behind the glass. The man, midnight haired, lean hipped and with his back to me, is Rafe; I’d know him anywhere. The slender golden-haired woman opposite him is equally recognisable from billboards and magazines.

  My eyes widen because this woman is none other than Natasha Lacey, the model ex who broke his heart. She’s here? No wonder he told me he was busy. I can hardly believe it. This is like a scene from one of Susie’s novels, the kind where the heroine sees her man kissing another woman and is heartbroken.

  “It’s all utter nonsense,” Susie had laughed, when she’d caught me leafing through her latest romcom. “As if things like that ever happen in real life! And if it did, she’d go and confront him, wouldn’t she? Not just slink away and cry. As if!”

  I turn on my heel and melt back into the darkness. I don’t need to see any more. As it turns out, Susie’s wrong. In real life there’s no need to confront anyone. Natasha and Rafe may only be talking, but that isn’t the point: Rafe has lied to me and that’s all I need to know. The rest is just detail.

  Chapter 28

  How I make it up the path, through the gate and across the dark fields to Riverside Halt, I will never know. My chest is tight and I hurl myself, gasping, along the footpath until the lights of the small railway platform begin to glow their welcome through the night.

  My breath is coming in painful sobs. This station, where Rafe and I first met, is the very last place I want to be right now. Dashing the tears from my eyes I push through the small gate and walk along the deserted platform. It’s a lonely spot to be on a late December evening; anyone sensible is indoors by the fire. Shadows loom across the platform, while litter blows along the tracks. An owl hoots from the trees and I shiver. I hope a train arrives soon. I want to be as far from this place and Rafe Thorne as possible.

  The small bench is still there, stranded in the middle of the platform and looking as forlorn as I feel. Reaching it, I sink down onto it and close my eyes. How is it possible that I’ve swung from such delicious excitement to crushing despair in a heartbeat? One moment I’m giddy with anticipation because I’m only seconds away from Rafe, the next I’m racing away as fast as I can with sobs tightening my throat. I can’t believe Natasha was there with him. Why didn’t he tell me he was seeing her this evening? Thank God I left when I did.

  Rafe and Natasha. Natasha and Rafe.

  There was no mistaking what I’d glimpsed through the window. Rafe is spending time with his beautiful ex, the woman whose rejection he as good as told me had sent him plummeting into despair just weeks ago. And who can blame him? She’s gorgeous and understands the world of celebrity and supercars and wealth; just seeing them together tells me that she belongs there with him. Where I belong I have no idea. I thought it was with Rafe, but I realise now that was nothing but an illusion, a lovely dream – a product of my head injury, perhaps. I used to feel at home working in the Wellby, but Simon has destroyed that sanctuary now. I belong nowhere.

  I bury my face in my hands and allow the hot tears to flow. How could he have written those words, immortalising our long-ago snowy meeting so beautifully – and even held me against his heart only hours before – if he was planning to meet up with Natasha? How is it possible that what meant so much to me meant so little to him?

  How did I allow Rafe Thorne to get so close?

  By deluding myself that our chance meeting meant more than it really did, that’s how. I let myself believe in soul mates and fate and ghosts, and by doing so I opened the floodgates. Was I crazy? I know all this is nonsense, but for a while it felt real, more real than anything I’ve ever known.

  I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and take a deep, shuddering breath. I know I have to take control of myself. The train will be here in a moment and I can’t get on looking like a hobgoblin; I’ll scare the other commuters. I can’t sit here blubbing in public.

  But it’s no good. No matter how many pep talks the logical part of me comes up with, none of them makes any difference. This feels a million, million times worse than having my ideas stolen or resigning from the job I adore. I love Rafe Thorne far more than any of these things.

  There’s an abrupt screeching of brakes in my mind and I sit bolt upright with shock. What did I just say? That I love Rafe? I’m horrified that my heart skips a beat just at the thought of him. A montage of images flickers through my mind: his lips, the silky texture of his hair when I run my hands through it, the rasp of his stubble a
gainst my throat, the scent of him when I bury my face in his neck, the teasing eyes and one-cornered smile, the way he’d once wiped my tears away with his thumb…

  Rafe Thorne. My past, my present and, I’d started to hope, my future too. Dig deep enough in the archaeology of my heart and you’ll find Rafe right there, as much a part of me as my curly red hair or my freckles. I’d just never realised it until a bang on the head brought me to my senses.

  I’m in love with Rafe Thorne, and knowing this makes me cry even harder. I saw him just now with Natasha, and whatever strange game he’s been playing I want no more part in it. I just want to be left alone to piece myself together. Maybe I’m overreacting but I don’t think so. He hasn’t been straight with me and that isn’t merely my opinion – it’s a fact. As I dab my eyes I bitterly regret handing in my resignation: I should have taken the sabbatical instead. A year in Egypt no longer feels long enough or far away enough for me.

  Snow-pregnant clouds have been building slowly, billowing in from the north, and now fat flakes begin to fall softly. The colour has leached out of the world and I watch mesmerised as the snowflakes whirl and spin in the beam of the lamplight. My fingers and toes are numb with cold, but I hardly notice because I want to be frozen. I don’t want to feel anything ever again.

  “What’s the matter?” The voice comes out of nowhere, making me jump. In the gloom it’s hard to make out the tall figure standing next to me, and for a moment I think it’s Rafe. My treacherous heart leaps gladly, only to plummet again when I see that this is Alex. The same lean frame, strong wide shoulders and long dark hair, of course, but these are green eyes looking at me with huge concern, rather than those thrilling violet ones. He steps forward.

  “Cleo? Are you crying?”

  I turn my face into the shadows. I don’t want to talk to Alex now, let alone explain myself to him.