“Go away.”
“You are crying.” He’s sitting next to me now and I’m not sure what’s colder – the flurries of snowflakes landing on my face and hands, or being close to him. “What’s wrong?”
I round on Alex, the stresses and strains and disappointments of the last few weeks rising up inside me like an emotional Vesuvius. When I erupt it’s with such force that he recoils.
“Everything! Absolutely everything! You’ve lost me my job, my sanity, my professional reputation–” My voice cracks because there’s one more thing I’m not adding to the list: my heart. “My life’s in a mess because of you!”
Alex stares at me – one beat, two beats, three beats – then I look away. I hate myself for lying to him. My life’s not a mess because of Alex: my life’s tumbling down around my ears because I was stupid enough to fall in love with Rafe Thorne. That happened long before I ever met Alex and I know I’m being unfair, but right now I just want to lash out at somebody. Besides, until Alex showed up and turned my world upside down I was happy, wasn’t I? I had everything on an even keel and beautifully ordered, and if it wasn’t always exciting at least it was safe. I went on dates, I wrote papers, I delivered lectures and I rarely cried. Now I’m afraid that I’ll never stop.
“Cleo, I’m sorry,” Alex says helplessly. “I thought everything was going so well.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “That was why I stayed away. I can’t explain it but everything felt good. You were happy. Rafe was happy–”
“Of course Rafe’s happy! He’s back with Natasha!” I can’t help myself; the words fly from my mouth to land a verbal double whammy and Alex reels.
“What? That’s absurd,” he says, looking utterly astonished. “Of course he isn’t! Rafe’s crazy about you. He’s always been crazy about you.”
“So crazy about me that he’s with his ex right now,” I tell him bitterly. “Don’t look at me like that, Alex. It’s true. I’ve just seen them together.”
Bemusement is written across his face. “No way. You’re wrong, Cleo. I know my brother. He loved you from the minute he first saw you. There’s no way he’d get back with Natasha. She was never important.”
“She’s with him now. I saw them, Alex. He told me he was busy and now I know why!”
There’s a whispering along the tracks and in the far distance two lights shine, throwing beams of brightness into the night. My train is coming. Thank goodness. I’ll step back on it and return to London and Rafe Thorne will never be any the wiser. I might go home and weep until I look like a frog, but at least I’ll have kept my dignity. Imagine if I’d told him how I felt about him. Just thinking about this makes me feel sick.
“There’s got to have been a mistake,” Alex is saying desperately. I rise from the bench to walk to the far end of the halt, where the single-carriage train will pull in; Alex tries to grab my arm, but his fingers slide straight through me. “He’s loved you for ten years. Why would he risk everything now by seeing Natasha? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“There’s no mistake.” I shoulder my bag and raise my chin. Ten years of missed opportunities tighten my throat with loss. The memories Rafe and I might have shared, the adventures we could have enjoyed, the children we could have had… All are gone now, along with the chance of ever making up for that lost time.
The train draws into the station. Brakes squeal and the signal turns red.
“There has to have been a misunderstanding,” Alex insists. “Let me find out what’s really happened. Cleo, please!”
“Just go away, Alex,” I say, pressing the button to open the carriage doors. I can’t even summon the energy to be angry any longer. “You’ve destroyed my career; isn’t that enough for you? Rafe is writing again, he’s not drinking and he’s back with his girlfriend. He’s sorted. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“No!” Alex cries as I board the train. “I wanted him to be with you! That’s what I promised him and that’s what needed to happen.” His face is anguished and he’s starting to fade, melting into the shadows with every second that passes. “Tell me what I can do to put it right.”
So I tell him. “You can leave me alone if you really want to help. If you want to do the right thing you’ll go away. You’ve done enough damage. I wish you’d never come looking for me in the first place.”
“You don’t mean that. I know you don’t.”
“I do! Just go away, Alex! I never want to see or hear from you or Rafe again, do you hear me? Leave me alone!”
The signal turns green and the doors hiss closed. As the train winds its way out of the small station I close my eyes to stop the tears from falling again, but even though I can’t see him I know that Alex is watching. I sense his despair in every rattle of the vehicle and in every whistle of cold air that blows through the carriage, but as the miles stretch out between me and Rafe, Alex’s grief is nothing to my own. I turn my face to the window and watch the snowflakes waltzing by in an endless dance, and then my tears hide them for the rest of the journey.
It’s feels as though I’m drowning in misery here in my London bedroom. I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling and listening to Susie moving around the flat. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to summon the energy to sit up, have a shower and rejoin the real world. My mobile’s been ringing at regular intervals and beeping with text messages, which I’ve ignored. I’ve texted Dawn to say I’m working from home today. I really don’t have the will to talk to anyone else.
I hardly know what I’m crying about anymore. The tears just won’t stop. Is it Rafe’s betrayal? Or my row with Alex? Simon’s theft of my work? Mum’s death? My accident? Everything has rolled into one big knot of grief and I can’t seem to find a way of unpicking it. It’s ridiculous! Until recently I’d prided myself that I hadn’t cried for years, but suddenly I’ve lost control and nothing seems able to pull me back from the chasm of despair I’ve toppled into.
My logical part of my brain is patiently telling me that this is an overreaction, that Rafe’s somebody I barely know and that these feelings for him are just another manifestation of my head trauma. There’s an illogical part of me though, which is saying quietly that I’ve always been in love with Rafe Thorne and have been since the day I first met him – even though I did my best to put him firmly out of my mind.
I turn my head to the wall. I want the old me back again, the Cleo Carpenter whose life was full of certainties and who was supremely confident she had all the answers. Without any warning I’ve jumped from having life neatly figured out to being lost in the pitch dark without even a single match to strike a light and guide me. It’s terrifying. For the first time since my accident I’m truly scared that I’ve done myself serious damage. Paranormal experiences? Falling in love with strangers? Handing in my resignation? These things don’t belong to my real life. What if they’re symptoms of something far worse?
I sit up and reach for my iPhone. By the time I’ve finished Googling signs of serious brain injury I’ve convinced myself I’m ill. I’m behaving extremely out of character – one of the indicators on the checklist, apparently – and I need help.
Just as I’m reaching this conclusion, the bedroom door flies open and Susie sails in, armed with a mug of tea and with the biscuit tin wedged between her chin and chest. She places these down on my bedside table and then rips open the curtains, flooding the room with bright wintery light, while I recoil like something from Twilight.
“It’s snowed!” she exclaims excitedly. “Have a look. It’s really pretty.”
I know it’s snowed. My train journey home was delayed for ages thanks to the white floaty stuff, and I had to walk back in it too because the buses weren’t running properly. By the time I finally arrived home I was a Cleo ice pop and feeling even more wretched, if that was possible. I think I can be forgiven for not being in raptures about the snow.
She tugs at my duvet. “Come and have a look, lazybones. Up you get!”
I pity Susie’s patie
nts if this is an example of her bedside manner. Can’t I just be left alone to be maudlin in peace?
“I’m not feeling well,” I croak in a hopefully genuine way. My throat is sore from crying and I do have a headache too, so I’m not exactly faking.
“Bollocks.” Susie hurls herself down on the bed and fixes me with a knowing look. “I’m a medic, remember? I know when somebody’s genuinely ill and you, Cleo Carpenter, are as fit as a fiddle. Granted, you look like shit, but you’re not ill. I know a bad case of man trouble when I see it.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’ve spent more hours than I care to think about bawling my eyes out over some tosser who didn’t deserve a nanosecond of my time and I’m telling you, girl friend, that lying in bed is not the answer!”
It isn’t? It had seemed like a pretty good solution to me. Still, Susie is an expert on these things and in spite of myself I’m intrigued.
“So what is the answer?” I ask curiously. “Not that I’m having man trouble, of course. I’m just wondering.”
“Getting out there and showing him what he’s missing! Victorian melodrama is so over!” She looks worried. “This really isn’t like you, Cleo. In fact, I’ve never known you lie in bed this long. He must be somebody really special.”
I’d thought so too. As it turns out I couldn’t have been more wrong. I try to conjure up Rafe’s face, but all I can see is him deep in conversation with the gorgeous Natasha. Did he kiss her? I feel the urge to be sick. I can’t share any of this with Susie though. It’s too painful – and we’ll still be talking about the fact that I’ve slept with a rock star when we’re sucking our suppers through straws in a care home.
“It’s not man trouble anyway,” I fib, crossing my fingers under the duvet. “It’s work stuff.”
Susie’s hand flies to her mouth. “I’m such a dimwit. Of course it is! That bloody Simon! Oh babes, there has to be a way you can prove what he did. Come on, Cleo. Use your giant brain!”
“My giant brain isn’t working so well lately,” I confess sadly. “I’m starting to wonder if I really did myself some harm when I was knocked down.”
“Double vision? Loss in taste or smell? Problems with balance? Headaches?” Susie demands and I shake my head to each of her suggestions, but if she adds seeing ghosts or falling in love with damaged unsuitable men I’ll be off to the hospital before you can say poorly.
“You’re probably okay then. In fact I think your bang on the head did you some good,” Susie says thoughtfully. “You certainly seem to have had a lot more fun since, and your taste in clothes has improved too. You’ll be out clubbing with me before you know it! No, babes, I think you’re fine.”
Even though I’m miserable I can’t help laughing. My life is in ruins but as far as Susie’s concerned wearing Topshop fashions more than makes up for this. It’s one way of seeing the world, I suppose.
“I’m emotional, I’m losing sight of my priorities, I have feelings for unsuitable men and my work’s gone pear-shaped. I’m hardly fine!” I point out.
“Real life’s just caught up with you, that’s all,” Susie concludes. “It had to happen sooner or later, Cleo. You’ve been hiding away in your work for far too long.” Then I see a sudden spark of excitement illuminate her face. “And anyway, who are these unsuitable men?”
“It’s just a figure of speech. There was somebody I liked but it was never going to happen. He wasn’t for me.”
“That’s not a head injury, Cleo: that’s dating. You are one hundred percent fine.”
Satisfied with her diagnosis, my best friend flips open the biscuit tin and hands me a digestive. “I prescribe you eat this, take a hot shower and then get ready for your Christmas party. Go to the museum and hold your head high. You’ve done nothing wrong. Show that Simon that you’re not defeated. He’s messed with the wrong person this time and now it’s war. It’s only a matter of time before he gives himself away. Then you can wear his balls as earrings.”
“Blimey,” I say, taken aback. “Remind me not to annoy you.”
She winks. “You don’t spend ten years in the NHS without learning to toughen up. There’s a way to prove he’s a cheating lowlife; you just have to find it, that’s all.”
We munch our biscuits in companionable silence. The thought of Rafe is still painful but I know I’m going to have to get used to this. Simon Welsh, however, is a different matter entirely. Dare I hope that there’s still a chance I can expose him? If I can tell Aamon’s story – drawing my mother and grandmother’s lifelong work to the ultimate conclusion – and manage to salvage my career, it might soothe the ache in my heart. My work has always been a great panacea.
Tea drunk, biscuit eaten and one funny story about Susie’s love life later, I’m feeling a little more human. I delete the six texts from Rafe without reading them, clear the call register and then swing my legs over the side of the bed. Bambi-like, I walk to the window and gaze out at the snowy city. It’s only the slightest dusting but enough to make the street look magical. Over there, hidden behind the rooftops and iced treetops, is the museum and the work that I love, as well as a cheating colleague. I need to be there. I can’t give in without at least trying.
“You’re right, Susie,” I say. “I’ve got a party to go to.”
Chapter 29
If Susie hadn’t chosen nursing as a career then she would have made a fantastic make-up artist. By the time I arrive at the museum there’s no sign of my earlier sob fest. Armed with her brushes and lotions and tubes of goo, my best friend has smoothed away my tearstains beautifully. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of the door and think that if she could restore the same glow and sparkle to the way I feel, she might be really onto something.
“Wow! You look amazing!” Dawn, squeezed into a tiny pink frock that’s trying valiantly to contain her boobs, joins me in the museum café, which this evening has been turned into the venue for the party. The place is packed with the museum staff and chatter flows as easily as the cava.
“You too,” I tell her, and I’m not joking. She does look amazing. She’s channelling her inner WAG tonight and I can’t help being mesmerised by her giant false eyelashes the size of tarantulas. The hairpiece too is a feat of engineering, piled high and topped with a sprig of emergency mistletoe. In my floor-length green velvet dress and with my hair in loose curls over my shoulders I’m feeling a little underdressed in comparison.
“Thanks! My Gary said I look like I’m off to a lap-dance bar, cheeky git,” she giggles, swiping a handful of canapés from a plate and cramming them into her lipsticked mouth. “Mmm! Yummy! You should try those, Cleo. They’re lush!”
I don’t think I can eat. My stomach is churning like a washing machine on spin and it’s as much as I can do to sip my drink rather than hurl it down my neck. I’m ill at ease here; the place is full partying people, both living and dead, and I’m starting to feel crowded. Maybe this was a mistake.
“I said to Gary, if I can’t dress up and let my hair down on Christmas Eve, then when can I?” Dawn grins. “Ooo! Talking of letting my hair down, there’s Simon and he’s coming over! Doesn’t he look gorgeous! I wonder if he’ll let me try out my mistletoe?” One tarantula-like row of eyelashes winks at me. “Or maybe you’d like to give it a go?”
I’d rather mummify my head than kiss Simon. Sure enough though, he’s making a beeline straight for me. He looks ridiculously handsome in a black tux, with his blond hair hanging to his shoulders and his blue eyes bright in his fine-boned face. The look he gives me is glacial but Dawn doesn’t notice.
“I’ll let you into a secret.” She nudges me. “I think Simon really likes you. He’s always talking about you. He’ll be gutted when you go to Egypt.”
“Who says I’m going to Egypt?” I mutter. The closer Simon gets the angrier I feel. When he finally weaves his way through the crowd to join us it’s all I can do to resist kicking him in the shins.
“Dawn, looking beautiful
as always!” Simon leans forward, has a good gawp down her Cheddar Gorge cleavage and then kisses her cheek, while Dawn simpers and turns the same colour as her frock. Afterwards, he smiles down at me. “And the lovely Cleo too. I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
I glower at him. “Really? Why not?”
He shrugs. “You’ve been unwell lately and I know that my promotion has been difficult for you. Nobody would have thought ill of you if you’d stayed at home and rested.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I reply, so acidly that I’m amazed my tongue doesn’t shrivel.
He laughs. “I’m always thinking of you, Cleo. Did you like idea of the secondment in Egypt, by the way? Paul thought you’d be happy staying here but I managed to persuade him that you’re far too ambitious for that.”
I keep my face impassive but I’m clutching my champagne flute so hard it must be close to shattering. He doesn’t know that I’ve resigned, which means the Prof hasn’t told him. Is this because the Prof doesn’t want to accept my resignation or because he’s starting to have doubts about Simon?
Simon reaches forward and brushes a curl from my face. “I’m loving seeing your hair like that, by the way. It’s wild and out of control. Is that a side of you that we’ll see here this evening?”
I snap my head away. Much as I’d love to slap him I have to bite back my anger. I’m still searching for a suitable retort when a voice calls to me across the party. Henry Wellby and Aamon are waving frantically from the staircase.
“Dr Carpenter! Come up to your office! Bring the scoundrel with you!” Wellby calls. He’s brandishing his hat excitedly while Aamon bounces beside him. “We have a plan!”
We do? It’s a sign of the times that I’m willing to go along with figments of my imagination, but what do I have to lose? It’s not as though I’ve managed to figure out a solution of my own. I catch Simon’s elbow and look up at him.
“There’s something we need to talk about,” I say. “In private.”
Dead Romantic Page 28