‘Well…that’s…I mean…’
‘Completely correct?’ she said.
‘Spot on.’
‘It takes a casualty of loss to understand another casualty,’ she replied, taking me in. ‘I believe I met Lisa a few years ago.’
‘You did?’
‘She was a family friend of a little girl I taught. She passed when she was eleven.’
‘May.’
‘Yes, beautiful May.’
‘She’s the inspiration for the fox by the Grieving Tree,’ he said.
‘They had chemo together,’ I replied, remembering her fight, the day she lost her hair. ‘They became close. Lisa knew her mother before…I think it gave her some comfort that May had someone with her, someone who was going through the same thing.’
‘She was a lovely lady. Bright and interesting. My favourite kind of people,’ she said, smiling.
‘Mine too.’
She nodded slowly a few times and drew in her lips. ‘Alex. If you’re ready to love again, and only if you’re ready, I’ll tell you where you can find her.’
I edged forward off the seat, my heart thumping in my chest. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘I’m ready.’
‘No, no, no. You’re ready to pounce. I can almost feel the wind rush past me as you run out the door.’
‘I need to see her,’ I replied.
‘You’ll make a promise to me right now,’ she said, pointing her finger. ‘Don’t go to her in a rush or blind panic. Show her that you’re ready to love again. Give her the reassurance she craves. Woo her.’ I laughed. ‘I know it’s old-fashioned,’ she said, wafting her fingers. ‘But that will work in the end, you mark my words. She needs to be completely sure that you’re worth her taking the risk.’
‘Do you think I’m a risk?’ I asked, unsure I wanted to know the answer.
‘Absolutely, you are.’ I winced, her words stabbing me like a knife. ‘But you have something to counterbalance the risk. You have hope. You’ve made the first steps towards surviving grief.’
‘I have survived it,’ I replied, surer than I’d ever felt in my life. ‘With Nat guiding me. Encouraging me. Jesus, Sherrie, I’ve found happiness in my life and the ability to finally accept that I absolutely deserve it.’
‘Oh, my darling boy,’ Sherrie said, wiping her eyes delicately with a lace handkerchief tucked into her sleeve, her initials embroidered at the corner. ‘What you seek, the love you want, the love you deserve – it’s seeking you too.’
‘Where is she?’ I whispered as I knelt down to her chair. She held my face in her hands and briefly closed her eyes.
‘She’s staying with Marc and Lacey in London,’ she replied. ‘The address is on a note by the phone in the kitchen.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t rush,’ she said. ‘Remember my advice. Woo her. Build the trust. Show her that she is far more important than the aftereffects of grief.’
32
Nat
Retreating to London was the coward’s way out but, wow, this place was good for my soul. An injection of the arts. A reminder of my love for the bright lights and buzz of a city that was never still.
Marc and Lacey had called me after they left the restaurant, catching me as I sobbed down the phone about Alex admitting that he was the man hiding behind the Grief Fairy. A man I thought knew me better than anyone, but only through false pretenses. I cried as I retold Alex destroying the Grieving Tree and gasped through my fears of the damage he had caused to his hand, my mind racing through scenarios of him never being able to play again and the spiral of depression that would follow if he wasn’t able to express himself through his music.
They offered a reprieve. My own personal angels. I was sleeping on an airbed on the floor of their tiny West London flat and I’d never been more thankful. I wasn’t sure how long I would stay with them, I just knew I wanted to try to get some order to the thoughts in my head and then numb them for a few hours with my love of London and the entertainment it could offer. I walked to parks, read books, listened to music and breathed again. I cooked for Marc and Lacey, my way of saying thank you for letting me stay, and one calm, sunny afternoon led me to the box office in Leicester Square. I booked tickets to see The Lion King, Chicago and the matinee of Phantom of the Opera. I walked over to the flagship Odeon Cinema, saw an early evening film and then ate dinner in one of the fancier restaurants in Covent Garden.
I still thought of him the whole time. Distraction was going to be harder than I thought.
I arrived back at Marc and Lacey’s flat just before nine. As I locked the front door behind me, I heard the faint hum of the television in the living room until silence fell when it was turned off. ‘Hi,’ I said, poking my head through the door. The air mattress was leaning against the wall and Marc immediately stood and started pacing. ‘Sorry, did you want to watch something?’ The flat was cramped with an extra body and I was conscious that Marc and Lacey wouldn’t have much space to themselves while I was staying here. ‘I can go back out? I’m sure there’s a pub still open around here.’
‘Nat…erm…there’s someone here to see you,’ Marc said, suddenly nervous. His beard stroke gave him away.
‘Who is it?’ I asked, completely perplexed. Marc looked at Lacey and she looked at me and I was beginning to freak out when he went through the open French doors of their roof terrace. It was the height of summer and there was still a slight light to the evening sky, hues of reds and purples illuminated above. The sounds of the city I loved became louder as I stepped outside.
Marc was a keen gardener, a rooftop terrace allowing him to indulge in showcasing his skills with potted plants and a small herb garden made from old wooden railway sleepers. In the corner was a grey iron table and two matching chairs, which provided a perfect spot for reading.
But there was something else that caught my eye on the terrace this evening.
Sitting at the table, alone and in silence was Alex.
His legs were crossed. He was dark and brooding, but I saw the nerves hiding under the GQ polish. I wanted to keep my distance. It was a scary and unnatural feeling because from the moment I first met Alex I wanted to run to him. Protect him. Ease his demons. Fight his wars. I felt vulnerable, naked and open. I wanted to draw my hands around my waist, hold myself together and take a step back.
Why did I want to step back?
‘You look great,’ he said. ‘My memory doesn’t do you justice.’ I took a breath, remembering the same words he’d said the night I went to his hotel and he bound me for the first time. ‘But you also look scared. Tell me why?’ That roughness in his voice. I knew it was a cloak protecting him from the tender parts that ran through his body like a vein. He was protecting himself, as vulnerable as me.
‘I’m afraid of why you’re here,’ I replied.
‘I want you.’
‘You don’t want me. You want someone to help you forget,’ I replied softly. ‘It doesn’t matter who it is.’
‘There’s not an ounce of truth in that,’ he said, wringing his hands together. Hurting. I studied every inch of him. His hair curling under the collar of his shirt. His strong forearms touched with a light tan from the summer sun. His phone was on the iron table and it was only then that I noticed some kind of potted plant, something that resembled a…no…could it be?
I gasped as I leant in, a beautifully ornate Bonsai tree, a very similar shape to the Grieving Tree was sitting on the table in miniature splendor. A fairy door had been fixed to the trunk, sequins and glitter adorning it. A small postbox, identical to the one in the forest at home, the one he destroyed, stood at the side of it. A wooden sign pushed into the soil with a toothpick said, The Love Tree.
‘Marc said they didn’t have a garden, just a roof terrace,’ he said, watching me cautiously. ‘So I had to downscale my original plans somewhat.’ He hesitated. Looked sad. ‘Nat, say something.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
He directed his gaz
e to the floor but continued. ‘Eli decorated the fairy door. She said I should call myself the Love Fairy instead of the Grief Fairy, but I refused on the grounds that it was corny as fuck.’
I laughed. ‘She knows?’
‘Yes.’ He glanced at me. ‘I shared Lisa’s book with her.’
I put my hand to my mouth in shock…relief…adoration? I wasn’t sure. The man who took on a fictional character to be able to talk to his daughter was now sharing her mother’s story openly. My heart was singing. My soul was dancing.
‘I’m so pleased. That’s wonderful.’
He nodded a few times and straightened up, finally able to give me some much-needed eye contact. I needed to see them. They always spoke the truth when other parts of him were lying.
‘She misses you in class. She said to tell you that her daddy doesn’t always get things right but when he does it’s worth it.’
I swallowed a sob, ending my tears with a smile I couldn’t hide. ‘Was she OK? Did she understand? Did she–’
‘Nat, she was fine,’ he said quietly. ‘She loves the book. She enjoys talking about her mum. We got old photographs out, watched video clips of when she was a baby. We laughed. I cried,’ he said, smiling. ‘She completely fascinates me with her ability to bounce back. Ten minutes later she was asking for a chocolate milkshake and I was still dabbing my eyes.’
‘I’m so happy for her,’ I said softly, imagining her bright smile, her bouncy curls, her happiness at finally being able to start to work through her grief with her father.
‘Now I’m here to make things right with you,’ he said. ‘To tell you I’m sorry. To convince you that I’m ready for us.’
‘Us?’ He nodded in recognition. ‘Were you hoping it would be as easy with me as it was with Eli?’ I said, knowing I was being unfair but still needing to protect myself.
‘I’m not expecting it to be easy.’
‘You lied to me.’
‘I misled you and I’m sorry. I betrayed your trust and for that I can’t say sorry enough,’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘I don’t know how to make this right and it’s killing me.’
‘I’ve had a lot of time to think. I realise now that I can move on from the lies. My feelings are too great to hold that against you, I understand why, but what I’m scared of is your grief. I’m terrified that I won’t be enough. That there will always be a part of you that can’t or won’t let the sadness go.’ He stood up and I stepped back, holding out my hand to tell him to stay away. I couldn’t have those strong arms around me, I would melt, and we would be no further forward.
His face fell in shock and he dragged his fingers through his hair, buying him time as he contemplated how to work through this, how to reach me. ‘I thought grief was so overpowering it would consume me but it’s nothing compared to how strongly I feel about you.’
‘Don’t say things you don’t mean,’ I replied quietly.
‘I wouldn’t do that to you,’ he said, his eyes softening. ‘You helped me put everything in order, Nat. Making sense of my feelings was liberating. I wasn’t consumed by grief; I was consumed by you.’
‘Nadia said I’d never compare, couldn’t compete.’
‘She’s right.’ He sighed. Pinched his nose. Removed his glasses.
‘Then why are you here?’
‘It’s not about competing,’ he said. ‘She was Lisa and you’re Nat. You can’t compare because you’re different. Just like every relationship you’ve had has been different. Some were good. Some bad. Some you think favorably of. Others you don’t. Just because Lisa is dead shouldn’t make any difference.’
‘She’ll always be with you,’ I whispered, knowing that it was selfish of me to say that, knowing that deep down I wouldn’t want that for him, to never let her go.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I can’t pretend that she won’t but that doesn’t mean I can’t love you, Nat. You’re the light. You’re the beautiful, important light. You saved me.’ His love began to speak louder than his guilt, louder than my fears. ‘I miss you. I miss us.’
I swallowed a sob as he stepped closer. ‘I thought you knew me better than anyone.’
‘I do. Can’t you see that? You were writing the letters to me, Nat. You knew that,’ he breathed out. ‘You knew all along.’
‘I didn’t! It never crossed my mind that it was you,’ I gasped. He came closer, his hand snaking round my waist, a soft tug bringing me closer to him, our bodies melded together, like we were made for each other and my whole pretense of being angry with him sagged in his arms.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he said, his hand threading into my short hair, pushing my head back as he kissed my neck.
‘Your hand,’ I said. ‘How is your hand?’
‘Fine. Nothing broken. It was checked by a specialist yesterday.’
‘Tell me about the Love Tree,’ I gasped as he fluttered kisses against my throat.
‘It’s ours, Nat. Not tainted by something dark and unwelcome.’
‘Do I have to write to you?’ I asked.
‘No, just read the letters. One a day for the rest of the week.’
‘And then?’
‘The conclusion,’ he replied, caressing my cheek. ‘The decision. The resolution.’
‘Don’t talk in riddles,’ I whispered, closing my eyes to really feel his skin against mine.
‘I’m playing at the Barbican,’ he said. ‘If, after reading the letters, you feel I’ve convinced you enough that I’m ready for you – I want you to come and see me play.’ He stepped back, took my hands and kissed them. ‘Then I’ll know I’ve reassured you…reassured me too.’
‘How?’
‘You need to be ready for me also,’ he replied.
‘A letter a day?’ I said, looking over at the Love Tree.
He walked to the French doors, stepped through them, turned and nodded, a small smile lifting his lips. ‘Promise me you’ll read them?’
‘I promise.’
He sighed, taking a final glance before leaving me under the clear London sky slightly breathless and more reassured than before.
Could Alex really be ready to love again?
33
Nat
‘He wants to show you how much you mean to him,’ Marc said. Alex had left twenty minutes ago, and we were still having a debrief on the terrace, a bottle of wine on the go to help us.
Lacey clutched her chest. ‘He wants to woo you!’
‘Woo me? Did he really say that?’ Lacey nodded enthusiastically.
Jesus, he’d been to see my grandmother. It was the only explanation.
‘We’ve been given instructions to give you this. To sit you down at the table.’ Lacey gently pushed me over and sat me down with a refilled glass of wine. Marc handed me an envelope as she did. ‘And to leave you alone to read.’
‘We’ll be inside,’ Marc said as they walked to the French doors. ‘Shout if you need anything.’
The doors closed with a gentle click and an outside light came on. I smiled, imagining Marc flicking the light switch for me as he went to bed. I looked at the envelope in my hands. My name written in black ink on the front with details of the date and time of the concert. It wasn’t sealed. I imagined him writing it in a panicked rush, the need to get his words down on paper as the thoughts charged through his head.
Love doesn’t have to be perplexing or tangled with intricate complexities. The same as love doesn’t have to be neat and ordered. Love doesn’t have to follow a path that has been trod before. Or fit into a stereotypical box. The best kind of love is often flawed and knotted. Raw and real. A rope tying two people together because it just feels right. Hold onto the rope. Exquisite and true. It will bring you the light.
Yours,
Alex
I looked out across the city, the bright lights shining now that dusk had settled in. Drawing up my knees I read the letter again and again, over and over until I memorised it.
One thought didn�
�t disappear or become hazy in the expanse of my confusion.
I wanted to hold onto the rope.
* * *
‘Morning, morning, morning,’ Lacey sang as she breezed through the living room where I was reading on the floor. I’d been awake early, unable to stop my thoughts. Marc had left for work over an hour ago and I’d made myself a coffee. Lacey was her usual chaotic self, opening the French doors in a hurry, an envelope in her hand before returning just as quickly. ‘I’m late. I need to get ready. Ooh, I think the postman might have been!’
I sat up, turning to watch her disappear from the living room and moving my gaze to the open doors of the roof terrace. I got up off the airbed – eventually. It was proving difficult to be elegant on what was essentially a giant whoopee cushion. I slipped on my ballet flats that I’d left at the door the previous night and went over to the Love Tree. I could see an envelope sticking out from underneath the pot. The same bold writing was written across the front. I cradled it to my chest before opening it, hoping to feel a piece of him.
What is love?
Love is power. Used and abused. Renders you helpless, tosses you aside. But it can switch. It can infiltrate your senses, allow healthy commands and demands. It’s how you choose to feel it.
You’re in charge of my love, Nat.
Always have been.
Yours,
Alex
‘I imagine he’s wordy,’ Lacey said, scrunching up her face as she handed me a mug of tea. ‘Is he wordy?’
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