‘I loathe Christmas,’ Rich says. ‘The Waltons we ain’t. Mum can’t be arsed to cook a turkey so we go to some swanky restaurant, stick paper hats on and pull crackers. Dad gets more and more drunk and then asks me when I’m going to bring home a nice girl he can crack on to.’
‘Christmas can be hard for Mum and me too,’ Edward says, before confiding that he’s also an only child and his mother hasn’t remarried since his father’s death. ‘Mum and I usually eat beans on toast and watch the Queen’s speech.’
‘That makes me think of Guy,’ I say, reminding Edward about him and his passion for his little orange friends.
‘How is he by the way?’ Charlie asks.
‘Not great.’
‘Poor Guy,’ Libby sighs. ‘Whenever I’m having a bad day,’ she goes on, ‘you know, if I don’t place a client or if I feel ratty because I’ve missed my morning yoga, I think of Cass and say to myself, “Man up, Libby! Think of Cass!” You’re a real inspiration,’ she says to me.
‘Anyway,’ Rich says, sensing my discomfort. ‘You know what? One year we should rent a cottage and have an “I hate Christmas” Christmas. No stupid presents, no board games, not a paper hat in sight, just plenty of booze.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Edward says, raising his beer bottle towards Rich.
‘Will you two be spending Christmas together?’ Libby asks Edward and me.
‘What? I mean, yes, maybe,’ I stammer. ‘We haven’t really spoken about it yet, have we?’
I can’t bring myself to say ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’. I’m uncomfortable pretending. I should never have agreed to it.
I’m jolted back to reality by Edward placing an arm round my shoulder. ‘Mum’s longing to meet her,’ he says. Charlie catches my eye.
*
As we look at the pudding menu, Libby tells Edward she used to have a boyfriend in the army.
Charlie pours us all some more wine. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’
She rolls her eyes at him. ‘Number one rule, you never talk about exes.’
‘Why did you break up?’ he asks.
‘Oh, it was a while ago, I was pretty young. I thought the whole idea romantic, handsome man in uniform.’ She winks at Edward. ‘But then he went to Iraq. If I had a boyfriend out in Afghanistan now, I couldn’t cope. I’m not cut out for it, I’m afraid.’
I admire her honesty.
‘Well, there’s no chance of Charlie going,’ says Rich with affection.
‘Do you mind talking about your time out there?’ Libby asks Edward.
Edward coughs. ‘No.’
‘I was wondering what happened, you know, how you were injured?’
Again, I like Libby for asking.
He explains that he was based in Kajaki. ‘I was out four years ago, Operation Herrick 5. The IED threat wasn’t anything like it is now. The vast majority of lads on my tour were injured in fire fights, we had some real scraps with the enemy. We were always aware of legacy though. Anything off the cleared tracks was a threat.’
‘You mean landmines left over from the Soviet occupation?’ asks Rich.
Edward nods. ‘We’d see loads of people and children with missing lower limbs and hands. A lot of kids would play in the village, pick up scraps of metal, turns out to be a grenade that blows off both their arms,’ he says, pushing his plate aside. ‘That’s what’s so cruel about them. On the whole they’re designed to maim, not kill.’
‘Didn’t Princess Diana do a lot of work to ban landmines?’ I ask. I have a lasting image of her wearing a protective mask, walking through the minefields in Angola.
Edward nods. ‘She championed it until her death.’
‘I worry about the Afghan war,’ says Rich, as the waiter clears our plates. ‘I think our armed forces are brave, I do, but I can’t imagine how we’re ever going to leave that place as a peaceful democratic country.’
‘I agree,’ Charlie says.
‘It’s OK, Cass. I’m used to this,’ Edward reassures me, when I glance his way.
‘Afghanistan has always proved a disaster for countries coming in from the outside,’ Rich continues.
‘Look at us in the nineteenth century,’ says Charlie.
‘And then the Russians not so long ago,’ Rich follows on, ‘and now the Americans and us are bogged down after a decade, getting nowhere.’
‘Are you saying we should do nothing about the Taliban?’ Libby asks both Charlie and Rich.
‘I don’t know,’ Charlie says. ‘Maybe we were right to get involved, but equally …’ He stops, hesitant to continue.
‘It is worth it,’ Edward says raising his voice, knowing what Charlie and Rich are driving at. ‘No one said it was going to be easy, but someone has to help the Afghans against the Taliban, we have to try and stop them from being a base for terrorism.’
‘You’re right,’ says Charlie, trying to make peace. ‘But I get what Rich is saying too. It’s a tricky one.’
Rich pours himself a glass of water. ‘Listen, I’m not against the army or the Royal Marines, but I find it hard to support this war. Afghanistan is a mess and I’m not sure we’re making it any better.’
‘I was doing my job,’ says Edward, clearly angry now. ‘Our commanding officers inspired us to do our very best for our country, they told us it was the right thing to do.’
‘Well, of course they would!’ Charlie says, his voice heating up. ‘Your commanding officers are unlikely to be telling you that it’s hopeless—’
‘Listen, mate, it’s not personal,’ Rich says, registering Edward’s anger. ‘I’m just not sure we have any right—’
‘Don’t talk to me about “rights”! What about our responsibilities? We’re part of NATO, are we just supposed to let the attack on the Twin Towers go unanswered? If we’d pulled out of Afghanistan early it would have made a mockery of those soldiers who had died.’
‘Yes,’ Charlie says ‘but—’
‘You sit behind a fucking desk, Charlie. I’m proud of what I did, of what the lads still do. Don’t you dare tell me Dan’s life was a waste.’
‘I’m sorry, Edward, I—’
‘Excuse me.’ He cuts Charlie off, wrestling to leave the table, banging into a chair on his way out.
‘Who’s Dan?’ Rich whispers.
‘Well, that went well,’ I say pointedly to Charlie.
*
The following morning I bump into Charlie outside his bedroom, dressed only in his pyjama bottoms. I’m in my dressing gown, towel and washbag on my lap. I see a lace bra and matching knickers, along with Charlie’s jeans, leather belt and Calvin Klein boxers, strewn across the bedroom floor. He shuts the door, scratches his head. ‘I was about to put the kettle on.’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
The bathroom door opens and Libby appears wearing a skimpy towel, her brown hair scooped into a loose bun. She seems completely at home as she kisses Charlie good morning and says, ‘Bathroom’s free.’
I can’t take my eyes away from her slim pretty hand resting against his chest. ‘I hope we didn’t wake you last night?’ she asks with concern, without removing her hand.
‘No.’
‘Oh good. We tried to keep the noise down, didn’t we?’ She smiles. ‘Is Edward OK? He didn’t stay over? We’re so sorry if we upset him.’ Sharp dig in the ribs. ‘Aren’t we, Charlie?’
‘He’s fine. Right, well, I’d better get going,’ I say, heading into the bathroom.
As I place the padded white shower board over the bath I hear Libby and Charlie talking. She’s asking him to cook some of his special poached eggs, the perfect cure for hangovers, while she does twenty minutes’ stretching.
After my shower I rush back into the bedroom, praying not to bump into them again. I have nothing planned today but I need to get out of the house.
Ticket sits patiently as I get dressed on my bed. I wriggle around on my mattress, rolling over on to one buttock, then the next, sliding my trousers up my legs. I hear mu
sic coming from the sitting room. Ticket barks at the sound of leaves rustling in a breeze, waves rolling on to the shore. I imagine Libby stretched out on her yoga mat, graceful as she bends to do the downward dog position as I struggle to lift one leg over my knee to get my socks on.
*
‘Where are you off to?’ Libby asks, sitting with Charlie at the kitchen table, my efforts at slipping away discreetly having failed.
‘Meeting Edward,’ I pretend, thinking how easy it is to lie. ‘And you?’ I watch Charlie reading the paper, aware we have hardly spoken since we exchanged words last night in the restaurant. ‘I get frustrated, Cass,’ Edward had said last night when we left the restaurant together. ‘I think people confuse the two conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq. They don’t get why we’re there. And I miss Dan. It hurts.’
‘We’re going to be lazy, aren’t we,’ she replies, clutching a mug of coffee in both hands. ‘Maybe go for a bike ride, grab some lunch.’
Charlie looks up from his paper. ‘Cass, I’m really sorry the way last night ended. Rich and I, we didn’t mean to upset him. We had no idea he’d lost his best friend.’
‘It’s been hard for him.’
‘I can imagine. Well, I can’t … Oh God, you know what I mean. I’d like to call him, say I’m sorry.’
I give Charlie his number. ‘We’ll see you later,’ I say. ‘Come on, Ticket, off we go.’
When I’m outside the flat I breathe a sigh of relief. I take out my mobile and call Frankie. ‘Are you around?’ I ask her the moment she picks up. ‘I need your advice.’
‘This sounds serious. What about?’
‘Charlie,’ I say. ‘I want to give Internet dating a go.’
*
‘Like you said, Cass, you’ve got nothing to lose,’ Frankie says later that morning, in a café on Putney High Street. ‘Loads of people date online. It’s no big deal. I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Charlie but he isn’t the only man on this planet.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, determined not to hang around waiting for him any more. He’s happy with Libby. Get over it.
Frankie and I discuss which dating sites I should try. Frankie says she met Tom through a site called the Perfect Pair. ‘All you need to do is provide a profile picture and then you can either write something about yourself or a friend can. Why don’t I?’
‘Great. You could say I’m incredible, talented and beautiful and you can’t think why no one has snapped me up yet.’
‘Exactly! Tell you what? Why don’t you come home with me and we can take a few pictures and sign you up today. Tom’s working, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.’
‘Today?’
‘Yes. Before you lose your nerve.’
37
I’m sitting in a crowded brasserie, waiting for my date to show up. I examine the menu. I reach down to stroke Ticket. I thought I’d bring him to break the ice. I tap my fingers against the table. It’s one date, Cass. No big deal. Besides, he seems a nice enough guy, and he has a sense of humour. He might need one when he meets Ticket and me.
Over the past few weeks I’ve been chatting online to Julian. I’ve discovered he works in the pharmaceutical industry. I told him I worked for a charity but would love to travel. He replied saying I sounded like a Miss World contestant. ‘Not that I mind that,’ he’d added, with a smiley face. I’ve never been sure about smiley faces, but replied, ‘And I want world peace.’ We began signing our messages with a kiss when ‘kind regards’ or ‘all the best’ sounded too formal.
We’re meeting for brunch. Frankie had suggested this place as there are no steps, and it’s always busy. ‘You don’t want somewhere half dead,’ she’d said, making me think of my first date with Edward.
I pick up the menu again and decide to make my choice now, not dither when he arrives. Why am I so nervous?
Julian doesn’t know I have a spinal cord injury.
When Frankie took photographs of me in a wheelchair I felt uncomfortable and convinced her that no one would see me; they’d only see my chair. I asked her to take a head and shoulders shot instead. I let down my hair and reapplied some make-up to highlight my brown eyes. I explained to a dubious Frankie that it might be a better tactic not to shout immediately, ‘Look at me, I’m in a wheelchair!’ but to meet my date first, let him see that I’m not anything scary. I’m a normal twenty-something girl who happens to be in a wheelchair, and maybe, just maybe, when he gets to know me, the wheelchair won’t seem such a big deal. ‘Trust me, Frankie,’ I’d said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
I received many replies but I liked the look of Julian most. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes and good dress sense. I realise how much I, too, judge on looks and appearance, but then again, that’s all we have to go on initially.
Maybe I should send a text to someone, to look busy?
Now I spot him. He walks straight past the table. Hurriedly I put away my mobile. ‘Julian?’ I call, heart in my mouth as he turns round. He looks at me and then over my shoulder. ‘Julian?’ I say again, smiling.
‘Cass?’ He approaches the table hesitantly.
I think he’s about to kiss my cheek, but then he shakes my hand, feebly.
‘I grabbed a table. It was getting busy.’
He sits down next to me, glances at my wheelchair, looks back at me with an awkward smile, and then, to cap his confusion, Ticket emerges from underneath the table.
‘Oh. This is Ticket.’
‘Right.’ He strokes him, eyes fixed on his purple coat.
Tell him now. Get it over and done with. I explain briefly that I have spinal cord injury and he’s my assistant dog. ‘Anyway,’ I continue, telling myself to act normal, and not to be paranoid about the disappointed look in his eye. I grab the menu. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’ I couldn’t eat a thing.
When a waitress comes to our table I ask for the first thing on the menu, eggs Benedict. Julian asks for a coffee.
‘You’re not having anything to eat?’ I ask, telling myself again not to be paranoid that he wants to leave as quickly as possible. He orders a croissant.
When our food arrives, he eats his croissant quietly, avoiding eye contact.
‘How’s work?’ I ask. How’s work? God, I’m boring.
‘Good.’ He wipes crumbs away from the corner of his mouth and looks around the restaurant as if waiting for someone else to join him.
‘Did you go to that music gig the other weekend?’
He narrows his eyes, as if he can’t remember, when it was all he could talk about over email last week.
‘Kasabian, wasn’t it?’ I continue.
‘Oh yeah, it was cool.’
‘I went to Glastonbury a couple of years ago.’ It makes me think of Sean. ‘Have you been?’ Oh, Cass, you sound as if you’re interviewing him.
‘Yeah. A few times.’
I wait for him to ask me a question. I wait for some time.
‘You didn’t tell me you were in a wheelchair,’ he says, finally, fidgeting with his watchstrap.
I’m about to explain, but then catch him eying up the waitress. ‘Shall we get the bill?’
*
Once the date, if you could call it that, is over and done with, I call Guy on his mobile. It goes straight to his voicemail. I decide to call his parents’. His mother picks up the telephone.
‘Is that Cass?’
‘Hi, Angie. How are you?’
‘Not too bad, thanks.’ She sounds tired. ‘Guy’s not here, my love. I’ve just put him on a train to see Philip.’
Philip is one of Guy’s oldest school friends. He lives in Norfolk.
‘I wasn’t sure he was up to going really, but then again he’s been so down in the dumps what with all the hospital appointments and missing so much of college, so maybe Philip can cheer him up. I’ll tell him you rang. How are you, my love?’
I put the phone down feeling selfish that I wanted to see him to make my day better, but I miss him too and ha
te the idea that he’s suffering. At least he’s with a good friend and not alone. I call Jamie in Madrid. He doesn’t answer. Suddenly I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I switch off my mobile and ask Ticket where we should go. I don’t feel like heading back to the flat yet.
I park my car on one of the side streets off High Street Kensington, telling myself that there are lots of things I can do on a Sunday on my own. I can window shop, grab a late lunch, read the weekend papers, take Ticket for a walk in Hyde Park later this afternoon, before it gets too dark.
I make my way down the High Street, adorned with Christmas lights and decorations, and notice a sign in the window of a bookshop that says Benjamin Gooding is giving a reading at one thirty this afternoon. I look at my watch and see that I’m just in time. I remember Jamie telling me how much he liked this crime writer. I decide to go in and see if I can buy him a signed copy. There are lots of shoppers browsing and many heading upstairs.
‘Excuse me?’ I say to a tall woman with tight blonde curls standing behind the till.
‘Are you here for Benjamin Gooding?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s on the second floor.’
‘Great. Is there a lift?’
She looks at me now. ‘No, sorry. Can you walk at all?’
I shake my head and stare at the stairs.
‘I’m afraid it’s not wheelchair accessible. If only you’d called in advance.’
Ticket and I go to Hyde Park. I park my car in our usual spot, close to the Albert Memorial.
It’s a cold winter’s day and everyone is wrapped up warmly in coats, hats and scarves. As we walk past the Serpentine Gallery, my mind wanders to Charlie. We often come here together on a Sunday afternoon, when Libby has returned to her flat. Charlie laughs at me when I pick up Ticket’s poop. ‘It’s the lowest form of human activity, Cass,’ he once said.
By My Side Page 19