What Doesn't Kill You

by Laura E. James

  ‘Will someone tell me who Evie is?’ Imogen climbed down from the stool and approached the window.

  Griff rammed his fingers through his hair, called Ozzy to his side, and encouraged Honey to get off his coat. He picked it up and shook it out. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Olivia.’ Bewildered, he shoved his arms into the sleeves, threw the hood up and seized the door handle. ‘Evie’s my wife,’ he said, heading out into the rain.

  The ferocity of the wind and the sheer force of the rain drove Griff and Imogen into joining the would-be beach walkers in the warm and dry Harbour Inn. They struggled to find two seats together. Bagging a small table next to the wood burner, Griff stole a stool from the bar and passed it to Imogen.

  ‘My second of the day,’ she said, glancing through the far porthole window.

  Griff followed her gaze. Olivia’s blue shop stood out against the grey horizon.

  With the dogs settled in front of the fire, and drinks on the way, he perched on the table, keeping one foot on the floor. ‘Would you prefer to stand?’

  Imogen smiled. ‘No. The stool is fine, thank you. Just making an observation. Like your friend over there.’

  ‘Olivia’s one of the good guys. She was looking out for me. Don’t take the things she said personally.’

  ‘Hard not to when she was so rude.’

  ‘Not rude. Direct. There’s a difference.’ Griff stood as the landlady delivered two full glasses of fruit juice and an oversized packet of crisps. He nodded his thanks. ‘And I’m all for being direct.’ He popped open the packet and offered the contents to Imogen.

  ‘So you won’t mind telling me about Evie?’ she said, freeing a large, heart-shaped crisp from the bag and holding it up. ‘Is she the love of your life?’

  As a customer left his place at the bar, Griff whipped away the vacated stool, and claimed it as his own. He placed it next to Imogen and sat down. ‘I met her at the Christmas swim three years ago. Turned out we were both raising money for the hospice.’

  Imogen’s questioning eyes brought him to an abrupt halt. He shouldn’t have mentioned the hospice. It was the wrong time to discuss his mother’s death. He pushed on. ‘Evie was a new volunteer there.’ As he spoke he visualised the moment he first saw Evie – she was dressed as an angel, with a golden halo above her head and a plume of white feathers for wings attached to her back. Her emerald eyes dazzled him and her commitment to a cause so close to his heart touched him.

  ‘We married eighteen months later.’ He tipped a handful of crisps into his mouth, providing a brief respite from the conversation. He wanted time to enjoy his memories – memories of when he and Evie found time for romantic dinners, soppy films, late nights and long lie-ins.

  There was no stealthy drive-by sex in the early days.

  Griff dropped the crisp packet onto the table, picked up his glass and downed the juice. He returned it to the table, leaving his hand resting there.

  Life was different now. Logan demanded Evie’s time. Dylan needed his mum. Tess … Tess had changed. Since the split, she’d become unsettled – a natural reaction to a family breakdown, Griff accepted that, but he had the notion there was something more affecting her. If he could get to the bottom of it, he would, but he hadn’t felt able to ask, and she never turned to him for help. In fact, no one did. Not any more. And no one told him how they were or what they’d been up to, or even asked how he was. Occasionally Evie sent a text if it was too awkward for Griff to visit Dylan, and Tess would make him the odd cup of tea in the evening before he returned to his flat, but other than that, he was surplus to requirements.

  ‘You mentioned you have a daughter.’ Imogen nudged his fingers. ‘You said she has better manners than me.’

  ‘I may have exaggerated,’ said Griff, setting aside his thoughts. ‘Tess. She’s fifteen. She’s Evie’s daughter.’

  ‘A ready-made family.’

  Griff watched as Imogen traced the outline of his hand. She appeared to be doing it in a moment of absent-mindedness. Her glassy eyes, as blue as Zircon, suggested her mind was somewhere other than in the room. Griff left his hand in situ. ‘We made one of our own, as well. Dylan. He was two at Christmas.’

  ‘Dylan? That’s a good Welsh name. Not forgotten your roots, then?’

  She was back, the energy restored and burning bright.

  ‘So, what keeps you busy?’ Griff steered the conversation away from Welsh connections before Imogen asked after his mother. ‘Trips abroad?’

  Now with her arms steepled, Imogen was supporting her chin on her hands. Her skin was bronzed, and her third finger was devoid of a telltale white stripe where a wedding band could reside.

  ‘Not unless you count Glastonbury as abroad?’ She smiled, then lowered her head. ‘What made you ask?’

  Griff poked at his empty glass. ‘You have a healthy glow.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Imogen laughed, reclined and dropped her hands into her lap. ‘It’s out of a bottle. Much safer that way.’

  ‘True.’ Fake or not, a tan suited her. ‘Is that where you’ve been living? Glastonbury?’

  ‘Yes. Once Dad left, and Mum and I reached that level of life I mentioned, we decided to move away. Leave behind the bad memories. Start again.’ Imogen stood and pointed at the bar. ‘Another juice, or should we have something more adult?’

  The offer was tempting. A drink with his best mate’s sister was more than Griff had believed possible. The last time that had happened, he’d bought Imogen a can of cream soda. It was her favourite drink back then. ‘Nice idea, but I’m driving home after.’

  ‘You need to live a little.’ Imogen tutted, deposited the glasses on the bar, and returned to her stool. ‘I learned not to be so hard on myself when I was in Glastonbury. I met some really good people. They took me under their wing and opened my mind to a whole alternative way of life.’

  ‘How alternative?’

  Imogen’s eyes widened. ‘Within the law alternative. What do you take me for?’ She reached for her bag, which she’d left at the foot of the table. ‘Here.’ From an opened pocket on the front, Imogen produced a small, white business card and handed it to Griff. ‘I came back home to Dorset to set up my own business. I’m a holistic practitioner. I specialise in massage. You should come for a session. It would loosen you up. You could bring Evie.’

  ‘I’m not sure that would work.’

  Imogen sighed, put her bag on the table and appeared to be making preparations to leave. ‘We were doing so well. We’d even mentioned Kieran without either of us getting defensive.’ Climbing back off her stool, she looped her coat from its hook and took up Honey’s lead.

  Griff clamped his hand down on the bag. ‘We are doing well.’ He wasn’t allowing the new honesty and the open lines of communication to break. Not now. Not after it had taken twenty-four years to establish them. ‘I meant I don’t think I could persuade Evie to come along.’

  Imogen threw on her mac, and glowered at Griff. ‘I was extending the hand of friendship, not suggesting a threesome.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Griff said. ‘I’d love to see how you’ve set yourself up.’ It gave him comfort to know one area of Imogen’s life was working out. ‘It’s Evie.’ He stared at the small, round table. ‘We’re …’ He searched the mahogany swirls for the right word. All he could see was Evie’s face morphing out from the patina. ‘I don’t know what we are. Giving each other space? Separated?’ He rubbed his thumb over the ribbon-like stains masquerading as Evie’s hair. ‘Estranged?’

  He caught sight of Imogen’s coat-tail gliding back in his direction and he drew his eyes away from the table. She had retaken her seat.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A couple of months.’

  ‘Why?’

  A half-laugh escaped from Griff. ‘I don’t know. It was so sudden.’

  Imogen pulled her stool tight to the table, her scowl lost its hard edges, and her brow lifted. ‘You asked, though? And got no answer?’ She nodded as if anticipating Griff
’s reply. ‘I had similar happen to me. I was madly in love with a man I met in Glastonbury. I thought he was serious, thought we were going somewhere, I’d even booked a holiday for us both in Italy, then bam! Roll credits. No explanation, no apology, no last kiss, just goodbye. It’s a wicked thing to do to another human being.’ Her lips pressed together. ‘It’s cowardly. You wouldn’t do it, would you?’

  Griff swished his hand across the table. ‘Well, no, but that’s not how it happened with Evie.’ He wasn’t at all comfortable with Imogen comparing his wife to her loser lover. ‘Evie’s not a coward.’

  Imogen shrugged. ‘I’m not judging. I’m empathising with your situation. Letting you know you can talk to me. I’m discreet. Everything you say will remain with me.’

  As she leaned back and crossed her legs, her foot brushed against Griff’s ankle. The whisper of a connection reminded him why he was with her, and it wasn’t to talk through his marital problems.

  ‘I appreciate the offer, I do, but I’m not in the habit of discussing my private life.’ He retracted his legs, safeguarding them under his stool. ‘There’s not much to tell you, anyway.’ The truth was he’d not reached any real conclusions as to why he found himself living alone in a cramped flat in the middle of town. ‘I have asked Evie why, but she’s as elusive as you.’ He skimmed his finger through a ring of condensation on the table. ‘At least you and I are finally talking.’ He stole at look at Imogen. Her head was tilted to the side and a smile was teetering on her lips. Her eyes gave it balance.

  ‘Lord, for your sake, let’s hope she comes round sooner than me.’ She gave Griff’s forearm a squeeze, left her hand there, then adopted a pensive expression. ‘Have you told your parents about Evie? Only I find myself wondering about them. Why it is you’ve not mentioned them.’

  Slipping free from Imogen’s touch, Griff weaved his fingers together, and rested his arms along his thighs. It seemed there was no avoiding the subject of his mother’s death, but he could spare Imogen the details. ‘I lost my mum six years ago. Cancer.’

  ‘Oh. Not Marilyn?’ Imogen shrunk back, her slight frame almost collapsing in on itself. ‘That’s a horrible disease. How did you get through it?’

  There was a leading question. ‘I’m not sure we did.’ Griff revised his statement. ‘I’m not sure I have. Dad made his peace at the time.’

  ‘And how is Logan?’ Imogen flinched; an indication she was expecting more bad news.

  ‘He’s still with us.’ Griff smiled and rubbed his hands together in an attempt to lighten the mood. ‘He’s not as mobile as he used to be, but there’s nothing wrong with his brain.’

  ‘Still opinionated?’ Imogen’s spirit returned to the room. ‘I remember Logan very clearly. Strong, independent, in charge of his own destiny. He and my dad loved a good old debate. Do you see much of him?’

  ‘Not a great deal.’ Griff’s stomach tensed at the admission. ‘Evie’s always asking me to go, and I should, I know, but we’d end up arguing.’ He could list a multitude of half-truths for his neglect of Logan – moving out of the marital home, juggling Dylan’s care, working extra shifts … but the one that trumped them all – the one Griff kept to himself – was the fear his ingrained sense of betrayal would drive him into hating his own father. Staying away prevented that from happening. ‘Not sure I’m up for the confrontation,’ he said, leaning forward onto the table.

  Imogen matched his posture, enclosing them in an intimate and private bubble. She shimmied her coat off her shoulders and as it fell and draped the stool, a wisp of fresh, sweet orange danced its way up. Griff hadn’t noticed it earlier – not even when he’d hugged Imogen. The rain and damp must have stifled it, he reasoned, not to mention the awkwardness of the moment. But it was out there now, free and uninhibited, and injecting him with an unexpected shot of pleasure. Inappropriate as his arousal was, the scent’s appeal drew him closer still. ‘Nice perfume,’ he said, his breath causing the delicate strands of Imogen’s hair to billow.

  She gathered them up and tucked them behind her ears. ‘Does Logan know about you and Evie?’

  Brutally yanked back to the topic in hand, Griff refocused. ‘I haven’t told him,’ he said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Imogen narrowed her eyes and inched even nearer.

  ‘It means if he does know, it hasn’t come from me. Can you imagine the fallout?’

  ‘What about Evie?’ Imogen asked. ‘Would she tell Logan? And don’t you think it should come from you?’

  With the constant firing of questions, Griff’s gentle arousal waned, allowing his usual common sense and good judgement room to manoeuvre. ‘I don’t remember you being this challenging as a child.’

  Imogen pulled back her shoulders, and resumed her hands-in-lap pose. ‘Oh, I think I was, but as you’re well aware, I’m no longer a child.’

  The stiffening of her back gave a defined elegance to her slim outline and the positioning of her arms framed her breasts, giving them a prominence that pushed Griff into turning away. He stared into the flames of the wood burner. It was an uncomfortable sensation realising he could feel something sexual for Imogen, however brief or subtle, and there was no excuse for his behaviour.

  Exhaling noisily, he reclined, extended his arms to their full length and flexed and tensed new life into them. ‘Evie could have told him,’ he said, settling his hands on top of his head. ‘She spends lots of time there. She’s his carer. And yes, it should come from me.’

  ‘Are you likely to run into her at your dad’s?’

  ‘That’s always a possibility, but she tends to go in at the same times each day –mealtimes, mainly.’ Griff cocked his head and looked at Imogen. ‘Why d’you ask?’

  She was gazing down at the sleeping dogs. ‘Just curious.’ She paused, raised a hand as if she had something to add, and then shook her head. ‘I think it’s time my kidnapped dog and I left. I’m glad we managed to talk. Perhaps we can meet again?’ She smiled, hopped off her stool and picked up her coat. ‘With less drama next time. You made a note of my number.’ As she rattled Honey’s lead, the dog opened an eye and yawned, clearly planning on not moving anything but her mouth and tail. ‘Come on, girl. Time to go.’ Imogen attached the lead to the collar, and gave a gentle pull of encouragement. ‘She is so stubborn.’

  ‘You could let sleeping dogs lie.’ Griff produced his best innocent face.

  ‘Like you’ve done with your father?’ Imogen cast a look over her shoulder. ‘If I’ve learnt anything today, it’s that facing difficult situations head-on can produce positive outcomes. If you and I can make progress in burying the hatchet, speaking to your father will be a walk in the park.’ She returned to goading Honey into action and when she finally had her up and alert, they headed for the door.

  As the freezing gust of wind swept in, it delivered Imogen’s parting words.

  ‘I can come with you. If you like.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tess

  It’s Logan’s birthday tomorrow. March twenty-eighth. He’s seventy-five. Mum took Dylan and me to see him at the weekend, but I guess when you reach that age, birthday gatherings are more hassle than pleasure. He barely spoke. He thanked me for his card and chocolate orange, and muttered a few words to Mum, but other than that, nothing.

  He looks frailer each time we visit. I’m surprised at how quickly he’s declined. Mum hasn’t mentioned anything particular about his health, but for the last month she’s spent more daylight hours with Logan than she has with us.

  School was a drag today. I was dealing with the fallout from a nasty incident yesterday. I’m glad to be home. It would’ve been nice to have Mum here for more than five minutes before she dashed out, issuing instructions as to what to feed Dylan. A two-year-old is hardly up for dinner conversation about GCSEs or exploring why Griff and Mum have fallen out. I snort. Even Mum’s not up for discussing that, saying these things happen in marriages. I’m not convinced. She says all these brave things, but I know she’s
bluffing. It’s obvious she’s unhappy without Griff.

  It’s his birthday soon, too. I’ve bought his card already. It’s in the shape of an electric guitar. I saw some with step-dad on the front, but I’ve never given him one like that.

  He’ll be forty. I suppose that warrants me thinking of him as Griff. That and because he’s being a decent father to Dylan. It must be awkward, coming to your own home to visit your son. This cottage was Griff’s place long before he met Mum. I can’t help feeling it should be us that moves out, not Griff. I don’t actually know why anyone has to move out.

  I resolve to tackle Mum about it when she comes home.

  ‘Spaghetti, Dylan?’ His brown eyes grow large at the ‘s’ word. He loves pasta, especially the messy sort. It’s not what Mum’s told me to give him, but unlike her, I’ve got time to make it and time to clear up afterwards. I pull up my sleeves, run the kitchen tap and wash my hands, gritting my teeth as the soap creeps into a new cut on my wrist.

  I’d been clean for almost a month, pushing my limits every day. Just get through the night, I’d said to myself. Eat breakfast, walk to the bus stop, make it to the tutor room – every step taking me further away from the last time I’d self-harmed. I’ve been avoiding triggers, but yesterday was tough.

  Since Griff moved out, our days have started before Breakfast TV. With Mum helping Logan first thing every morning, I’m left to sort out myself and Dylan. Yesterday, I was ready to leave for school when Mum returned from Logan’s. Her eyes were red. She told me she’d been rubbing them and spouted some rubbish about it being the hay fever season. She’s never had hay fever in her life. She asked me if Dylan had been good, and made sure we’d both eaten. I’d made scrambled eggs on toast, which Dylan had wolfed down, and I’d put him back to bed for a snooze. Mum kissed me, thanked me and waved me off. As soon as the front door closed, I heard her cry out.

  ‘Ghetti!’ Dylan’s hooked himself around my legs, and is yanking at my jeans. I pick him up, wriggle him into his booster seat and pass him a Noddy book to occupy him while I sort out the spaghetti. Fibres from my sleeve catch and chafe the extremes of my cut. This one needs a larger covering.