Gravitate

by Jo Duchemin

  Gravitate

  By Jo Duchemin

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2012 Jo Duchemin

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  Cover design by Laura Mills

  Edited by Kim Ashman

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  For Richard, Su and Kim.

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  Prologue

  STUDENT LODGER REQUIRED

  OWN ROOM, OWN BATHROOM

  ALL RATES INCLUDED

  ONE OTHER STUDENT IN HOUSE

  £350 PER MONTH

  I looked at the advert. They weren’t my words, but it was my advert. I didn’t want someone living in my house. I didn’t want to live with other people. In all honesty, I didn’t want to live.

  My parents had been killed ten weeks previously and I wanted to be dead with them. What did I have to live for now?

  Chapter 1

  I know most teenagers wouldn’t admit this: I got on well with both my parents. I’d planned to go to our local university after completing my A levels for two reasons. One, because it was cheaper than going away to university; and two, because I actually liked living with my parents – I knew they would still let me have a normal student experience. Nothing was normal now.

  Mum and Dad had only gone out for a quick dinner. Just down to the local restaurant. It was maybe a five minute drive at most. We’d been there many times. The only reason I hadn’t gone was because I had one of my exams the next day, so I stayed home and studied. That exam saved my life and ended my reason for living in the same move.

  It got late, but I was still up, poring over books, when there was a ring on the doorbell. Like I’d always been told, I had put the safety chain over the door when my parents left and when I heard the doorbell I was very much on edge. My parents had always let me know when they were on the way home, so why would someone ring the bell if nothing was wrong?

  My instinct served me well. The two policemen at the door stood with severe expressions on their faces.

  I knew then.

  The words they said didn’t matter. I can’t even recall the exact words. What I can recall is the thundering in my chest, the shake of my hands and the feeling of dizziness as the realisation that my parents were dead hit me. I could hear the men talking, but I couldn’t take the words in. They were just words. They had no meaning. Nothing had a meaning now. My two best friends in the world had gone. I was alone.

  The next few weeks went by in a haze. Not just because I was self-medicating with red wine, but because I was so busy. I should have been on study leave and then summer holidays, instead I found myself at the police station, the solicitors, the funeral parlour and the off-licence. It was just as well I was kept busy, because the silence of our empty home would drive anyone to drink. Or worse. I didn’t turn to the worse, one thought of my poor, dead mother watching me shoot up was enough to stop me in my tracks, but I would have tried anything to fill the empty space in my heart.

  It had turned out that the driver who had wiped out my dad’s rock of a Volvo had been off his head on drugs, uninsured and disqualified from driving for previous offences. He’d decided to overtake a tractor on a single carriageway, plunging head first into my parents’ car. They never stood a chance. Neither did he. It had been a lose-lose situation. The tractor driver had been the first on the scene and immediately called the emergency services. I hated to think what he had seen. The image of it would flash into my mind and the tears would form in my eyes, forcing me to reach for the Cabernet Sauvignon. Anything to avoid that vision in my head.

  My school teachers were brilliant about the whole situation. As I had wanted to attend the local university, they were able to work out a deal, sending my mock exam transcripts as proof of my ‘academic ability’ in light of my exceptional circumstances. Personally, I would have relished the chance to attempt my exams as a light diversion from the personal darkness my life had become. The head-teacher had told me firmly that I didn’t have to worry myself with the triviality of my exams. I took that to mean my presence would divert my fellow students from the task of getting good grades for our school. Who could expect them to concentrate with the distraction of me, the tragic orphan, in the exam room?

  Our rambling, five-bedroom, detached house felt too empty for an eighteen year old. I considered having a party, but I hated the thought of my parents’ possessions being handled, moved and possibly destroyed by outsiders. My mum’s sister, my Aunt Jessie, was living in Australia. My dad’s sister, my Aunt Sandra, was very supportive, but busy with her own family of five children. They lived a two hour drive away, and although she had offered to come and stay with me at first, I didn’t feel comfortable about pulling her away from her own kids. Her youngest was only four years old, so I’d lied to her and said I had company here. The truth was, I’d never felt more alone. All the people I knew had someone more important than me in their lives. I wasn’t the centre of anyone’s universe anymore.

  My best friends did come over for the first few nights after it happened. I think they were scared to leave me alone. We checked and double-checked the doors. We’d had so many sleep-overs before, but we’d always expected my parents to come home. They were never coming home again.

  Three nights in, I was on my own. My friends made excuses. They needed to wash clothes, their parents were worried, they needed to study. I knew the real reason. They didn’t know what to say to the new orphan. I no longer fitted into their world. Where they fought with their parents, I never would. Where their parents disapproved of their choices, mine never would. Where they turned to their parents for guidance, I never could.

  On my own, everything became more real. When my friends were with me to distract me from my sadness, my feelings were muffled, hushed, in the background. When I was on my own, I couldn’t ignore the reality of my situation; it haunted me. The wind would rattle against the French doors and scare me. The phone would ring, but I wouldn’t want to talk to anyone; it would make the pain too real. The TV would be on, but I didn’t see it – I avoided anything that could remind me that my parents were dead.

  So I stayed in our perfect suburban house: the perfect family house, without the family. I started sleeping in my parents’ bedroom, where the sheets still had a faint smell of my mum’s perfume and my dad’s watch sat on his bedside table (he always took it off after work – off the clock, he used to say). Getting up every morning seemed to be an increasingly difficult struggle. What did I have to live for? No brothers or sisters, Mum and Dad dead, blood relatives living miles away. I felt like crying out for someone to live for. I felt so alone.

  I considered getting a pet but I could barely take care of myself. If I knew nobody was coming to visit, to offer the sympathetic head tilt and to make me a cup of tea, I’d spend all day in my pyjamas, waiting until 2pm to crack open a bottle of wine from my parents’ cellar and retire back to bed.

  At only eighteen, I felt my life was over. I could see everything I’d ever cared for slipping away, yet I felt nothing. My parents had good life insurance. The house was mine and paid outright. There was enough to pay for my university fees. I wouldn’t need for anything in life. Except a reason to keep going.

  It was my Aunt Sandra who snapped me out of it. She came
over, unannounced, at 4pm on a Wednesday. I was in my bed (well, my parents’ bed really) halfway through a very nice bottle of Merlot. When the bell rang, at first I felt ashamed. Who is in their bed, in pyjamas, drinking wine at 4pm on a Wednesday? And then I remembered, both my parents, the most precious people I knew, were dead, so I had my excuse. It was pretty fool-proof when people knocked on the door. Nobody ever picked on someone so obviously in mourning.

  Except Aunt Sandra. As I creaked open the door, ready to vent a torrent of mournful abuse, I did not expect to see her there. The words I’d been preparing to hurl at some unsuspecting postman stuck in my throat. The tears formed in my eyes. This woman was mourning her brother. She knew some of my pain.

  “Hi, kid,” Sandra said, sounding more like my father than I’d remembered.

  “What are you doing here?” I sounded strange, even to my own ears.

  “I heard you needed someone to talk to, can I come in?” Sandra came inside the house without waiting for an invitation. That was the thing about my Aunt Sandra, if she was needed, she was there, regardless of formalities.

  “So,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the dishevelled creature I’d become, “I hear you’re getting pretty well acquainted with the contents of your parents’ wine cellar.” I wondered if she could smell my breath. I spotted her mentally noting my pyjamas and un-brushed hair.

  “It’s my wine cellar now,” I answered with a defiant raise of my chin.

  “Yeah, whatever you say,” Aunt Sandra said, dismissively. “The point is this: would your parents be proud of you?”

  “They were proud before they left.”

  “But would they be proud now?”

  “They shouldn’t have left.” My voice cracked on the words.

  “They weren’t given a choice.” Aunt Sandra’s eyes shone with unshed tears.

  I could feel myself crumbling. The bravado, the drinking, was just a crutch. I melted in to my aunt’s arms.

  “I don’t know what to do.” I whispered the words, afraid to make them true.

  “Don’t give up.” Sandra held me close. She rubbed her hand on my arm, the way my dad had always done when I’d hurt myself as a child.

  “Aunt Sandra, I’m only eighteen, I can’t even drive yet – I’m not a real adult.”

  “But you can drink, vote, own property – you can choose a life that is right for you.” Sandra stroked my hair as she spoke.

  “I just want my parents back,” I sobbed the words out, my voice broken, like my heart.

  “Honey, that isn’t going to happen. But you know they wouldn’t have wanted to leave you, not for anything. Especially not on your own. Do you know how badly they wanted to give you a brother or sister?”

  “They did? They never mentioned it. Never.”

  “When you were young, they went through so much with the doctors. It just didn’t happen though. This was their nightmare: to see you left alone. That’s why I’m here. You need company, and I can’t be here all the time, so I’m going to help you make a plan.” Her eyes were serious, and I knew I had no choice, so I didn’t bother to argue.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I think you need a flatmate, another student to share this house with you – it isn’t such a hardship – you’ve moved into your mum and dad’s room, so you have an en-suite, and your lodger can have her own bedroom and bathroom. The money would help you with ongoing expenses and they would give you some company.”

  “A flatmate? Like some old mature student keeping tabs on me and reporting back to you? My parents wouldn’t ever do that to me!” I was infuriated at her suggestion.

  “No, not like that, you could pick the person. It just has to be someone you’re comfortable with. Anything to make sure you don’t fall any further into this depression.”

  I could see the concern in Sandra’s face, the worry she carried in her shoulders. It wasn’t fair of me to increase her anxiety. I wrote the advert with her sitting beside me, both of us in tears.

  I put the advert in the paper with the hope of getting a female lodger – well actually, I’d hoped for no lodger at all, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  Several students answered my advert. Rental wise, I’d been lucky with the timing. The new semester started in September and my advert ran in early August. Also, the new halls of residence that were meant to be built by the university had overrun on their building schedule and wouldn’t be complete until Christmas. Perhaps that was why the university were so keen to keep my place open despite my personal problems. There was a definitive shortage of student lettings in our town, and I had a prime spot for a potential renter.

  I’d read through all the applications of the people that asked to let my spare room and there were two I favoured. Claire was a maths student who, from her application, kept a low profile and enjoyed Sudoku. Julia was studying English and liked watching chick-flicks. They both sounded like girls I could live with.

  However, strangely, they both found places to live the day before Aunt Sandra and I were due to interview them. Together. As had all the other applicants but one. Marty Glean. He was a fourth year medical student. I argued for over an hour with Aunt Sandra that he must be a loser. Who managed to get through three years of university without making enough friends to find someone to live with? He truly must be a loser – some skinny, spotty nerd who would make my life hell. My words had hung in the air as a confident knock rattled on the door.

  Aunt Sandra got up and let him in. Thank God, as I would have probably fainted at the sight that entered the room. Tall, well-built, light brown hair with blue eyes and thick, full lips. A rugby player’s build, but he’d clearly never taken a hit to that beautiful face in his life. He smiled as he entered the room, revealing perfect dimples on his cheeks and teeth that even a dentist would kill for. I’d never seen a more attractive person.

  “You’re Marty Glean?” My voice sounded squeaky and young, even to my own ears. Aunt Sandra indicated that he should sit down and she started pouring out tea.

  “Yes. I bet you’re wondering how someone manages to get through three years of university without making enough friends to find someone to live with; he must be a loser, right?” His voice, unlike mine, was smooth and lilting, his tone friendly, his blue eyes sparkling.

  I stuttered and turned red. “Well, I was curious. You’ve been here for three years, why aren’t you living with a friend?”

  He smiled sweetly, like he knew my thoughts. “The strangest thing happened: my two flatmates fell in love and before they knew it, they were having a baby of their own. I felt it was only fair to give them space, let them adjust to this wonderful change in their own lives. I’m told that sort of love can be all encompassing. It was right to let them experience that without my trespass.” He stared right at me, as though he knew I had belittled the thought of a student who needed to rent a room from a first year. “What are you studying, Claudia?”

  Now it was my turn to feel belittled – this beautiful man was going to be a doctor and save lives. My voice sounded almost ashamed as I answered:

  “Drama and English.”

  “That sounds interesting – I do adore poetry, especially Blake. ‘Once a dream did weave a shade’ – you know that one? It’s one of my favourites.”

  I shook my head, not wanting to embark on a discussion of poetry.

  “Shame. Blake was such an interesting soul, having visions and…”

  “So you know why I am looking for a flatmate, then.” I rudely interrupted him, not wishing to listen to him talk about a dead poet.

  “Your aunt told me on the phone. You need company, your parents died tragically, and there is a worry that you will get lonely without another person in the house.” His statement ripped through me, even though there wasn’t a hint of antagonism in his voice, merely fact.

  “That pretty much sums it up.
You have your own room, own bathroom. We share the downstairs. The third floor is out of your bounds. Is that OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, OK then.”

  And that was it, I had a new flatmate.

  In the first few days, I didn’t see that much of Marty. He came and went without much noise. On the odd occasions where I did encounter him, he would try to make pleasant conversation with me and I would respond in vague grunts, not wishing to engage in small talk with him. I resented his presence, viewing him as a constant reminder that my parents no longer lived here. I didn’t want to get to know him, because I didn’t want him to be in my house. He seemed quick to pick up on my wish to isolate myself. He only tried to talk me in to going out of the house once. On that occasion, I’d ended up in the kitchen at the same time as him.

  “Hello, Claudia.” Marty smiled warmly at me, as I walked into the room. The moment before he spoke, I had considered returning to my room and coming back later to avoid talking to him – even in my short-tempered state, I wasn’t bitchy enough to leave now he’d spoken.

  “Hi.” I kept my eyes down, striding past him and grabbing a mug from the cupboard.

  “Are you having tea? I’ll make a pot for us to share.” Marty flicked the kettle on.

  “I’m having coffee.” I had actually wanted tea, but I didn’t want to spend time with him.

  “Are you busy this afternoon?” Marty seemed to be immune to my attempts to shut down the conversation. He looked at me, managing to catch my eye. I wanted to look away, yet somehow his blue eyes held my gaze and I felt unable to break away from his stare. I almost forgot to reply to his question.

  “Why?” I finally muttered.

  “I wondered if you wanted to come to the rowing club – they’re preparing for a competition, it can be very exciting to watch.” His eyes stayed locked on mine, and I struggled to say no to him. I finally snapped out of the stupor his eyes had put me under.