The Man I Loved Before: A completely gripping and heart-wrenching page turner

by Anna Mansell

  ‘This too shall pass,’ I say, giving her a hug before heading into the kitchen to make tea.

  ‘Indeed. How you doing?’

  ‘Do you want my polite answer or the truth?’

  ‘Always the truth.’

  ‘Middling to shit. I thought I was doing okay, then Mitch rocked up last night and although I handled it, it’s just made me realise what a mess I made of things before and how I wish I had a second chance.’

  ‘A second chance for what?’

  ‘To say sorry.’

  ‘Oh, we’re not going through that again. I mean, granted, he’s not in Cornwall any more, but you really need to let that all go. Stop beating yourself up about it.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I think before, I was saying sorry because I wanted forgiveness, but it’s not like that this time. I don’t need his forgiveness… I don’t even need Kate’s forgiveness.’

  ‘You never needed her forgiveness.’

  ‘No. But I felt like I couldn’t move on without it. Whereas now…’

  ‘Now?’

  I pass her a mug of tea and we head back through to the lounge.

  ‘Now, I want to say sorry and own what I did. I want to be honest and just explain it.’

  ‘Who too?’

  ‘Ben, for one. Not about the past, but the letter. And the text messages Mitch sent. I just want him to know it wasn’t me. I mean, on that one, it’s not that I need his forgiveness as such, I’m working on that for myself. But it kinda is important to me that he doesn’t think I’m a total shit. I mean, those photos were a low blow.’

  ‘Ben came to the funeral.’

  ‘That was for Mum. He wasn’t there for me.’

  ‘He talked to you. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have made time to speak with you. He’d have shown his respects and then left quietly.’

  I blow across the top of my peppermint tea.

  ‘Are you drinking peppermint tea again?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s up with normal tea?’

  ‘Caffeine, isn’t it? It’s not good for you.’

  ‘It is when you’ve a teasy baby.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine in those circumstances it’s essential. I just decided to give up stuff that was bad for me. So, I’m off caffeine, and I’m thinking about dropping meat too.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘And dairy.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Well, I just keep thinking, here I am, trying to get rid of stress. Trying to practise mindfulness, trying to—’

  ‘Don’t say trying to be a better person!’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m lovely as I am; no, just trying to be kinder. Gentler. I feel like I need to roll that out across everything.’

  ‘So long as you don’t go getting all hempy on me. Or start lecturing me whenever I eat a cheese sandwich. Or a bacon sandwich.’

  ‘It’s fine, I won’t. I don’t care what you do, I’m just thinking of me. But in a good way.’

  ‘Wow. There’s a turn up for the books.’

  ‘I know, right?’

  * * *

  We chat, we laugh, we put the world to rights. She realises she’s almost late for Harley’s pick-up and legs it, double quick, consumed by maternal guilt. Waving her off, I glance up the road to see if Mitch’s – or should I say, Lisa’s – car is there, relieved that it’s not. Maybe this time he got the message. And if he doesn’t, I will definitely call the police.

  The house quiet again, I head up to my room, digging through my drawers to find writing paper. The Moomin set is sandwiched between an old magazine and a note from Mum. I pick it up, studying her handwriting. A note to herself, a shopping list with Cole’s as the title: winter dress, midi, polo neck jumper, cardigan, something nice for Jem. The memory of our last ever shopping trip; a day so clear in my mind, the look on her face, the smile, the laughter, it’s like a tsunami wave of grief crashes over my heart as it does each time I’m met with a new memory, a new reminder of who she was and what she meant to me. I breathe slowly, calmly, letting the emotions roll and wave until they settle, as they always do, until I can breathe through them and regain composure. I remind myself that it’s precious to have her handwriting. That it connects me to her and I wouldn’t ever get rid of it, but as I hold it, I realise it will never replace the conversations we had. The words exchanged, sometimes cross, often full of love. Warmth. Humour, so much humour.

  Talking was the thing that saw us through her illness. Talking was the thing that saw us through our hardest years after Dad left. When hormones raged through my fifteen-year-old body, talking was the thing that kept me alive. And she taught me how to do that, how to own what I want to say. She taught me that honesty and authenticity was the only way. It took me too long to fully catch on, to really let go and be okay with all that I feel, but I did. And I did before she went. Sometimes, I wonder if she knew I’d got there, at the eleventh hour. And when I do wonder, my heart is overwhelmed with a certainty, a feeling. And though she is so far away, although she’s gone, a voice in my head says, ‘I knew.’

  So I pick up the phone and call Ben.

  84

  ‘Thanks for meeting me,’ I say, standing up, wondering if I should go to give him a kiss or not.

  ‘It was nice to hear from you.’ He sits down. He’s not cold, or distant for that matter, but he’s buttoned up. At the funeral, he took my hand, today he holds himself close.

  ‘Did you want a drink?’

  ‘Tea. Please. Thanks.’

  ‘Okay, just a minute.’

  I go up to the counter to order. I’d thought twice about coming to Ferndale Garden Centre. I’ve not been back since that day with Mum and Mitch when Mum was poorly and Mitch gave me the phone. I didn’t want to relive that memory, yet I didn’t want somewhere so important to me and Mum to be tarnished by it either. Facing stuff head on isn’t easy, but I think I’m glad I’m here.

  ‘They’ll bring it over,’ I say, dropping the receipt on the table as I sit down.

  ‘Great.’

  We fall silent and my heart lurches. This was a good idea, I know it was, but I’m terrified. ‘How’ve you been? Did you find any work?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. I’m working down at Clark’s Engineering on the machines. The money’s alright and I’m just glad to be working.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know…’ I move out of the way for the waitress to set our drinks down. ‘Thank you,’ I say, pulling my teapot towards me, stirring the pot as I talk. ‘I’m okay. Still pushing through paperwork and stuff. There’s a lot to do, isn’t there.’

  ‘There is. I think that’s the worst bit. When you want to cry or scream or shout but you can’t because some bank wants you to be a grown-up about accounts and savings.’

  ‘Yeah… Mum was pretty good, left most things organised.’

  ‘Lists?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He sips at his drink, looking around the room. ‘Jem, what are we doing here?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I wanted to apologise.’ I see his body sag a little, which dents my confidence. ‘Not because I’m trying to get you to accept my apology and for everything to be okay again. I just feel like before, the letter and grand gesture where I rocked up in Cornwall, it was all misguided. I thought I was doing the right thing, but it was for all the wrong reasons and I want to put that right. If I can.’

  ‘You know, you’re not the only one to blame about things between us. This isn’t your entire responsibility to fix.’

  ‘I think it’s mostly me that was to blame. I was the one that did all those things. I was the one to make all the mistakes. I was the one who lied.’

  He puts his drink down. ‘I’ve lied too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know what was in the letter. I read the text message, the photos.’ My mouth falls open, my heart stops. ‘It’s why I came back.�
��

  ‘But… why didn’t you…?’

  ‘I was going to. When I saw you at the funeral, I wanted to say it then but it wasn’t the right place. I feel like you’ve been wearing this guilt, you’ve been cloaked in it for so long and I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t know how to make you see this wasn’t entirely of your making. I didn’t know how to tell you that apologising to me was your first mistake.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jem, do you still have the letter? Have you read it?’ I picture the tiny pieces of it nestled in the envelope, cast aside in the bin as Mitch glared. ‘No. I don’t have it.’

  ‘Can you remember what was in it?’

  ‘Of course I can. I wrote it. I remember everything, I’ve bloody lived it.’

  ‘You have. But… I think you’ve lived it from a position of blame. You’ve decided those things were your fault and you were intent on self-destruct. You always were, and I know why that was. I always understood where it came from but I just couldn’t live with it any more. I loved you, I had to walk away.’

  He loved me. Past tense.

  ‘Your ex-colleague had no right to come round to our house and shame you into doing what you did.’

  ‘Leanne said the same, but at the end of the day, I could have said no.’

  ‘Could you? Could you really have said no? Did you really believe you had that choice?’

  I think back to the night in question, the feeling that I had no choice but to go along with what was expected. And I feel sad for the me that couldn’t find the strength to say no. To invite him to leave.

  ‘And the baby.’

  I look anywhere but at him because I can’t bear to see the hurt in his eyes.

  ‘You had a miscarriage, they happen all the time. Your drinking may not have been the cause.’

  ‘But what if it had been?’

  ‘But what if it hadn’t…?’

  I reach into my bag, pulling out a tissue to catch the tears before my mascara runs. He places his hand on mine. His fingers are rough to the touch, a worker’s hand. He rubs his finger over my thumb before taking his hand away again.

  ‘What if it hadn’t, Jem?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ve lived for all this time with the idea that you killed our baby and it breaks my heart to think you’d really be that hard on yourself. But I’ve lived for all this time knowing there was nothing I could do to help you unless you realised your own demons were breaking you down. I tried so hard, for so long. I wanted my love for you to be enough but I was naive, it could never have been. And not because I didn’t love you enough, but because you didn’t love you at all. There was no foundation for me to build on. There was nothing I could cling to that might give my love for you weight, or power. And in the end, I had to leave because it hurt too much and I don’t deserve that.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Any more than you do.’

  I stir my tea, knowing he’s right, but finding it hard to feel it.

  ‘Why did you stop drinking?’ he asks.

  I think about the nights it helped me sleep. I think about the afternoons I’d start early because the sun was shining or there was a celebration, or I was going past the pub so why not pop in for a swift one and a chat with the locals. I think about the insomnia at four in the morning and the banging head at eight. I think about the pains in my kidneys and the lack of funds in my bank. I think about the times Mitch would bring it over and I’d drink it without thinking. I think about the times I drank and drank and drank to excess under the guise of having fun with colleagues or mates. Fun that involved falling into bins and waking up without memories. I think about the reputation I had down the pub, or the comments from friends who’d always joke about what I drank. I think about Leanne, and her occasional nudge of concern over what I was doing, even though I didn’t even tell her the full truth of how bad it was. And I think about Mum, and one of her last comments to me about maybe it was time I drank less. And I think about now, how much clearer my head is. How much more energy I have. More money. More me.

  ‘It was a crutch. I never saw it, I didn’t give it any thought, but I can see it now. It was like I couldn’t function without it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I guess you look at some people and know they’re an alcoholic. They drink from the second they wake up until they go to bed. They drink White Lightning or cheap rum. I thought I was fine because I didn’t do any of those things. I wasn’t on a park bench. I can’t stand White Lightning.’ I try and force a smile. ‘I functioned.’

  ‘Functioned…?’

  ‘My name’s Jem and I’m a functioning alcoholic.’

  He sits back in his chair, stunned.

  ‘I know right. Pretty big, huh?’

  ‘Massive.’

  ‘I think I got away with it for so long because it just looked like I loved a drink.’

  ‘I knew. I saw,’ he says, sadly. ‘It’s why I always tried to steer you away from drinking, encourage you to slow down, but it always felt like somehow I was trying to control you.’

  ‘Probably because I made you feel that way. I remember how you’d say things and how I’d get all defensive, justify my behaviour by pointing out I was a grown woman and could drink as much or as little as I liked. Mum mentioned it a couple of times but gently, carefully, as if she didn’t want to make me feel bad for it. And Leanne? I think I managed to hide it from her completely. She had no idea.’

  ‘You’re not the first person in the world to drink like that.’

  ‘No. I guess not. I don’t really know how it even happened, how it got as bad as it did. It was just a crutch I couldn’t escape from. It felt strange of an evening, not to feel numb and disconnected. And I’m not calling that as an excuse. It was a symptom, there were others too. And that’s why I stopped.’

  ‘And how do you feel?’

  I think for a minute, about the best way to explain how I feel. Through my broken heart and exhaustion, through the weariness of the way I’ve lived and the challenge of trying to change, for me… ‘I feel like I’ve been given a second chance. Again. But this time I know what to do with it.’

  85

  We walk through the garden centre. I watch grown women with their mums and feel a pang of jealousy. I watch older couples picking out flowers together and feel a sense of longing.

  We haven’t spoken for the last few minutes and I think that’s partly because I’ve said what I needed to, and Ben needs time to consider it. I feel free. My shoulders light. He’s right about the situations I’ve found myself in over the years. I haven’t dared let myself off the hook, but I have to, if I’m ever to live the life I want to. I don’t deserve to feel the guilt and the shame. Whatever mistakes I’ve made, I’ve made. I can’t turn back time.

  ‘You haven’t asked me about my ex and the baby,’ he says, as we reach our cars, Petula parked tidily beside his.

  ‘I didn’t think it was any of my business.’

  He rests against his car, keys in hand. ‘I met her when I first got down to Cornwall. She was the opposite of you, she meditated on the beach and did yoga all day. She sang and made jewellery out of stuff she found. She walked barefoot so she could feel the ground beneath her.’

  ‘Yes… that’s quite opposite,’ I say, glancing down at my winter boots.

  ‘Then she found out she was pregnant and she was determined to keep it. I wasn’t sure but it was her body, her choice. So I supported her. Even though…’

  ‘Even though?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t my baby. We’d been taking it slowly, my choice. I told her it was because she was important to me and I wanted to make things work, but actually it was because I still loved you.’

  Loved. Again. Past tense.

  ‘But I stood by her because the father was someone she met at the masked ball in Porthleven. Before me, she was pretty free with her love, her body. She didn’t know who the father w
as.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘And even though I wasn’t sure I wanted kids, I felt like I should. I didn’t feel right just leaving her because she was pregnant. So we tried.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But it could never have worked.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It just wasn’t right. I was forcing something to try and move on.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And I loved you.’

  My breath catches in my throat.

  ‘I love you.’

  I daren’t look at him.

  ‘I have always loved you.’

  He steps towards me, just enough to fill the space but not so much as we’re touching. ‘And all I ever wanted was for you to have room in your heart for me, but you didn’t. And I couldn’t take it. So I left and hoped it might all pass and that I’d get over you. But I didn’t.’

  I do look at him this time. The man I loved as much as I could became the man I loved more than I knew what to do with, and I crushed it because I was terrified.

  ‘And I don’t know if we have a future together because you have your own journey to take and it’s early days but…’ He takes my hand. ‘When you’re ready, I want you to call me. I want you to tell me you love me, and I want us to be together.’

  ‘But what if it takes me too long?’ I ask.

  ‘And what if it doesn’t?’ he says.

  86

  I watch as his car indicates, waiting for a gap in the traffic to pull out. And as he goes, I let out a long-held breath. The breath that contained the words, I love you, let’s be together, because if I can ever say that to him, it has to be right. It has to be when I’m ready. I have to be able to love him. I have to be able to love me.

  I take a few breaths, relieved by the letting go of some of the things I’ve used against myself. I place my hand on my belly, imagining the tiny life it once held and knowing that whether it was my fault or not, it wouldn’t have been right for either of us. Not then, maybe not ever. Perhaps fate was at play.