We Belong Together

by Beth Moran

  Great. I made one more half-hearted attempt to hoist a knee up on top of the stupidly high bedframe, instead collapsing face-first onto the mattress. Perhaps I could stay here until I recovered enough to slither the rest of myself up to join my top half. Maybe just a short snooze…?

  ‘Here.’

  Oh! I twisted my face around to see Daniel placing a wooden stool about a foot high beside me on the faded rug. He busied himself faffing about and doing nothing with the tray so I could clamber into bed with a modicum of privacy.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, handing me a glass of water and two pills.

  ‘Can I answer that once these have had a chance to kick in?’

  ‘Is there anything else you need?’ He glanced at the ceiling, the floor, the pile of bags against the dresser. This was a box room. The heavy, dark green curtains blocked most of the daylight from entering, and it suddenly felt like an exceedingly small space for two people who had only just met, one of whom was wearing the other’s sister’s pyjamas.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I need to make a couple of work calls, and hopefully by then I’ll feel strong enough to get out of your way.’

  Daniel sighed, shaking his head slightly. ‘I’m taking Hope to Mum’s for a couple of hours, after she missed seeing her yesterday. There’s some as yet unidentifiable meat in a sauce defrosting for dinner. Hopefully by then you’ll feel strong enough to come downstairs and watch whatever crap we can find on TV. If not, that’s fine. Here.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of his jeans pocket. ‘My number. In case you need anything, or get stuck halfway down the stairs or something.’

  I nodded, this simple token of kindness causing my throat to seize up with fresh unshed tears. My body wasn’t the only thing about me that had arrived at Damson Farm feeling bashed up and broken. Having lost so much in the past few days, and about to sever ties with my last thread of security, knowing I could stay here for a while and do nothing, have no pressure or expectations put upon me – not even coming down the stairs – was the best possible medicine. I drank almost all of my tea, managed three bites of sandwich and then scrolled through photos of Charlie on my phone until I sobbed myself back to sleep.

  Calling Lucy, speaking to Miles, would have to wait.

  5

  For the next few days, I followed the same pattern. If I’m honest, by the Monday I was physically much improved. The stiffness and ache in my limbs and neck were easing, the bruises fading into tie-dyed green and yellow splashes decorating my head and chest. Realistically, if I took it slow, I could probably manage to drive the 180 miles or so to Windermere.

  But as the physical pain retreated, it seemed to increasingly expose the deeper pain that lay beneath my bumps and scrapes. My chest squeezed with anguish whenever I thought about Charlie, my emotions wading through denial, shock, bitter regret and deep, deep sorrow.

  My phone lay abandoned and out of charge where I’d dropped it somewhere under the bed. Lucy would have been dealing with the emails coming through, sorting any posts or invitations that needed responding to. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that the longer it took me to tell her that I was letting her go, the longer I’d have to pay her for. I ignored the faint buzz of guilt about not calling her back. We were usually in contact at least once a day, sometimes ten times that many, and my ambiguous message was hardly sufficient to explain what was going on. I knew she’d be worried. But petty issues like my employee, my money, my preposterous job, my life in London, seemed like a hazy hallucination caused by the strong painkillers I was still scarfing in some vain effort at dulling my heartbreak.

  Even the threat that had driven me to bolt in the middle of the night seemed unimportant, a thousand miles away.

  And surely they’d never find me here, anyway?

  Finding it impossible to care, or worry about any of it, instead I lay in bed, crying, sleeping, staring at the stains on the ceiling, picking at the meals Daniel brought me and sinking further and further down into a pit of self-loathing and shame.

  I needed to snap out of it. Or at the very least find the gumption and the grit to begin to slowly heave myself out.

  Fortunately, Daniel and Dr Ziva agreed.

  On Thursday, nearly a week after I skidded into a ditch, Daniel woke me with a mug of tea and a chipped bowl of porridge. A while later he came and retrieved the empty mug and still full bowl but this time he was carrying Hope, and before he took the tray away he plonked her on the bed and left her there.

  It was a single bed, probably as wide as it was high. Hope looked as surprised as I was as she sat up and goggled at me, automatically cramming one hand into her mouth.

  ‘Hi,’ I managed, sounding like some sort of child-eating troll before I cleared my throat and tried again. She tucked in her chin, eyeing me warily. I tried to think of something else to say.

  ‘How’s things? Enjoyed any good bananas lately?’

  Okay, apparently not, because her enormous eyes filled up with tears, and her lip began wobbling precariously. Oh, no. Oh, crap. Please don’t start crying. There’s been enough of that in this bed for the both of us lately, I promise.

  She looked just like Charlie when discovering that yet another man had deceived her, or she got fired, or when she felt the evil brain-death demons of darkness stirring.

  ‘Please don’t cry!’ That’s better, try saying it out loud, Eleanor. ‘There, there. I know this room is distressingly ugly, and you’ve been dumped here with a slightly unhinged woman who hasn’t showered in several days, but I’m sure your dad will be back to fetch you soon.’

  Only he wasn’t. And when, a couple of minutes later, I ran out of small talk and Hope broke into full-on screams, wide open mouth revealing two tiny teeth as she scrunched up her miniature fists and let rip, he still didn’t come bursting in to save her. Galvanised by how the pitch of her cries seemed to jab right into the bruise on my forehead, I upped my game. Pulling faces, singing jumbled snatches of nursery rhymes and patting her head did no good at all. And when I tried to take hold of her hand (that always made me feel better) she reacted with an instantaneous increase in both pitch and volume, while simultaneously diving for the edge of the bed.

  Crap!

  I instinctively jerked forwards and grabbed her around the tummy, pulling her up close as I sat back against the headboard. That seemed to help. The wails faded to a warble, and her body visibly softened as we adjusted ourselves to find a comfortable position.

  ‘There we go, then. Is that better?’ I mumbled more meaningless platitudes, leaning my cheek against her downy head as we gently rocked from side to side. After a while, Hope’s sobs became sniffles which then dissolved into disconcertingly loud hiccups. She smeared a load of snotty dribble across her face and then batted her hand about, daubing it across my shoulder and pyjama sleeve. Letting out a long sigh, she then slowly tipped her head forwards, conking her chin on her chest as she fell asleep.

  After a brief panic while I checked that she was still breathing, I settled back and closed my eyes in solidarity, listening to the sound of our twin breaths. Her heavy warmth nestling against my cracked heart was probably the best cuddle of my life so far. I know she was only a baby, and potentially not that great a judge of character yet, but I felt honoured – astounded even – that Hope trusted me enough to sink into a snuffly oblivion in my lap.

  Her father, however, who had all the wisdom and common sense of an adult, also trusted me, it seemed. Not only had he left Hope here in the first place, he sent me a text casually letting me know that he’d ‘popped out for a couple of hours, back around 12’ and that there was a bottle of milk in the fridge.

  It took everything I’d got. All the tattered shreds of courage and determination that had probably not been that courageous or determined to begin with, but from some previously untapped reserves, as midday rolled around, Daniel returned to find me sitting at the kitchen table chopping an onion, Hope burbling in her chair.
Showered, hair brushed and dressed in clothes suitable for leaving the house.

  ‘Okay, so I can’t bear another sandwich and tin of watery soup. Having searched every cranny in your kitchen, and what I presume is meant to be a pantry, the best I can come up with is an omelette.’

  ‘Great.’ Daniel went to give his daughter a kiss. ‘Did you have a nice morning, Hope?’ He stopped then, and looked around. ‘You’ve cleaned up.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ve made a start. Hope helped.’ I nodded to where she was banging a clean sponge onto the table.

  It had been an exhausting start. After taking an absurd amount of time figuring out how to extricate Hope and me from my bed without waking her up, I’d gently placed her in the cot I found in what must be Daniel’s room, and taken it from there (Daniel’s room, unsurprisingly, followed the shabby unchic décor of the rest of the farmhouse, it was a health and safety hazard just kicking my way through the debris on the floor to reach the cot). By the time she’d woken up, I was clean and dry and had put my bedding and pyjamas in the washing machine and sorted through the rest of my stuff. I fed her the bottle, following the instructions Daniel had left on the kitchen countertop about how to warm it up first, then I stuck her in the baby chair and took a survey of the surroundings.

  I thought about the sparkling kitchen in the Tufted Duck and shuddered at the comparison. I had reached a point in my life where I’d little idea of who I really was, apart from someone I didn’t like very much, but one thing I did know was that before all the madness started, I was a woman who knew how to get on my hands and knees and clean.

  So that’s what I did for the next hour and a half. I demolished the mountain of greasy pots in the Belfast sink, first scrubbing until I revealed the beautiful white porcelain beneath the grime. I wiped every crumb and unidentifiable sticky stain from the oak worktops, moving the microwave, toaster and everything else onto the tiled floor before I was satisfied. I then cleaned them all before placing them back again. Next, I wiped the cupboard doors, which turned out to be a pale cream instead of the yellowy-beige they’d been before.

  At that point, I ran out of hot water and energy, so I gave up and started looking for some lunch.

  ‘I don’t think I can do any more today, but tomorrow I’ll tackle the fridge and the oven. That is, if it’s okay for me to stay on for another couple of days.’ I picked up the knife and focused on chopping the rest of the onion. ‘I kind of feel like this is something I can do for Charlie. Does that make sense?’

  ‘If you feel like sorting the rest of the house then you can stay as long as you like.’

  I finished chopping and put the knife down. Daniel was leaning against one of the newly cleaned and tidied worktops. He wore a white shirt with the top button undone, and suit trousers. They both needed a good iron. I again took in the tired creases around his eyes and mouth, the hair long overdue a decent cut, and the weary sag to his shoulders. It was abundantly clear that Daniel didn’t have any kind of help around the house. He was a single dad with some sort of job that required smart shirts, and in between nappy-changing and bath-time and meetings, he had the burden of preventing his family’s 250-year-old farm from falling apart.

  This house had centuries of peace and goodwill soaked into the rafters and oozing from every crack and crevice, but its owner was clearly struggling to find any peace of his own.

  And I knew that I could help. That I could really do something positive and worthwhile, for the first time in longer than I wanted to admit. And not only could I prove useful here, not only did Daniel and Damson Farm need me, but I understood, in a moment of clarity that I really could have done with about ten years ago, that I needed this just as much. Skulking back to hide at the Tufted Duck was not the answer. I couldn’t bear having to explain to my family why I’d chucked in my glittering career in the big city. And what if whoever was out to ruin my life, and had done a fairly good job of it so far, was able to trace me back to the B & B? Looking over my own shoulder twenty-four hours a day was bad enough. Putting my parents and grandma in danger wasn’t even an option.

  I felt a bittersweet stab between my ribs as I thought about what Charlie would say at the prospect of me staying at the farmhouse, helping out her brother and spending more time snuggling with her daughter. And that was all the answer I needed.

  ‘Okay. I think I can adjust my schedule to include returning this house to its former glory.’

  ‘Oh, you have a spare year or two?’ Daniel raised his eyebrows at me. I attempted a wry, nonchalant smile that broke into a full-on laugh.

  ‘Yes. As it happens. I do.’

  At least I would have, once I’d sorted out a few things…

  Riding on the momentum of a stunningly successful morning, I called Lucy. She’d called me twice, and sent numerous increasingly anxious texts asking what was going on. I left another message apologising for the lack of contact, explaining that I’d been dealing with a personal situation, and asking her to call me back as soon as possible. I then called my editor.

  ‘Nora! What can I do for you, darling?’

  ‘Stop calling me darling, given that I’m your most highly bankable writer, not some strumpet on the side.’ See? Nora was fierce.

  Miles wasn’t fazed. He was used to her. ‘Writer and friend, I hope. But fair enough, I’ll re-edit. Wouldn’t want to end up portrayed as the sleazy boss in your autobiography one day. How can I be of service to you, Ms Sharp?’

  ‘Miles, you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. The support and guidance, not to mention the incredible opportunity in the first place.’

  ‘Your success is my success, Nora. You know that. You fly, and I’m riding on your tail feathers. The paper wouldn’t be the same without you.’

  ‘Yes. Well. It’s going to be without me. I’m calling to hand in my resignation.’

  ‘You are kidding me.’

  Miles then spent the next ten minutes interrogating me about why, and who had lured me away, and if it was TV then we could probably work something out, and if it was more money then how much would convince me to stay and so on and so on. It was rather flattering, actually. I expected a half-hearted sorry-you’re-leaving and a token gesture of a pay rise. I replied with some random waffle about taking the reviews as far as I could, being famous for being nasty was wearing thin and it was time to try something new…

  ‘Well. I’d never have guessed all that from this week’s submission. It seemed as though Nora had got her old fire back. Only, one editorial note, and please hear me on this, but while upping the bitch-factor is super, and precisely what we wanted, I don’t want it at the expense of great writing. Anyone can be mean but it takes wit and charm to get away with it. Felt like this one lost that rather.’

  ‘Um. I didn’t submit anything for this week. I was going to come on to that.’ I had my whole car accident, friend died, personal emergency excuses all ready.

  ‘Well, somebody certainly submitted something. Let me see… Ah, here it is. Appetito, just off Baker Street. You had the lobster thingummy.’

  No. I didn’t. I was lying in a creaky old bed stewing in my own self-pity. I fudged a non-committal reply, promised to let Miles know when I was back in London so he could arrange a proper send-off (‘I’d love to read a review of your leaving bash!’) and agreed that I would submit two more reviews to see the month out, then that would be that. I also promised, several times, that if I ever did write an autobiography I’d be nice about him and not mention the incident with the newsreader’s son on the yacht.

  I also had several months’ worth of non-newspaper events and engagements scheduled in my diary. Fortunately, Nora Sharp rarely confirmed her attendance in advance, so there were only one or two that I needed to cancel and apologise to. Not that they would make a fuss if I pulled out. This was the fickle world of celebrity, after all.

  I called Lucy again but it went through to voicemail.

  Ten seconds later, a message from her pin
ged through:

  Sorry am in a meeting. Is everything OK? All under control here, no need to rush back, but I’ve been SO WORRIED about you!

  I replied straightaway:

  I’m fine, but you submitted an Appetito review? Without talking to me about it 1st??

  Yes! I didn’t know what was going on and you’d missed the deadline. I didn’t want you to get in trouble with Miles so wrote something just in case. You weren’t replying to my messages and I didn’t know what else to do. I’m so relieved you’re ok!! xxx

  While I was thinking about how to reply, she messaged again:

  What happened? Is there anything I can do to help? I’m happy to keep things ticking over, but it’d be helpful to know how long you might be away xxx

  I tried calling her again, but it went straight to voicemail. Lucy was of the generation where phone calls were for emergencies only, but I drew the line at firing someone via a text, if I could help it.

  Lucy, I really need to talk to you properly about this. Please call me as soon as you can.

  No reply.

  I felt another stab of guilt. Lucy had been clearly worried about me – and about what my sudden disappearance would mean for her own job. Deciding to write and submit a review off her own back showed how stressed she must have been. I’d handled this horribly, and it was completely unfair to leave Lucy feeling responsible for writing reviews on top of managing everything else. By failing to speak to her properly, I’d inadvertently forced her to become Nora Sharp – even if as far as she knew, it was only temporary. I had to tell her that I’d resigned from the paper, and I wasn’t coming back, so she could speak to Miles and decide whether she wanted to keep Nora going, or whether we were going to formally lay her to rest.