So, I shut down my computer, put on a pair of shorts and a peach vest top, grabbed a book and headed downstairs. I took some lunch outside with me; two slices of pate on toast, a packet of prawn cocktail crisps and a glass of Coke, and sat on the grass.
Once I’d finished my lunch, I settled into my book, Vampire Mountain. It was the fourth book in The Saga of Darren Shan series, and Max had recommended it to me. I was sceptical at first because I wasn’t really into vampires, but I was engrossed, and I’d read the first three just last week.
But today, I couldn’t seem to get engrossed. The words didn’t grab me as they usually did. I couldn’t get comfy; the grass itched the top of my legs and wasps buzzed around my empty glass of Coke. But more than that, every few minutes, I’d remember what tonight was, and butterflies would flip over in my stomach repeatedly, like the spinning of a washing machine.
After about an hour, I gave up and headed back inside. I texted Michael to see if I could come over early, to see if his parents had perhaps by some miracle left already. I was tempted to invite him over here, but the golf course wasn’t far away so Dad could come back at any moment. Michael texted back, confirming I could go over whenever I wanted to, but we still had about three hours before his parents went out. How on earth could I pass three hours?
‘Bye, Mum, bye, Dad,’ I called as I rushed downstairs. It was six o’ clock on the dot and I’d just seen Michael’s dad’s car pull away with both his parents in it. ‘I’m going over to Michael’s now!’
‘Bye, sweetheart,’ Mum said as she came into the hall to kiss me goodbye. ‘What are you three doing tonight?’
‘Just the usual, watching films and stuff,’ I lied as I pulled on my white Converse trainers. I hadn’t told her Max wouldn’t be there. I felt a pang of guilt as I saw belief and trust in my mum’s eyes, but I could hardly tell her the truth. It would be weird, and we were only fifteen so she’d be furious. She wouldn’t understand.
‘Lovely, will you be back at the usual time?’
I nodded as I unlocked the front door. ‘About eleven, yeah.’
‘Okay, have a good time,’ she said in a cheery voice and planted a soft kiss on the side of my head.
‘Bye, love,’ Dad called from the lounge.
‘See you later!’ I said one last time, opening the door and heading out into the spring evening.
Once outside, I felt like I could breathe again. The last few hours had been torture as I’d waited and waited for the clock to drag its hands around its face. I’d showered and shaved practically everywhere below my neck, had probably put on too much sweet perfume, and I’d curled my hair into neat, soft waves that would probably resemble a bird’s nest by the end of the night. I’d slipped into my new underwear, feeling like an adult, like a woman for the very first time.
I didn’t even need to knock on the door when I reached Michael’s house. It opened as soon as I reached it, and there he stood with a huge smile on his face. My gorgeous boyfriend, the one I would give my virginity to.
We kissed each other passionately on his bed, and our hands travelled all over each other, squeezing and grabbing as though we couldn’t quite get enough. We were down to our underwear already, and our bodies pressed together so that I could feel every inch of him, the softness of his warm skin, the feel of his excitement rising. Sparks flew between us, and I couldn’t drag my mouth away from his even if I wanted to. We were like magnets. His tongue felt so good against mine, his lips wet and hot, luring me in over and over again, like a moth to a seductive flame.
But he pulled away, biting my lip gently between his teeth. I whimpered slightly. ‘Are you ready?’ he whispered breathlessly.
My tummy flipped, and I swallowed. ‘Yes,’ I replied softly.
Michael grinned and jumped off me, scrambling to his desk. He opened the bottom drawer and took out a pile of CDs and a few old clothes. And then he pulled out a small purple paper bag and put his hand inside. From it, he took out a condom in a bright yellow wrapper.
My heart thudded against my chest. It was about to happen.
‘Give me a minute,’ Michael said and made for the door. For a second I thought he might be backing out. But, he simply opened the door and poked his head outside to double-check nobody had come home early. When he confirmed they hadn’t, he disappeared onto the landing.
I laid there waiting for him, my chest heaving up and down with nerves, with excitement, and when Michael re-
-turned, he melted all the nerves away, leaving only eager anticipation.
He carried in his hands some tea light candles and a lighter. ‘Sorry, I should have done this before. I didn’t have time,’ he said with a small smile.
‘How romantic,’ I giggled as I watched him light a few candles and place them around the room. He turned out the light and made his way back to the bed, condom in hand.
‘I love you, Elina. You know that don’t you?’ he said in a serious tone, taking one of my hands in his.
I smiled and nodded. ‘Of course, I do. I love you, too, Michael. So much.’
He smiled back, and it was warm and welcoming just like it always was.
He kissed me again, and when he slowly and gently joined our bodies together moments later, I realised there was no reason to be nervous. There had never been. No matter what happened, no matter if it hurt, or if I bled, Michael would look after me. He always would.
He was my rock.
My one true love.
Chapter Eight
7th July 2019
Time without Michael: 1 Year, 6 Months, 20 Days
The morning after we’d planned our trip I woke up with a massive hangover.
My head pounded, the room spun, the taste of alcohol stained my lips, and my tongue felt fuzzy. I groaned as I tried to sit up and flopped back down again, wincing in pain has my head hit the pillow. ‘Oh, God.’
Sunlight crept through a gap in the curtains like a bright white light that threatened to split my head in two. I rolled over, away from the blinding light, and pulled the covers over my head, settling myself into the darkness. But after a few minutes in the confined space, the smell of the alcohol on my breath became too much to withstand and my stomach churned. It was then I realised I was going to have to somehow get to the shower and my toothbrush. Fast.
I poked my head out of the covers and surveyed the distance between the bed and the door to the en-suite bathroom. On a typical day, it was close, about four steps, but with a hangover the size of Canada, it seemed like the trek from the Shire to Mordor. ‘I bet this is what Frodo’s head felt like when the pull of the One Ring called to him,’ I said aloud, and then laughed at my own feeble joke. ‘Or maybe what Harry felt like when Voldemort touched his scar in the graveyard.’
Once I’d stopped making rubbish jokes to myself, I slid out of bed onto my hands and knees. My head throbbed, and my body shook. I hadn’t been really hungover in years, and now I remembered why. Drinking was bad. Very, very bad. I mean, it is poison. What good can come of drinking glass upon glass of poison? No good, is the answer, no good at all.
I managed to crawl to the bathroom, feeling just as pathetic as I no doubt looked. Once I was there, I managed, after four attempts, to pull myself to my feet by grabbing onto the sink.
‘Oh, shit,’ I said with a scratchy throat when I saw my reflection. In my tipsy state, I’d neglected to take off my makeup; black circles were smudged around my eyes, and there were tear tracks all the way down my cheek to my chin. Strange, I didn’t recall crying.
I picked up my toothbrush and applied more than enough paste to the bristles. The taste of alcohol was always so difficult to banish. I stared down into the bright white basin as I brushed and its porcelain perfection mocked me. My skin was clammy, sweating through my pyjamas, and my whole body ached. I stretched my neck from side to side as I brushed, and suddenly a wave of nausea welled in my belly and hurled its way up to the base of my throat.
I tossed my toothbrush into the si
nk and sank to my knees, head hung over the toilet. My tummy convulsed as I threw up and my head throbbed, the taste of last night filling my mouth. My eyes watered with tears; being sick had always made me cry.
What a pathetic sight; sobbing as I vomited, filled with regret. Depending on his mood, Michael would have done one of two things had he been here. Had he been fine himself, he’d have laughed and made jokes, asking me if the last few glasses of wine had really been worth it. Had he been feeling a bit rough himself, he’d have sat next to me, held my hair back and rubbed my shoulders as I threw up the night before.
I was sick a few more times before I struggled to my feet and made a vow to myself that I’d never drink prosecco or wine again. The devil on my shoulder wondered just exactly how long that would last.
I brushed my teeth again and took a few deep breaths. At least the nausea had ebbed away for now. Just the pounding headache and regret to go, I thought, as I stepped into the shower.
I sat beneath the warm cascade for roughly half an hour
before I managed to stand up and wash my hair, but even the smell of my Aussie shampoo was too potent for my dodgy tummy so I rinsed it out as quickly as I could. Before climbing out and getting dry, I turned down the heat of the water and stood beneath its freezing flow. I moaned at how good it felt. I always treated hangovers with the icy blast of a cold shower. They were a great temporary solution, but a few minutes after I’d climbed out of the shower I was back to feeling rubbish again.
I wrapped my hair in a towel on my head and changed into a t-shirt and some sweats. The sun gleamed outside, casting its yellow shell all over the city. I longed to go outside and bask in its glory but my hangover and yesterday’s sunburn would allow no such thing, so I wistfully closed all the curtains and blinds to block out what I was sorely missing out on.
I didn’t fancy any breakfast, so I got myself a cold glass of water and plonked myself in front of the TV, still shaking. Indie was asleep in front of it, and I didn’t have the heart to wake her for her breakfast just yet. She looked so peaceful.
Logging into Netflix, I chose one of my all-time favourite shows, Friends. I was on ‘The One Where Everyone Finds Out’. I loved that one. The secret affair between Monica and Chandler led me to have a crush on Chandler when I
was nine. And I’d kept that just as secret.
It was after lunchtime before I finally decided to eat a bowl of cornflakes and do something with my day. With Friends still playing in the background- I was on the early episodes of season six now- I fired up my laptop and tried again to find the opera that Lydia had wanted to see.
All my web pages were still loaded from yesterday, so at least I didn’t have to start from scratch. I was tempted to call Lydia, to just ask her which opera she wanted to see, or slyly drop it into the conversation, but I was utterly hopeless at subtly dropping hints, and I wanted it to be a surprise.
An hour later, just before I was about to tear my hair out in frustration, a light bulb pinged in my head. Just like that, it came back to me. Like the click of a finger. ‘La Traviata!’ I exclaimed. It was so clear I couldn’t see how I hadn’t got it straight away. We’d been at Michael’s parents’ house one summer evening, talking about shows and plays, and Lydia had said, ‘I’ve never seen an opera, but if I only got the chance to see one it would be La Traviata. My great aunt played the lead in her twenties. I often wish I could go back in time and see her in it. My grandma still had the record and used to play it all the time when I was a child.’
I frantically googled when it was on, and to my absolute
joy, I found it was playing in London right now. I managed to book two tickets for the Wednesday before I was set to fly to Vegas with the girls. I booked train tickets and a hotel and picked up the phone to call Lydia. She was retired, so I hoped and prayed she didn’t have something planned for that day already. She liked to keep herself busy to distract herself.
‘Hello? Lydia Mills, speaking,’ she answered the Mills’ landline in her posh phone voice.
‘Lydia, it’s Lina,’ I said, beaming.
‘Oh, sweetheart, how are you?’ Her posh façade melted away with the warmth of her voice. We’d kept in touch since Michael had passed and usually saw each other once every couple of weeks. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you and your mum out for another spa day.’
‘I’m alright, thanks. That would be lovely, but I actually wanted to check you were free on Wednesday the 31st? I want to treat you to something special,’ I told her.
‘Oh, now what’s this all about?’ She sounded both intrigued and excited.
‘I don’t want to say too much now. I’m trying my very, very best to keep it a surprise, but are you free?’ I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from saying anything else. In my head I was screaming, ‘I’m taking you to the opera because Michael never got the chance, so I’m doing it for
him!’
‘I am, and I am very, very curious about this, Lina. What will I have to wear?’
‘Just wear something casual, and pack an overnight bag! I’ll give you more details nearer the time!’ I teased.
Lydia laughed. ‘All right! Does Dave know about this? Can I grill him about it?’
I smiled. ‘I’m afraid not. You’ll just have to be patient.’
Later that day, once I’d planned my trip to London with Lydia, there was a knock at my door. I frowned, and Indie perked her ears up and looked in the direction of the noise. I wasn’t expecting anyone.
Indie followed me to the door, and when I opened it, a delivery man stood in front of me.
‘Hi, I have a delivery for Elina Mills,’ he said brightly. He had a small cardboard box in one hand and a digital device for me to sign in the other.
‘That’s me,’ I said politely, wondering what the package was.
He gestured for me to sign and I did, but on that thing, my signature was just a squiggly line that barely held any resemblance to the real thing. He handed me the parcel.
‘Thanks, have a good night,’ he said, and then he was on
his way.
‘Thank you, you too!’ I called after him and shut the door. ‘What could this be, Indie?’
Indie followed me back to the sofa where I sat down and carefully opened the brown cardboard box. Inside was a mass of bubble wrap and within it was a small, square jewellery box.
I realised then what it was.
My throat tightened and I recoiled as I stared at the jewellery box, nowhere near brave enough to open it yet.
What if I’d made a massive mistake?
I started to shake, my skin became balmy, and it had nothing to do with my earlier hangover. Nausea welled in my throat, and my tummy flipped and flipped with hot, uncomfortable waves of anxiety.
‘What do you think, Indie, should we open it?’ I said after a good while of just glaring at it. My voice was low and hoarse. My dog just looked at me with a happy face, tongue hanging out of her mouth. The corner of my mouth lifted in a tiny, temporary smile, and I wished then that she’d known Michael. They’d have been best friends, no doubt. They had the same optimism.
I sighed. Despite Indie’s enthusiasm, I still wasn’t quite ready to see the contents of the box, so I decided to delay it just a little further by getting a glass of white wine from the fridge, my earlier aversion to alcohol already a thing of the past. The smell of the stuff did make me feel a bit sick, but it was nothing compared to how that small, velveteen box made me feel.
I sat on the sofa, wine in hand, taking small sips as I stared and stared at the box. Also inside the cardboard packaging was a leaflet and a personalised message about how they had made the jewellery. I couldn’t bring myself to look at that either.
Time ticked away, and two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc were resting uneasily on my tummy when I finally plucked up the courage to open the box.
I opened it fast, ripping off the Band-Aid as they say, and when I saw two white gold earrings staring up at me, I felt sick. I snap
ped the box shut and dashed to the bathroom.
For what felt like the millionth time that day I hung my head over the toilet and threw up the contents of my stomach, though there was little left. Tears streamed down my face and sobs shook me as I vomited. My goose-pimpled skin was clammy and shivery.
‘I need you, Michael,’ I sobbed, sniffling. I reached without looking to grab a tissue to blow my nose and wipe my mouth. ‘Please, come back. Please!’
I squeezed my eyes shut against the throbbing pain in my temples.
A hand touched my back, cool and soothing.
‘Ssshh,’ a gentle whisper sounded against my ear. ‘It’s okay. I’m here. You always know where to find me.’
‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ I confessed. ‘I don’t know why I made you into a pair of earrings.’ The idea seemed so stupid now. I’d made my dead husband into nothing but a piece of jewellery.
Michael chuckled. ‘Calm down, you muppet. You haven’t even seen them properly yet. Don’t you want to see them? And I thought you didn’t want me to be grey forever?’
‘I don’t,’ I sobbed. ‘But I want you back.’
‘Ssh, darling. I’m here,’ he soothed. ‘Now, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to get yourself cleaned up, have a shower, and brush your teeth. And then I want you to find your cosiest pyjamas, get Mikey, and open the box. Can you do that for me?’
I nodded, spitting one last bit of sick into the toilet. ‘I… I think so.’
I heard Michael smile. ‘That’s my girl. I love you, Mrs Mills.’
An hour later, I was clean and snuggled up in bed with Mikey and the jewellery box, just like Imaginary Michael had said. I wore one of my husband’s t-shirts. It was soft against my skin, and a tiny part of me felt like he was with me, like his embrace was getting me through what had become a difficult night. Indie sat next to me, her soft head resting against my leg. She knew I was sad. She hadn’t left my side all day, and I loved her for that. She was my rock these days.
All I Have Left of You Page 7