Authors: Jojo Moyes
I cared about none of it. I sang in the shower, lay awake
dreaming. I wore my old dresses, my brightly coloured cardigans and satin pumps, and let myself be enclosed in a bubble of happiness, aware that bubbles only ever existed for so long before they popped anyway.
‘I told Jake,’ he said. He had half an hour’s break, and he and Donna had stopped outside my flat with lunch before I went off for a late shift. I sat beside him in the front seat of the ambulance.
‘You told him what?’ He had made mozzarella, cherry tomato and basil sandwiches. The tomatoes, grown in his garden, burst in little explosions of flavour in my mouth. He was appalled at how I ate when I was alone.
‘That you’d thought I was his dad. He laughed more than I’ve seen him laugh for months.’
‘You didn’t tell him I told you his dad cried after sex, right?’
‘I knew a man who did that once,’ said Donna. ‘But he really sobbed. It got sort of embarrassing. The first time I thought I’d broken his penis.’
I turned to her, open-mouthed.
‘It’s a thing. Really. We’ve had a couple in the rig, haven’t we?’
‘We have. You’d be amazed at the coital injuries we see.’ He nodded at my sandwich, which was still on my lap. ‘I’ll tell you when your mouth’s empty.’
‘Coital injuries. Great. Because there aren’t enough things in life to worry about.’
His gaze slid sideways as he bit into his sandwich, so that I blushed. ‘Trust me. I’d let you know.’
‘Just so we’re straight, my old mucker,’ said Donna, offering up one of her ever-present energy drinks, ‘I am so totally not going to be your first responder for that one.’
I liked being in the cab. Sam and Donna had the no-nonsense wry manner of those who had seen pretty much every human condition, and treated it, too. They were funny
and dark, and I felt oddly at home wedged between them, as if my life, with all its strangeness, was actually pretty normal.
These were the things I learned in the space of several snatched lunch hours:
But what came through most, when Sam arrived back after a long shift, was the bleakness: solitary pensioners; obese men glued to a television screen, too large even to try to get themselves up and down their own stairs; young mothers who spoke no English, confined to their flats with a million small children, unsure how to call for help when it was needed; and the depressed, the chronically ill, the unloved.
Some days, he said, it felt like a virus: you had to scrub the melancholy from your skin along with the scent of antiseptic. And then there were the suicides, the lives ended under trains or in silent bathrooms, their bodies often unnoticed for weeks or months until somebody remarked on the smell, or wondered why so-and-so’s post was now spilling out of their pigeonhole.
‘Do you ever get frightened?’
He lay, oversized, in my little bath. The water had turned faintly pink with the blood from a patient’s gunshot wound that had leaked all over him. I was a little surprised at how swiftly I had got used to having a naked man in the vicinity. Especially one who could move by himself.
‘You can’t do this job if you’re frightened,’ he said simply.
He had been in the army before he’d joined the paramedics; it was not an unusual career arc. ‘They like us because we don’t scare easy, and we’ve seen it all. Mind you, some of those drunk kids scare me far more than the Taliban ever did.’
I sat on the loo seat beside him and stared at his body in the discoloured water. Even with his size and strength, I shivered.
‘Hey,’ he said, seeing something pass across my face, and reached out a hand to me. ‘It’s fine, really. I have a very good nose for trouble.’ He closed his fingers around mine. ‘It’s not a great job for relationships, though. My last girlfriend couldn’t cope with it. The hours. Nights. The mess.’
‘The pink bathwater.’
‘Yeah. Sorry about that. The showers weren’t working at the station. I should really have gone home first.’ He looked at me in a way that showed me there had been no chance of him going home first. He pulled the plug to let some of the water drain away, then turned on the taps for more.
‘So who was she, your last girlfriend?’ I kept my voice level. I was not going to be one of
those
women, even if he had turned out not to be one of those men.
‘Iona. Travel agent. Sweet girl.’
‘But you weren’t in love with her.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Nobody ever says “sweet girl” about someone they were
in love with. It’s like the whole “we’ll still be friends” thing. It means you didn’t feel enough.’
He was briefly amused. ‘So what would I have said if I had been in love with her?’
‘You would have looked very serious, and said, “Karen. Complete nightmare,” or shut down and gone all “I don’t want to talk about it.” ’
‘You’re probably right.’ He thought for a bit. ‘If I’m honest I didn’t really want to feel much after my sister died. Being with Ellen for the last few months, helping look after her, kind of knocked me sideways.’ He glanced at me. ‘Cancer can be a pretty brutal way to go. Jake’s dad fell apart. Some people do. So I figured they needed me there. If I’m honest, I probably only held it together myself because we couldn’t all go to pieces.’ We sat in silence for a moment. I couldn’t tell if his eyes had gone a bit red from grief or soap.
‘Anyway. So, yes. Probably not much of a boyfriend back then. So who was yours?’ he said, when he finally turned back to me.
‘Will.’
‘Of course. Nobody since?’
‘Nobody I want to talk about.’ I shuddered.
‘Everyone’s allowed their own way back, Louisa. Don’t beat yourself up about it.’
His skin was hot and wet, making it hard for me to hold on to his fingers. I released them, and he began to wash his hair. I sat and watched him, letting the mood lift, enjoying the bunched muscles in his shoulders, the gleam of his wet skin. I liked the way he washed his hair: vigorously, with a kind of matter-of-factness, shaking off the excess water like a dog.
‘Oh. I had a job interview,’ I said, when he finished. ‘For a thing in New York.’
‘New York.’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘I won’t get it.’
‘Shame. I’ve always wanted an excuse to go to New York.’ He slid slowly under the water so that only his mouth remained. It broke into a slow smile. ‘But you’d get to keep the pixie outfit, yes?’
I felt the mood shift. And, for no reason at all other than that he didn’t expect it, I climbed fully clothed into the bath and kissed him as he laughed and spluttered. I was suddenly glad of his solidity in a world where it was so easy to fall.
I finally made an effort to sort out the flat. On my day off I bought an armchair, and a coffee-table, and a small framed print, which I hung near the television, and those things somehow conspired to suggest someone might actually live there. I bought new bedding and two cushions and hung up all my vintage clothes in the wardrobe so that opening it now revealed a riot of pattern and colour, instead of several pairs of cheap jeans and a too-short Lurex dress. I managed to turn my anonymous little flat into something that felt, if not quite like a home, vaguely welcoming.
By some beneficence of the shift-scheduling gods, Sam and I both had a day off. Eighteen uninterrupted hours in which he did not have to listen to a siren, and I did not have to listen to the sound of pan pipes or complaints about dry-roasted peanuts. Time spent with Sam, I noted, seemed to go twice as fast as the hours I spent alone. I had pondered the million things we could do together, then dismissed half of them as too ‘couple-y’. I wondered whether our spending so much time together was wise.
I texted Lily one more time.
Lily, please get in touch. I know you’re mad at me, but just call. Your garden is looking beautiful! I need you to show me how to look after it, and what to do with the tomato plants, which have got really tall (is this right?). Maybe after we could
go out dancing? x
I pressed send and stared at the little screen just as the doorbell rang.
‘Hey.’ He filled my doorway, holding a toolbox in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other.
‘Oh, my God,’ I said. ‘You’re like the ultimate female fantasy.’
‘Shelves,’ he said, deadpan. ‘You need shelves.’
‘Oh, baby. Keep talking.’
‘And home-cooked food.’
‘That’s it. I just came.’
He laughed and dropped the tools in the hallway and kissed me, and when we finally untangled ourselves, he walked through to the kitchen. ‘I thought we could go to the pictures. You know one of the greatest benefits to shift-working is empty matinées, right?’
I checked my phone.
‘But nothing with blood in it. I get a bit tired of blood.’
When I looked up he was watching me.
‘What? Don’t fancy it? Or is that going to stamp all over your plans for
Zombie Flesh Eaters Fifteen
? … What?’
I frowned, and dropped my hand to my side. ‘I can’t get hold of Lily.’
‘I thought you said she’d gone home?’
‘She did. But she won’t take my calls. I think she’s really upset with me.’
‘Her friends stole your stuff. You’re allowed to be the one who’s upset.’
He started to pull things out of the bag, lettuces, tomatoes, avocados, eggs, herbs, stacking them neatly in my near-empty fridge. He looked up at me as I texted her again. ‘Come on. She could have dropped her phone, left it in some club, or run out of credit. You know what teenagers are like. Or she’s just throwing a massive strop. Sometimes you need to let them work it out of their system.’
I took his hand and shut the fridge door. ‘I need to show you something.’ His eyes lit up briefly. ‘Not that, no, you bad man. That will have to wait till later.’
Sam stood on the rooftop and gazed around him at the flowers. ‘And you had no idea?’
‘None at all.’
He sat down heavily on the bench. I sat next to him and we both stared at the little garden.
‘I feel awful,’ I said. ‘I basically accused her of destroying everything she went near. And all the time she was creating this.’
He stooped to feel the leaves on a tomato plant, then straightened, shaking his head. ‘Okay. So we’ll go talk to her.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Lunch first. Then cinema. Then we’ll turn up on her doorstep. That way she won’t be able to avoid you.’ He took my hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Hey. Don’t look so worried. The garden is good news. It shows that her head’s not in a totally bad place.’
He released my hand and I squinted at him. ‘How come you always make everything better?’
‘I just don’t like seeing you sad.’
I couldn’t tell him that I wasn’t sad when I was with him. I couldn’t tell him that he made me so happy I was afraid of it. I thought of how I liked having his food in my fridge, how I glanced at my phone twenty times a day waiting for his messages, how I conjured his naked body in my imagination in the quiet minutes at work and then had to think very hard about floor polish or till receipts just to stop myself glowing.
Slow down
, said a warning voice.
Don’t get too close.
His eyes softened. ‘You have a sweet smile, Louisa Clark. It’s one of the several hundred things I like about you.’
I let myself gaze back at him for a minute.
This man
, I thought. And then I slapped my hands heavily on my knees. ‘C’mon,’ I said briskly. ‘Let’s go watch a movie.’
The cinema was almost empty. We sat side by side at the back in a seat where someone had knocked out the armrest, and Sam fed me popcorn from a cardboard bucket the size of a dustbin, and I tried not to think about the weight of his hand resting on my bare leg, because when I did I frequently lost track of what was happening with the plot.
The film was an American comedy about two mismatched cops who find themselves mistaken for criminals. It wasn’t very funny, but I laughed anyway. Sam’s fingers appeared in front of me, bearing a bulbous knobble of salted popcorn and I took it, and another, then, as an afterthought, kept hold of his fingers between my teeth. He looked at me and shook his head, slowly.
I finished the popcorn and swallowed. ‘Nobody will see,’ I whispered.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m too old for this,’ he murmured. But when I turned his face to mine in the hot, dark air, and started to kiss him, he dropped the popcorn and his hand slid slowly up my back.
And then my phone rang. There was a hiss of disapproval from the two people at the front. ‘Sorry. Sorry, you two!’ (Given there were only four of us in the cinema.) I scrambled off Sam’s lap and answered. A number I didn’t recognize.
‘Louisa?’
It took me a second to register her voice.
‘Just give me a minute.’ I pulled a face at Sam, and made my way out.
‘Sorry, Mrs Traynor. I just had to – Are you still there? Hello?’
The foyer was empty, the cordoned-off queue areas deserted, the frozen-drinks machine churning its coloured ice listlessly behind the counter.
‘Oh, thank goodness. Louisa? I wondered if I could speak to Lily.’
I stood, with the phone pressed to my ear.
‘I’ve been thinking about what happened the other week and I’m so sorry. I must have seemed …’ She hesitated. ‘Look, I was wondering if you thought she would agree to see me.’
‘Mrs Traynor –’
‘I’d like to explain to her. For the last year or so I’ve … well, I’ve not been myself. I’ve been on these tablets and they make me rather dim-witted. And I was so taken aback to find you on my doorstep, and then I simply couldn’t believe what you both were telling me. It all seemed so unlikely. But I … Well, I’ve spoken to Steven and he confirmed the whole thing and I’ve been sitting here for days and digesting it all and I just think … Will had a
daughter
.
I have a granddaughter.
I keep saying the words. Sometimes I think I dreamed it.’