Finding Audrey (21 page)

Wait a minute, was this Frank? Did Frank help you? (Silence.)

Mum’s nostrils were white and her forehead veins were throbbing, and Dad looked grave, seriously grave, like he hasn’t looked for a while, and they were both one hundred per cent adamant that seeing Izzy was a non-starter.

‘You’re
fragile
, Audrey,’ Mum kept saying. ‘You’re like a piece of china that’s just been mended.’

She pinched that from Dr Sarah.

Does Mum talk to Dr Sarah behind my back? This has never occurred to me before. But then, I can clearly be quite slow off the mark.

‘Sweetheart, I know you think it’ll be a cathartic experience and you’ll say your piece and everyone will come away the wiser,’ says Dad. ‘But in real life, that doesn’t happen. I’ve confronted enough assholes in my time. They never realize they’re assholes. Not once. Whatever you say.’ He turns to Mum. ‘Remember Ian? My first boss? Now, he was an asshole. Always was, always will be.’

‘I’m not planning to say a piece,’ I point out. ‘She’s the one who wanted to apologize.’

‘She says,’ mutters Mum darkly. ‘She
says
.’

‘Tell us why you want to do it,’ says Dad. ‘Explain.’

‘Do you want to hear her say sorry?’ says Mum. ‘We could tell her she has to write a letter.’

‘It’s not that.’ I shake my head impatiently, trying to shift my thoughts into making sense. The trouble is, I can’t explain it. I don’t know why I want to do it. Except maybe to prove something. But to who? Myself? Izzy?

Dr Sarah isn’t wild about hearing about Izzy or Tasha or any of them. She’s all, like, ‘Audrey, you aren’t validated by other people,’ and ‘You’re not responsible for other people’s emotions,’ and ‘This Tasha sounds very tedious – let’s move off the topic.’

She even gave me a book about unhealthy relationships. (I almost laughed out loud. Could you
get
any more unhealthy than the relationship between me and Tasha?) It was about how you have to be strong to break free from abuse and not constantly measure yourself against toxic people but stand strong and distinct like a healthy tree. Not some stunted, falling-over, co-dependent victim tree. Or whatever.

It’s all very well. But Izzy and Tasha and all of them are still in my mind all the time. They have not checked out of the building. Maybe they never will.

‘If I don’t do it, it’ll always be a question,’ I say at last. ‘It’ll bug me my whole life.
Could
I have done it?
Would
it have changed things?’

Mum and Dad don’t look convinced.

‘You could say that about anything,’ says Mum. ‘
Could
you sky-dive off the Empire State Building? Well, maybe.’

‘Life’s too short,’ says Dad firmly. ‘Move on.’

‘I’m
trying
to move on. This is part of moving on!’

But as I look from face to face I know I’m never going to persuade them. Never, whatever I say.

So I go to Frank. Who also thinks it’s a bad idea, but the difference is, after we’ve discussed it for about five minutes he shrugs and says, ‘Your life.’

Dad’s changed his email password, but Frank soon finds it on his BlackBerry on a memo called
New Password
(poor Dad, he really shouldn’t leave his BlackBerry lying around), and we get into the account. I was planning to write the email myself, but Frank takes over, and honestly, he sounds just like Dad.

‘You’ve been reading too many of Dad’s emails,’ I say in awe as I read his words. ‘This is amazing!’

‘Piece of piss,’ says Frank, but I can tell he’s pleased. And he should be. The email is totally a work of art. It goes like this:

Dear Mrs Lawton

Please forgive my wife and me for our intemperate outburst of yesterday. As you can imagine, we were shocked at being contacted by you and perhaps reacted too quickly. On reflection, Audrey would very much like to meet Izzy and hear what she has to say. Could we suggest 3 pm next Tuesday, in Starbucks.

Please do not reply to this email, as my machine is playing up. Please text this number to confirm: 07986 435 619.

With best wishes

Chris Turner

That’s my new mobile number. After we’ve sent the email, Frank deletes it and then deletes it again out of Trash, and I think we’re safe.

And then, all of a sudden, I feel this lurch of fright. What am I doing? Shit, what am I
doing
? My heart starts racing, and I can feel my hands twisting up into knots.

‘Will you come with me? Please?’ I say before I can stop myself, and Frank turns to give me a long look. I dodge it, turning my head, but then sneak a glance back. He’s looking really anxious, like it’s suddenly hit him too – what we’ve done.

‘Aud, are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Yes. Yes.’ I nod, over and over, as though to convince myself. ‘
Yes
. I’m going to do it. I just need a bit of moral support. If you come with me. And Linus.’

‘The three musketeers.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Have you told Linus?’

‘No, but I’m meeting him later at the park. I’ll tell him then.’

As I get into the park, I have a really bad moment. One of the old, scary kinds. Everyone around looks like a robot out to get me and the whole place is crackling with this air of dread and threat. My lizard brain is really not enjoying the experience; in fact my lizard brain wants to crawl under a bush.

But I’m
not
crawling under bushes, I tell myself firmly. I’m
not
listening to any lizards. Even though I feel ill with fear and keep getting these weird, dizzy waves, I manage to stride into the park like a normal person, and spot Linus sitting on a bench. Seeing him anchors me a little. Seeing his orange-segment smile splitting his face, all wide and happy, just for me, feels like someone stroking my lizard brain and telling it to calm down, everything’s fine.

(I haven’t mentioned my lizard brain to Linus. I mean, there are some things you tell a boyfriend and there are some things you totally keep to yourself otherwise you sound like a nutter.)

‘Hey, Rhubarb.’

‘Hey, Orange Slice.’ I touch his hand and we brush mouths together.

‘OK,’ says Linus, as soon as we part. ‘I have one. Go and ask that man if ducks are vegetarian.’ He points to an elderly man throwing bread at the ducks.

‘Are ducks vegetarian?’

‘Of course they’re not, you dope. They eat worms. Go on.’ He pushes my shoulder and I get up with a grin. I’m pulsating with dread but I force myself to have a conversation with the guy about ducks. Then I return to the bench and tell Linus to go and ask a bunch of French tourists which country we’re in.

Linus is a master. A
master
. He tells the French tourists in tones of consternation that he was aiming for Sweden, and must have gone astray, and they all start looking at maps and phones and saying ‘
Angleterre!
Eeengland!’ to him and gesticulating at the red buses that pass the park every five seconds.

‘Oh,
England
,’ says Linus at last, and they all nod furiously and say ‘
D’accord! Grande-Bretagne!
Eeengland!’ and at last they head off, all still gabbling and looking back at him. They’ll probably talk about him for the rest of their holiday.

‘OK,’ says Linus as he returns to the bench. ‘Go and ask that guy if he sells coconut ice cream.’ He nods at the ice-cream seller who has had his stall in the park every summer for as long as I can remember.

‘He doesn’t.’

‘I know. That’s why you’re asking.’

‘Too easy,’ I say proudly. ‘Think of another one.’

‘Can’t be bothered,’ says Linus lazily. ‘Go and do ice-cream guy.’

I head over to the stall and patiently wait my turn, and then say, ‘Excuse me, do you sell coconut ice cream?’

I know what he’s going to say. I’ve asked for coconut ice cream every year since I was about eight, but he never has it.

‘I do today,’ says the ice-cream seller, his eyes twinkling.

I stare at him stupidly as he reaches for his scoop. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Coconut ice cream for the young lady,’ he says with a flourish. ‘One-day special. Just for you.’

‘
What?
’ I blink in disbelief as he scoops white ice cream into a massive cone. ‘Is that coconut?’

‘Just for you,’ he repeats, handing me the cone. ‘And a chocolate chip for the young man,’ he adds, handing me a second cone. ‘All paid for.’

‘Coconut’s my favourite flavour,’ I say, in a daze. ‘But you never have it.’

‘That’s what he said. Your young man. Asked me to get it in special-like.’

I swivel round, and Linus is watching, his smile wider than ever.

‘Thanks,’ I say to the ice-cream seller. ‘I mean,
thanks
.’

As I reach Linus, I fling my arms round him without dropping either ice cream and kiss him. ‘I can’t believe you did that!’ I hand him his cone and lick my own. It’s nectar. It’s bliss. Coconut is the best flavour in the world. ‘Oh my
God
.’

‘Nice?’

‘I love it. I
love
it.’

‘So do I,’ says Linus, licking his own cone. ‘You.’

His words catch on my brain.
So do I. You.

The park is a riot of sunshine and ducks quacking and children shrieking, but right now it’s as though the whole world has shrunk to his face. His brown hair, his honest eyes, that crescent smile.

‘What . . . do you mean?’ I force the words out.

‘What I said. I love it too,’ he says, not taking his eyes off mine.

‘You said
you
.’

‘Well . . . maybe that’s what I meant.’

I love it. So do I. You
.

The words are dancing around my mind like jigsaw pieces, fitting together this way and that way.

‘What, exactly?’ I have to say it.

‘You know exactly.’ His eyes are smiling to match his orange-segment mouth. But they’re grave too.

‘Well . . . I love it too,’ I say, my throat tight. ‘You.’

‘Me.’

‘Yes.’ I swallow. ‘Yes.’

We don’t need to say any more. And I know I’ll always remember this moment, right here, standing in the park with the ducks and the sunshine and his arms round me. His kiss tastes of chocolate chip and I’m sure I taste of coconut.

Actually those flavours go very well together. So.

And it’s only later that life disintegrates.

He doesn’t understand. He won’t understand. He’s not just opposed to the plan, he’s angry. Physically angry. He hits a tree, like it’s the tree’s fault.

‘It’s fucking nuts,’ he keeps saying, striding back and forth over the grass, glaring at the squirrels. ‘Bonkers.’

‘Look, Linus . . .’ I try to explain. ‘I have to do this.’

‘Don’t give me that bollocks!’ he yells. ‘I thought your therapist banned those words? I thought the only thing you “have to” do in life is obey the laws of physics? Didn’t you learn anything? What about living in the present, not the past? What about that?’

I stare at him, silenced. He was listening more than I realized.

‘You don’t “have to” do this,’ he continues. ‘You’re
choosing
to do it. What if you have a relapse? What then?’

‘Then . . .’ I wipe my damp face. ‘I won’t. I’ll be fine. I’m
better
, in case you hadn’t realized—’

‘You’re still wearing fucking dark glasses!’ he explodes. ‘You’re still practising having three-line conversations with strangers! And now you want to face down some bitch bully girl? Why would you even give her the time of day? It’s selfish.’

‘What?’ I stare at him, reeling. ‘
Selfish?
’

‘Yes, selfish! You know how many people have tried to help you? You know how many people are willing you to get better? And you pull a stunt like this, just because you “have to”? This is dangerous, if you ask me. And who’s going to pick up the pieces afterwards? Tell me that.’

He’s so righteously indignant, I feel a surge of fury. What does he know? What the
fuck
does he know about me?

‘There won’t be any “pieces”,’ I spit at him. ‘For God’s sake, seeing one girl in Starbucks isn’t
dangerous
. And anyway, it wasn’t
what happened
that made me ill. That’s a common mistake people make,
actually
. Stressful events don’t make you ill,
actually
. It’s the way your brain reacts to stressful events. So.’