I Let You Go (20 page)

He phoned this morning to say he would be bringing supper, and I’m curious to see what is in the cool-bag he has left by the front door.

‘It was delivered today by a grateful client,’ Patrick says. He unzips the bag and reaches inside. Like a magician producing a rabbit, he pulls out a glossy blue-black lobster, its claws waving lazily at me.

‘Oh my goodness!’ I am at once delighted and daunted by the proposed menu, having never attempted anything so complicated. ‘Do many of your customers pay you in lobsters?’

‘A surprising number,’ Patrick says. ‘Others pay in pheasants, or rabbits. Sometimes they’ll offer up front, but often I’ll turn up to work and find something on the doorstep.’ He grins. ‘I’ve learned not to ask exactly where it’s come from. It’s tricky to pay the tax man with pheasants, but fortunately we still have enough people with cheque books to keep the practice afloat. I couldn’t turn away a sick animal just because there was no money to treat it.’

‘You’re an old softie,’ I say, and I put my arms around him, kissing him slowly on the lips.

‘Shh,’ he says, as we pull apart, ‘you’ll ruin the macho image I’ve been building up. Besides, I’m not too soft to skin a fluffy rabbit or boil a lobster.’ He gives the over-the-top laugh of a cartoon villain.

‘Idiot,’ I say, laughing at him. ‘I do hope you know how to cook it, because I certainly don’t.’ I eye the lobster warily.

‘Watch and learn, madam,’ Patrick says, draping a tea-towel over his arm and bowing extravagantly. ‘Dinner will be served shortly.’

I find my largest saucepan and Patrick zips the lobster safely back in the cool-bag while we wait for the Aga to boil the water. I fill the sink to wash the lettuce and we work in companionable silence, Beau occasionally weaving between our legs, reminding us gently of his presence. It’s easy and non-threatening, and I smile to myself, sneaking a glance at Patrick, who is engrossed in the sauce he is making.

‘Okay?’ he asks, catching my eye and resting the wooden spoon against the pan. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, turning back to my salad.

‘Oh go on, tell me.’

‘I was thinking about us.’

‘Now you
have
to tell me!’ Patrick says, laughing. Reaching into the sink, he wets his hand and flicks the droplets of water at me.

I scream. I can’t help it. Before my head has a chance to reason with me, and tell me this is Patrick – just Patrick messing around – I spin away from him and pull my arms about my head. A visceral, instinctive reaction, that sends my pulse racing and makes my palms sweat. The air swirls around me and for a second I am transported to another time. Another place.

The silence is palpable, and I slowly straighten, standing upright, my heart banging against my ribcage. Patrick’s hands are by his sides, his expression horrified. I try to speak, but my mouth is devoid of moisture and the feeling of panic in my throat has yet to subside. I look at Patrick, at the confusion and guilt on his face, and I know I will have to explain. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I begin. ‘I…’ I bring my hands up to my face in dismay.

Patrick steps forward. He tries to take me in his arms but I push him away, ashamed of my reaction and battling with this sudden impulse to tell him everything.

‘Jenna,’ he says softly, ‘what happened to you?’

There’s a knock at the door and we look at each other.

‘I’ll go,’ Patrick says, but I shake my head.

‘It’ll be Iestyn.’ I’m grateful for the diversion, and I scrub at my face with my fingers. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

As soon as I open the door, I know exactly what is happening.

All I ever wanted was an escape: to pretend to myself that the life I lived before the accident belonged to someone else, and to fool myself that I could be happy again. I’ve often wondered what my reaction would be when I was found. I wondered how it would feel to be brought back, and whether I would fight it.

But when the policeman says my name I simply nod.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say.

He’s older than me, with dark hair cropped short, and a sombre suit. He looks kind, and I wonder what sort of life he has; whether he has children, a wife.

The woman next to him steps forward. She looks younger, with dark hair that curls around her face. ‘Detective Constable Kate Evans,’ she says, opening a leather wallet to show a flash of metal badge. ‘Bristol CID. I’m arresting you for causing death by dangerous driving, and for failing to stop at the scene of an accident. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court…’

I shut my eyes and exhale slowly. It’s time to stop pretending.

You were sitting in a corner of the Student Union when I first saw you. You didn’t notice me, not then, although I must have stood out: a solitary suit among a crowd of students. Surrounded by friends, you were laughing so hard you had to wipe your eyes. I took my coffee to the next table, where I flicked through the paper and listened to your exchanges, which flitted incomprehensibly between topics in the way women’s conversations do. Eventually I put down my paper and simply watched you. I learned you were all art students, and that you were in your final year. I might have guessed that from the easy confidence with which you took over the bar, calling to friends on the other side of the room and laughing with no regard to what others might think. It was then that I found out your name: Jenna. I felt faintly disappointed when I heard it. Your luxurious hair and pale skin gave you a Pre-Raphaelite quality, and I had been imagining something a little more classic. Aurelia, perhaps, or Eleanor. You were, however, undoubtedly the most attractive of the group. The others were all too brash; too obvious. You must have been the same age as them – fifteen years younger than me, at least – but you had a maturity that showed on your face even then. You looked around the bar, as though searching for someone, and I smiled at you, but you didn’t see, and I had to leave for my lecture a few minutes later.

I had agreed to deliver six of these guest lectures; part of a drive to integrate the college into the business community. They were easy enough: the students were either half asleep, or keenly attentive, leaning forward to hang on every word I uttered about entrepreneurship. Not bad for someone who never even went to college. Surprisingly for a Business Studies course, there were a number of girls in attendance, and I hadn’t missed the exchange of glances between them when I walked into the lecture theatre that first day. I was a novelty, I supposed: older than the boys in halls, yet younger than their professors and resident lecturers. My suits were handmade; my shirts well-fitted, with flashes of silver at the cuffs. I had no grey in my hair – not back then – and no middle-aged spread to hide beneath my jacket.

As I spoke I would make a point of pausing mid-sentence and making eye contact with a female student – a different one each week. They would blush under my gaze, returning my smile before dropping their eyes away as I continued with the lecture. I enjoyed seeing what spurious reason they would find to hang back after class, falling over themselves in their effort to reach me before I packed up my books and left. I would sit against the edge of the table, one hand supporting my weight as I leaned forward to hear their question, watching the glimmer of hope in their eyes fade as they realised I wasn’t going to ask them out. They didn’t interest me. Not like you did.

The following week you were there again with your friends, and when I walked past your table you looked at me and smiled; not through politeness, but a wide smile that reached your eyes. You were wearing a bright-blue vest top under which the straps and lacy edging of a black bra could be seen, and baggy combat trousers that hung low on your hips. A tiny ripple of smooth, tanned flesh protruded between the two, and I wondered if you realised, and if so, why it didn’t bother you.

The conversation moved from coursework to relationships. Boys, I suppose, although you called them men. Your friends spoke in lowered tones I had to strain to hear, and I braced myself to hear your part in this litany of one-night-stands and careless flirtations. But I had judged you correctly, and all I heard from you were peals of laughter and good-humoured digs at your friends. You weren’t like them.

I thought about you all that week. At lunchtime I took a walk through the college grounds, in the hope I would bump into you. I saw one of your friends – the tall one, with dyed hair – and I walked behind her for a while, but she disappeared into the library and I couldn’t follow her inside to see if she was meeting you.

On the day of my fourth lecture I arrived early and was rewarded for my efforts by the sight of you sitting alone, at the same table I had seen you on the previous two occasions. You were reading a letter, and I realised you were crying. Your mascara had smudged beneath your eyes, and although you would not have believed it, you were far more beautiful that way. I carried my coffee over to your table.

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’

You pushed the letter into your bag. ‘Go ahead.’

‘We’ve seen each other here before, I think,’ I said, sitting opposite you.

‘Have we? I’m sorry, I don’t remember.’

It was irritating that you had so easily forgotten, but you were upset, and perhaps not thinking clearly.

‘I’m lecturing here at the moment.’ I had discovered early on that being on the teaching establishment held immediate appeal for students. Whether it was the desire for someone to ‘put in a good word’, or simply the contrast with the male students, barely out of their teens, I wasn’t sure, but it hadn’t failed yet.

‘Really?’ Your eyes lit up. ‘What subject?’

‘Business Studies.’

‘Oh.’ The spark disappeared, and I felt a burst of resentment that you could write off something so important so quickly. Your art was hardly going to feed and clothe a family, or regenerate a town, after all.

‘So what do you do when you’re not giving lectures?’ you asked.

It shouldn’t have mattered what you thought, but it was suddenly important to me that you were impressed. ‘I own a software company,’ I told you. ‘We sell programs all over the world.’ I didn’t mention Doug, whose share was sixty per cent to my forty, and I didn’t clarify that ‘all over the world’ currently meant Ireland. The business was growing – I wasn’t telling you anything I hadn’t told the bank manager on our last loan application.

‘You’re in your final year, right?’ I changed the subject.

You nodded. ‘I’m doing—’

I held up my hand. ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess.’

You laughed, enjoying the game, and I took my time pretending to think about it, letting my eyes run over your striped Lycra dress; the scarf tied around your hair. You were heavier back then, and the swell of your breasts stretched the fabric taut across your chest. I could see the outline of your nipples and I wondered if they would be pale or dark.

‘You’re doing art,’ I said finally.

‘Yes!’ You looked amazed. ‘How did you know?’

‘You look like an artist,’ I said, as if it were obvious.

You didn’t say anything, but two spots of colour appeared high on your cheekbones, and you couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face.

‘Ian Petersen.’ I held out my hand to shake yours, feeling the coolness of your skin against my fingers, and keeping it there for a fraction longer than necessary.

‘Jenna Gray.’

‘Jenna,’ I repeated. ‘That’s an unusual name. Is it short for something?’

‘Jennifer. But I’ve never been called anything other than Jenna.’ You gave a careless laugh. The last trace of your tears had disappeared, and with it the vulnerability I had found so compelling.

‘I couldn’t help but notice you were a little upset.’ I indicated the letter, stuffed into your open bag. ‘Have you had bad news?’

Your face darkened immediately. ‘It’s from my father.’

I said nothing, just tilted my head slightly to one side, and waited. Women rarely need an invitation to talk about their problems, and you were no exception.

‘He left when I was fifteen, and I haven’t seen him since. Last month I tracked him down and wrote to him, but he doesn’t want to know. Says he has a new family and we should “leave the past in the past”.’ You sketched quote marks in the air and affected a sarcastic air that didn’t hide your bitterness.

‘That’s terrible,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to see you.’

You softened instantly, and blushed. ‘His loss,’ you said, although your eyes were glistening again and you looked down at the table.

I leaned forward. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘That would be lovely.’

When I got back to the table you had been joined by a group of friends. I recognised two of the girls, but there was a third with them, and a boy with pierced ears and long hair. They had taken all the chairs, and I had to fetch one from another table in order to sit down myself. I handed you your cup, and waited for you to explain to the others that we were mid-conversation, but you just thanked me for the coffee and introduced your friends, whose names I instantly forgot.

One of your friends asked me a question, but I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You were talking earnestly with the long-haired boy about some end-of-year assignment. Your hair fell across your face and you tucked it impatiently behind your ear. You must have felt my gaze on you because you turned your head. Your smile was apologetic and I at once forgave you for the discourtesy of your friends.

My coffee grew cold. I didn’t want to be the first to leave, and have them all talk about me, but there were only a few minutes before my lecture. I stood up and waited until you noticed me.

‘Thanks for the coffee.’

I wanted to ask if we could see each other again, but how could I with all your friends around you?

‘Next week, perhaps?’ I said, as though it really didn’t matter to me in the slightest. But you had turned back to your friends, and I left with the sound of your laugh ringing in my ears.