Authors: Claire Douglas
I carry on walking, past the marina with its cluster of sailboats in white and blue, through the cobbled pavements of the town centre, on to the promenade with pensioners reclining on wooden benches looking out to sea, until I get to the beach. I pick my way over the shingles, amazed how quiet it is for July. There are a few families making the most of the last of the day’s sunshine and a scattering of couples sitting holding hands or lolling against the wall. I make my way to the water’s edge in my flip-flops and my jeans turned up at the ankle, enjoying the warm sea lapping at my toes. My thirtieth birthday is at the beginning of next month. Every time I think of it I get a stabbing pain under my ribs, the sense of loss, of going through life alone instead of sharing these milestones with Lucy. I’m getting older while my twin sister will forever be twenty-eight.
As I turn and glance back towards the road, I freeze. She’s sitting on the wall, her long legs crossed at the ankle, her pale bob skimming her tanned shoulders, slim fingers fanned out to shield her eyes from the sunshine. At first I’m convinced it’s Lucy, until I notice the dark markings of a flower weaving its way around her ankle. I squint to get a better look. Has she caught the train to Southampton and boarded the ferry to follow me here? I close my eyes and shake my head, hoping that when I open them again she would have evaporated like the optical illusion I’m hoping she is, because surely I must be imagining her sitting there. It’s my illness, my paranoia. But when I open my eyes she’s still there. There’s nothing for it, I think, but to confront her, to ask her what the hell she’s playing at. But as soon as I take a step forward she gets up, dusting down her summer dress, and hops off the wall with the agility of a cat, disappearing into the clusters of people on the street, leaving me staring after her, terrified that I’m losing my mind.
I spend most of the night tossing and turning in the double bed, as if my body is aware that it’s meant for two. My head is full of all of them: Lucy, Nia, Callum, Luke, Ben, Beatrice, Cass, Jodie and Pam. Their faces are interchangeable as they race through my thoughts; a television recording on fast forward. Would Beatrice follow me here, and if so, why? I eventually fall asleep to the shriek of gulls as the sun filters through the slats in the wooden shutters.
But I can’t shake the uneasiness that envelops me as I shower and dress. I pull on my smart black trousers that I’ve hardly had the need to wear since Lucy died. Now they gape slightly at the waist. The sun is high in the sky, but I throw on my denim jacket over my cotton blouse to be on the safe side. Then I pack the rest of my meagre items in the holdall and go down for breakfast.
The dining room has the same view of the marina as my bedroom. I’m surprisingly hungry and enjoy the sausage, bacon and eggs the landlady has made for me, nodding politely as she talks about the local sights.
The drive to Patricia’s house is a pleasant one along slow coastal roads, and, thanks to the built-in sat nav, I don’t get lost. My knees still tremble at being behind the wheel, but I am reassured by the car’s compactness, the fact that I’m not carrying any passengers who I can inadvertently kill. I’m even confident enough to turn the radio on. Katy Perry is singing about fireworks as I drive past couples holding hands as they meander along the front, and children skipping in sunhats, eating ice creams. Then I turn into an unadopted side road that’s little more than a track, the rough terrain causing the Mini to shudder and lurch over potholes until I get to wrought-iron gates that stand open, revealing a pretty Edwardian country house. I park next to a black VW Golf, wondering if the photographer is already here as I step out on to the gravel and crunch my way to the arch-shaped wooden front door, heart banging in my chest. I’m worried I will mess up and look stupid in front of an intelligent woman like Patricia. A woman who has written countless bestsellers, most of which I’ve read. She’s one of my idols, and the thought of meeting her, of talking to her about her life, makes me forget everything else for a few minutes.
Patricia answers, tall and elegant and not looking her sixty-eight years. I introduce myself as she shakes my hand, aware that mine is clammy, and she ushers me into a large drawing room the same size as Beatrice’s, except whereas Bea’s is crammed full of brightly coloured sofas and eclectic artefacts, Patricia’s reminds me of a sepia photograph with all its cream and brown hues. For all its beauty, the room has a lived-in look about it: a stack of books on the coffee table, dog hairs on the sofa, a cat’s scratching post by the patio doors. I perch on the sofa while she takes a seat in an elegant armchair opposite me, next to a brick fireplace. The room has a view of a large back garden with an orchard in the distance, and I slowly begin to relax. I decline the offer of tea and we sit down.
‘The photographer is setting up in the garden,’ she says and although I’m a little intimidated by her, I realize I like her already, that she’s not a disappointment. I pull out my notepad from my bag.
We spend nearly an hour talking about her childhood, how she came to be published and what inspires her to write her sagas, and as we talk I find that my confidence is coming back with every squiggle of shorthand I write on the page. I’m about to finish up with some tips for hopeful writers when the patio doors open, letting in a waft of the fresh summer air, the smell of hollyhocks, and I look up, shock searing through me so that my pen and notepad fall to the seagrass carpet. At first I think this must be another optical illusion. But no, it is him. He has a camera slung around his neck, his usual nonplussed expression on his face as he walks over the threshold, as tall and lanky as Ben. I haven’t seen him since that day in hospital, a few months after Lucy died, but his beauty still makes the breath catch in my throat. He hasn’t noticed me.
‘We’re ready for you, Mrs Lipton, if you’re finished in here,’ Callum says in his familiar South London drawl. I stand up and our eyes meet. He hasn’t changed a bit, he’s still as scruffy as a student in the same black leather jacket that he wore when we were together, faded jeans, beat-up retro trainers. His hair is shorter now, a few new lines around his face, his eyes the deep shade of royal blue that haunted me in my dreams and my nightmares for months after we split up.
‘Abi …’ His voice is gentle, our eyes locked. I’m unable to tear my gaze away from him and it’s as though I’m transported back in time, that the last eighteen months have all been a horrible mistake.
I force myself to look away from him, and continue to talk to Patricia, determined not to let the fact that I’m in the same room as Callum stop me from being professional. I thank Patricia for her time, trying to keep my voice level and, ignoring Callum completely, I gather up my notepad and pen and hurriedly stuff them in my bag. Patricia walks me to the front door. If she’s noticed the tension between me and her photographer she does a good job of pretending otherwise.
I wait until I’m safely in the car, and Patricia has gone back into the house, before falling apart. I lean over the steering wheel, gasping for breath, heart hammering. I’m shaking all over.
Concentrate on your breathing
, I tell myself. I can’t drive in this state, I have to calm down. But seeing Callum again after all this time has given me such a shock I feel physically sick.
Eventually my legs stop trembling and my heart slows. What is Callum doing here? He must have engineered it, it can’t be a coincidence. I look towards the house. There is no sign of him, thankfully. I need to get out of here, I don’t want to talk to him.
I push the key fob into the ignition and start up the car. I’m putting the gearstick into reverse when I hear Callum’s shouts and I see him striding across the gravel, camera slung around his neck. ‘Abi, wait!’ he cries as he reaches the car. I wind my window down.
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ I can’t look at him, I force myself to stare out of the windscreen instead. I have a view of a field of cows.
‘Please, Abi. I was hoping you’d be here. Will you meet me for a drink in half an hour?’
‘I didn’t know you still worked for Miranda,’ I say stiffly, still looking at the cows.
‘I don’t. I’m freelance. But Mike on Picture Desk called me about this job—’
‘There’s no point,’ I cut him off. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ My voice is cold, steely. I rev the engine pointedly.
‘Please.’ The note of despair I hear in his voice makes me turn towards him and I meet his gaze full on. It still hurts to look at him. To remember …
I swallow, my throat is scratchy and raw. I give the briefest of nods.
His face brightens. ‘There’s a pub on the main road. It’s called the White Hart. Can we meet there in half an hour?’
‘I’ll think about it. You should get back. It’s not professional to keep Patricia waiting,’ I say before winding the window up, shutting him out. I can see him from my rear-view mirror as I pull away, gradually getting smaller and smaller until I round the corner and he’s out of sight.
Against my better judgement I’m sitting at a round table in the pub’s dark, gloomy snug with mahogany wood panelling on the walls, sipping a Coke. Am I doing the right thing? Wouldn’t it be wiser to let the past stay that way, rather than sit here and rehash it, apportioning blame?
I fire off a quick text to Nia, explaining the situation and asking what I should do. She replies within minutes, encouraging me to meet him.
Don’t you want answers?
I text back that she’s right, I do want answers. I’m at last ready to hear what he’s got to say, however painful. I’ve just dropped my mobile into my bag when I spot Callum walking in. He saunters to the bar, probably ordering his usual pint of Stella, and then he joins me by the square leaded window with the faded red curtains.
‘Do you want to sit outside?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s fine in here.’ I want to snap at him, tell him that this isn’t a date. I don’t want to join everyone else at benches in the beer garden, I want to get this over and done with.
‘So, how have you been?’ His legs are so long that his knees are almost under his chin as he perches on a velvet-topped stool. He places his heavy Canon digital camera on to the table next to his pint.
‘What do you think?’
He sighs. I’m not going to make this easy for him. ‘Nia said you’ve moved out of London,’ he tries again. ‘She didn’t say where.’
‘I told her not to.’
There’s a pause as he takes a swig of his lager, I can tell he’s trying to think what to say next. I remain silent, sullen. He puts his pint down, surveys me. ‘You’re looking well.’ And I know he’s remembering the last time we saw each other. I can remember it too, the shock in his usually laughing eyes as I lay curled up on my side, legs pulled up to my tummy on that narrow bed in that sterile green room with nothing but a sheet over me, a drip in my arm and bandages on my wrists, and I recall how a tear crept out of his eye and snaked its way along his nose; he thought I hadn’t noticed as he quickly wiped it away.
Proper men don’t cry, do they, Callum?
The sun streams through the window, illuminating the dust motes floating above our table, before it disappears behind a cloud again, the room gloomy once more.
‘You know …’ He doesn’t look at me, instead he picks up a beer mat, his long fingers working away at the cardboard edges. ‘It’s not such a coincidence that I’m here today. Mike told me you were interviewing Patricia Lipton. I wanted to see you, but I was still surprised you actually came. I know you haven’t been working …’
‘I’ve done the odd piece for Miranda since I moved out of London,’ I say, defensively.
He holds up his hands. ‘Look, I don’t want to argue with you. I wanted to see you, to see if you were okay.’
‘To assuage your guilt.’
He hangs his head and I know it’s a low blow. How can I blame him when it’s my fault too? ‘Does Luke still hate me?’ I say in a small voice.
He lifts his head and a jolt of desire rips through me. I know, in spite of everything that happened, he will always be special to me, my first love.
‘I don’t know, we don’t talk about it. I’ve hardly seen him since he moved out.’
I remember how it was still raining when the ambulance arrived. Luke was cradling her in his arms. He followed the stretcher on to the ambulance as if it was his God-given right, leaving me slumped by the tree, too scared to move while a paramedic checked me over. Lucy never made it as far as the hospital and I wasn’t with her when she died. We entered the world together but she left it without me by her side. Extensive head injuries, they said, while the rest of us escaped the car crash with sprains, cuts and bruises.
‘He said he’d never forgive me,’ I mutter.
‘He didn’t mean it, Abi. He was devastated. His girlfriend had recently died.’
I feel a burst of indignation. ‘He took over, I’ll never forgive him for that. It was his fault I wasn’t there when she died.’ I press my fingers into my palms and concentrate on the pain my nails are causing my flesh, rather than the tears that threaten.
‘We all loved her.’ He says it quietly and
I know that, at last, I’m ready to hear the truth. I need to know what happened that night. For the last eighteen months I’ve tried to block it out, avoiding the issue even if Janice encouraged me to face it, to talk to Callum. But I didn’t want to revisit that awful night, to remember that my last words to Lucy had been said in anger.
‘That night … You said you thought Lucy was me, but that wasn’t the case at all, was it, Callum?’ He chews his lip and I know he’s considering whether to be honest with me, whether it might send me over the edge again. I place my hand on his. ‘I need to know the truth now. I was hiding from it before, but it’s better to face up to it. I’m not angry with her. I’ve never been angry with her. But please tell me the truth. Were you in love with Lucy?’
He shakes his head. ‘Oh, Abi. Of course I wasn’t in love with her. Not in the way you think. Your crazy jealousy always gnawed at our relationship. Lucy was my friend, that’s all.’
A flare of anger flickers inside me, but just as quickly it’s gone. He’s right, I know he’s right. I can’t lie to myself about it any longer. But I take my hand away from his and cup my glass.