Me Before You: After You Part 2

'We're not saying anything.' Dad scratches his head. 'It's just well things had all gone so wrong since ... and we hadn't seen you for so long ... and we were a bit surprised that you'd be up walking on the roof of a building in the wee small hours. You used to be afraid of heights.'

'I used to be engaged to a man who thought it was normal to calculate how many calories he'd burned while he slept. Jesus. This is why you've been so nice to me? You think I tried to kill myself?'

'It's just he was asking us all sorts ...'

'Who was asking what?'

'The psychiatrist bloke. They just want to make sure you're okay, love. We know things have been all well, you know since '

'Psychiatrist?'

'They're putting you on the waiting list to see someone. To talk, you know. And we've had a long chat with the doctors and you're coming home with us. Just while you recover. You can't stay by yourself in that flat of yours. It's '

'You've been in my flat?'

'Well, we had to fetch your things.'

There is a long silence. I think of them standing in my doorway, my mother's hands tight on her bag as she surveyed the unwashed bed-linen, the empty wine bottles lined up in a row on the mantelpiece, the solitary half-bar of Fruit and Nut in the fridge. I picture them shaking their heads, looking at each other.

Are you sure we've got the right place, Bernard?

'Right now you need to be with your family. Just till you're back on your feet.'

I want to say I'll be fine in my flat, no matter what they think of it. I want to do my job and come home and not think until my next shift. I want to say I can't come back to Stortfold and be that girl again, the one who. I don't want to have to feel the weight of my mother's carefully disguised disapproval, of my father's cheerful determination that it' s all okay, everything is just fine, as if saying it enough times will actually make it okay. I don't want to pa.s.s Will's house every day, to think about what I was part of, the thing that will always be there.

But I don't say any of it. Because suddenly I'm tired and everything hurts and I just can't fight any more.

Dad brings me home two weeks later in his work van. There is only room for two in the front, so Mum has stayed behind to prepare the house, and as the motorway speeds beneath us, I find my stomach tightening nervously.

The cheerful streets of my hometown feel foreign to me now. I look at them with a distant, a.n.a.lytical eye, noting how small everything looks, how tired, how twee. I realize this is how Will must have seen it when he first came home after his accident, and push the thought away. As we drive down our street, I find myself sinking slightly in my seat. I don't want to make polite conversation with neighbours, to explain myself. I don't want to be judged for what I did.

'You okay?' Dad turns, as if he guesses something of what's going through my head.

'Fine.''Good girl.' He puts a hand briefly on my shoulder.

Mum is already at the door as we pull up. I suspect she has been standing by the window for the past half-hour. Dad puts one of my bags on the step, then comes back to help me out, hoisting the other over his shoulder.

I place my cane carefully on the paving stones, and feel the twitching of curtains behind me as I make my way slowly up the path. Look who it is, I can hear them whispering. What do you think she' s done now?

Dad steers me forward, watching my feet carefully, as if they might suddenly shoot out and go somewhere they shouldn't. 'Okay there?' he keeps saying. 'Not too fast now.'

I can see Granddad hovering behind Mum in the hall, wearing his checked shirt and his good blue jumper. Nothing has changed. The wallpaper is the same. The hall carpet is the same, the lines in the worn pile visible from where Mum must have vacuumed that morning. I can see my old blue anorak hanging on the hook. Eighteen months. I feel as if I have been away for a decade.

'Don't rush her,' Mum says, her hands pressed together. 'You're going too fast, Bernard.'

'She's hardly flipping Mo Farah. If she goes any slower we'll be moonwalking.'

'Watch those steps. Should you stand behind her, Bernard, coming up the steps? You know, in case she falls backwards?'

'I know where the steps are,' I say, through gritted teeth. 'I only lived here for twenty-six years.'

'Watch she doesn't catch herself on that lip there, Bernard. You don't want her to smash the other hip.'

Oh, G.o.d, I think. Is this what it was like for you, Will? Every single day?

And then my sister is in the doorway, pushing past Mum. 'Oh, for G.o.d's sake, Mum. Come on, Hopalong. You're turning us into a freaking sideshow.'

Treena wedges her shoulder under my armpit and turns briefly to glare out at the neighbours, her eyebrows raised as if to say, Really? I can almost hear the swishing of curtains as they close.

'Bunch of b.l.o.o.d.y rubberneckers. Anyway, hurry up. I promised Thomas he could see your scars before I take him to youth club. G.o.d, how much weight have you lost? Your b.o.o.bs must look like two tangerines in a pair of socks.'

It's hard to laugh and walk at the same time. Thomas runs to hug me so that I have to stop and put a hand against the wall to keep my balance as we collide. 'Did they really cut you open and put you back together?' he says. His head comes up to my chest. He's missing four front teeth. 'Grandpa says they probably put you back together all the wrong way. And G.o.d only knows how we'll tell the difference.'

'Bernard!'

'I was joking.'

'Louisa.' Granddad's voice is thick and hesitant. He reaches forward unsteadily and hugs me and I hug him back. He pulls away, his old hands gripping my arms surprisingly tightly, and frowns at me, a mock anger.

'I know, Daddy. I know. But she's home now,' says Mum.

'You're back in your old room,' says Dad. 'I'm afraid we redecorated with Transformers wallpaper for Thom. You don't mind the odd Autobot and Predacon, right?'

'I had worms in my bottom,' says Thomas. 'Mum says I'm not to talk about it outside the house. Or put my fingers up my ''Oh, good Lord,' says Mum.

'Welcome home, Lou,' says Dad, and promptly drops my bag on my foot.

CHAPTER THREE.

Looking back, for the first nine months after Will's death I was in a kind of daze. I went straight to Paris and simply didn't go home, giddy with freedom, with the appet.i.tes that Will had stirred in me. I got a job at a bar favoured by expats where they didn't mind my terrible French, and I grew better at it. I rented a tiny attic room in the 16th, above a Middle Eastern restaurant, and I would lie awake, listening to the sound of the late drinkers and the early-morning deliveries, and every day I felt like I was living someone else's life.

Those early months, it was as if I had lost a layer of skin I felt everything more intensely. I woke up laughing, or crying, saw everything as if a filter had been removed. I ate new foods, walked strange streets, spoke to people in a language that wasn't mine. Sometimes I felt haunted by him, as if I was seeing it all through his eyes, heard his voice in my ear.

What do you think of that, then, Clark?

I told you you'd love this.

Eat it! Try it! Go on!

I felt lost without our daily routines. It took weeks for my hands not to feel useless without daily contact with his body: the soft shirt I would b.u.t.ton, the warm, motionless hands I would wash gently, the silky hair I could still feel between my fingers. I missed his voice, his abrupt, hard-earned laugh, the feel of his lips against my fingers, the way his eyelids would lower when he was about to drop off to sleep. My mother, still aghast at what I had been part of, had told me that while she loved me, she could not reconcile this Louisa with the daughter she had raised, so with the loss of my family, as well as the man I had loved, every thread that had linked me to who I was had been cut. I felt as if I had simply floated off, untethered, to some unknown universe.

So I acted out a new life. I made casual, arm's-length friendships with other travellers: young English students on gap years, Americans retracing the steps of literary heroes, certain that they would never return to the Midwest, wealthy young bankers, day-trippers, a constantly changing cast that drifted in and through and past; escapees from other lives. I smiled and I chatted and I worked, and I told myself I was doing what he wanted. That there had to be comfort, at least, in that.

Winter loosened its grip and the spring was beautiful. Then almost overnight I woke up one morning and realized I had fallen out of love with the city. Or, at least, I didn't feel Parisian enough to stay. The stories of the expats began to sound wearyingly similar, the Parisians to seem unfriendly or, at least, I noticed, several times a day, the myriad ways in which I would never quite fit in. The city, compelling as it was, felt like a glamorous couture dress that I had bought in haste but didn't quite fit me after all. I handed in my notice and went travelling around Europe.

No two months had ever left me feeling more inadequate. I was lonely almost all the time. I hated not knowing where I was going to sleep each night, was permanently anxious about train timetables and currency, found it difficult to make friends when I didn't trust anyone I met. And what could I say about myself, anyway? When people asked me, I could give them only the most cursory details. All the stuff that was important or interesting about me was what I couldn't share. Without someone to talk to, every sight Isaw whether it was the Trevi Fountain or a ca.n.a.l in Amsterdam felt simply like a box I'd needed to tick on a list. I spent the last week on a beach in Greece that reminded me too much of a beach I had been on with Will not too long before, and finally, after a week of sitting on the sand fending off bronzed men, who all seemed to be called Dmitri, and trying to tell myself I was actually having a good time, I gave up and returned to Paris. Mostly because that was the first time it had occurred to me that I had nowhere else to go.

For two weeks I slept on the sofa of a girl I'd worked with at the bar, while I tried to decide what to do next. Recalling a conversation I'd had with Will about careers, I wrote to several colleges about fashion courses, but I had no history of work to show them and they rebuffed me politely. The place on the course I had originally won after Will died had been awarded to someone else because I had failed to defer. I could apply again next year, the administrator said, in the tones of someone who knew I wouldn't.

I looked online at jobs websites and saw that, despite everything I had been through, I was still unqualified for the kind of jobs I might be interested in doing. And then by chance, just as I was wondering what to do next, Michael Lawler, Will's lawyer, rang me and suggested it was time to do something with the money Will had left. It was the excuse to move that I needed. He helped me negotiate a price on a scarily expensive two-bedroomed flat on the edge of the Square Mile, which I bought largely because I remembered Will once talking about the wine bar on the corner, which made me feel a bit closer to him; there was a little left over with which to furnish it. Six weeks later I came back to England, got a job at the Shamrock and Clover, slept with a man called Phil I would never see again, and waited to feel as if I had really started living.

Nine months on I was still waiting.

I didn't go out much that first week home. I was sore, and grew tired quickly, so it was easy to lie in bed and doze, wiped out by extra-strength painkillers, and tell myself that letting my body recover was all that mattered. In a weird way, being back in our little family house suited me: it was the first place I had managed to sleep more than four hours at a stretch since I had left; it was small enough that I could always reach out for a wall to support myself. Mum fed me, Granddad kept me company (Treena had gone back to college, taking Thom with her), and I watched a lot of daytime television, marvelling at its never-ending advertis.e.m.e.nts for loan companies and stair lifts, and its preoccupations with minor celebrities that the best part of a year abroad had left me unable to recognize. It was like being in a little coc.o.o.n, one that, admittedly, had a whacking great elephant squatting in its corner.

We didn't talk about anything that might upset this delicate equilibrium. I would watch whatever celebrity news daytime television threw up and then say, at supper, 'Well, what about that Shayna West, then, eh?' And Mum and Dad would leap on the topic gratefully, remarking that she was a trollop or had nice hair or that she was no better than she should be. We covered Bargains In Y our Attic ('I always wonder what that Victorian planter of your mother's would have been worth ... ugly old thing.') and Ideal Homes in the Country ('I wouldn't wash a dog in that bathroom'). I didn't think beyond each mealtime, beyond the basic challenges of getting dressed, brushing my teeth and completing whatever tiny tasks my mother set me ('You know, love, when I'm out, if you could sort your washing, I'll do it with my coloureds').

But, like a creeping tide, the outside world insisted steadily on intruding. I heard the neighbours asking questions of my mother as she hung out the washing. Y our Lou home, then, is she? And Mum'suncharacteristically curt response: She is. I found myself avoiding the rooms in the house from which I could see the castle. But I knew it was there, the people in it living, breathing links to Will. Sometimes I wondered what had happened to them; while in Paris I had been forwarded a letter from Mrs Traynor, thanking me formally for everything I had done for her son. 'I am conscious that you did everything you could.' But that was it. That family had gone from being my whole life to a ghostly remnant of a time I wouldn't allow myself to remember. Now, as our street sat moored in the shadow of the castle for several hours every evening, I felt the Traynors' presence like a rebuke.

I'd been there two weeks before I realized that Mum and Dad no longer went to their social club. 'Isn't it Tuesday?' I said, on the third week, as we sat around the dinner table. 'Shouldn't you be gone by now?'

They glanced at each other. 'Ah, no. We're fine here,' Dad said, chewing a piece of his pork chop.

'I'm fine by myself, honestly,' I told them. 'I'm much better now. And I'm quite happy watching television.' I secretly longed to sit, un.o.bserved, with n.o.body else in the room. I had barely been left alone for more than half an hour at a time since I'd come home. 'Really. Go out and enjoy yourselves. Don't mind me.'

'We ... we don't really go to the club any more,' said Mum, as she sliced through a potato.

'People ... they had a lot to say. About what went on.' Dad shrugged. 'In the end it was easier just to stay out of it.' The silence that followed this lasted a full six minutes.

And there were other, more concrete, reminders of the life I had left behind. Ones that wore skin-tight running pants with special wicking properties.

It was on the fourth morning Patrick jogged past our house that I thought it might be more than coincidence. I had heard his voice the first day and limped blearily to the window, peering through the blind. And there he was below me, stretching out his hamstrings while talking to a blonde girl with a ponytail; she was clad in matching blue Lycra so tight I could pretty much work out what she'd had for breakfast. They looked like two Olympians missing a bobsleigh.

I stood back from the window in case he looked up and saw me, and within a minute, they were gone again, jogging down the road, backs erect, legs pumping, like a pair of glossy turquoise carriage ponies.

Two days later I was getting dressed when I heard them. Patrick was saying something loudly about carb-loading, and this time the girl flicked a suspicious glance towards my house, as if she were wondering why they had stopped in exactly the same place twice.

On the third day I was in the front room with Granddad when they arrived. 'We should practise sprints,'

Patrick was saying loudly. 'Tell you what, you go to the third lamppost and back and I'll time you. Two- minute intervals. Go!'

Granddad rolled his eyes meaningfully.

'Has he been doing this the whole time I've been back?'

Granddad's eyes rolled pretty much into the back of his head.

I watched through the net curtains as Patrick stood, eyes fixed on his stopwatch, his best side presented to my window. He was wearing a black fleece zip-up top and matching Lycra shorts, and as he stood, a few feet the other side of the curtain, I was able to gaze at him, quietly amazed that this was someone I had been sure, for so long, I loved.

'Keep going!' he yelled, looking up from the stopwatch. And, like an obedient gun dog, the girl touched the lamppost beside him and bolted away again. 'Forty-two point three eight seconds,' he saidapprovingly, when she returned, panting. 'I reckon you could shave another point five of a second off that.'

'That's for your benefit,' said my mother, who had walked in bearing two mugs.

'I did wonder.'

'His mother asked me in the supermarket were you back and I said you were. Don't look at me like that I could hardly lie to the woman.' She nodded towards the window. 'That one's had her b.o.o.bs done.

They're the talk of Stortfold. Apparently you could rest two cups of tea on them.' She stood beside me for a moment. 'You know they're engaged?'

I waited for the pang, but it was so mild it could have been wind. 'They look ... well suited.'

My mother stood there for a moment, watching him. 'He's not a bad sort, Lou. You just ... changed.'

She handed me a mug and turned away.

Finally, on the morning he stopped to do press-ups on the pavement outside the house, I opened the front door and stepped out. I leaned against the porch, my arms folded across my chest, watching until he looked up. 'I wouldn't stop there for too long. Next door's dog is a bit partial to that bit of pavement.'

'Lou!' he exclaimed, as if I was the very last person he expected to see standing outside my own house, which he had visited several times a week for the seven years we had been together. 'Well ... I'm surprised to see you back. I thought you were off to conquer the big wide world!'

His fiancee, who was doing press-ups beside him, looked up, then back down at the pavement. It might have been my imagination, but her b.u.t.tocks might have clenched even more tightly. Up, down, she bobbed furiously. Up and down. I found myself worrying slightly for the welfare of her new bosom.

He bounced to his feet. 'This is Caroline, my fiancee.' He kept his eyes on me, perhaps waiting for some kind of reaction. 'We're training for the next Ironman. We've done two together already.'

'How ... romantic,' I said.

'Well, Caroline and I feel it's good to do things together,' he said.

'So I see,' I replied. 'And his and hers turquoise Lycra!'

'Oh. Yeah. Team colour.'

There was a short silence.

I gave a little air punch. 'Go, team!'

Caroline sprang to her feet and began to stretch out her thigh muscles, folding her leg behind her like a stork. She nodded towards me, the least civility she could reasonably get away with.

'You've lost weight,' he said.

'Yeah, well. A saline-drip diet will do that to you.'

'I heard you had an ... accident.' He c.o.c.ked his head sideways, sympathetically.

'News travels fast.'

'Still. I'm glad you're okay.' He sniffed, looked down the road. 'It must have been hard for you this past year. You know. Doing what you did and all.'

And there it was. I tried to keep control of my breathing. Caroline resolutely refused to look at me, extending her leg in a hamstring stretch. Then, 'Anyway ... congratulations on the marriage.'

He surveyed his future wife proudly, lost in admiration of her sinewy leg. 'Well, it's like they say you just know when you know.' He gave me a faux-apologetic smile. And that was what finished me off.'I'm sure you did. And I guess you've got plenty put aside to pay for the wedding they're not cheap, are they?'

They both looked at me.

'What with selling my story to the newspapers. What did they pay you, Pat? A couple of thousand?