Me Before You: After You Part 36

Are we talking?

Sure. What do you want to say?

Sometimes I look at the lives of the people around me and I wonder if we aren't all destined to leave a trail of damage. It's not just your mum and dad who f.u.c.k you up, Mr Larkin. I gazed around me, like someone suddenly handed clear gla.s.ses, and saw that pretty much everyone bore the brutal imprint of love, whether lost, whipped away from them or simply vanished into a grave.

Will had done it to all of us, I saw now. He hadn't meant to, but even in simply refusing to live, he had.

I loved a man who had opened up a world to me but hadn't loved me enough to stay in it. And now I was too afraid to love a man who might love me in case ... In case what? I turned it over in my head in the silent hours after Lily had retreated to the glowing digital distractions of her room.

Sam didn't call. I couldn't blame him. What would I have said, anyway? The truth was that I didn't want to talk about what we were because I didn't know.

It wasn't that I didn't love being with him. I suspected I became slightly ridiculous around him my laugh goofy, my jokes silly and puerile, my pa.s.sion fierce and surprising even to myself. I felt better when he was there, more the person I wanted to be. More of everything. And yet.

And yet.

To commit to Sam was to commit to the likelihood of more loss. Statistically most relationships ended badly and, given my mental state over the past two years, my chances of beating the odds were pretty low.

We could talk around it, we could lose ourselves in brief moments, but love ultimately meant more pain.

More damage to me or, worse, to him.

Who was strong enough for that?

I wasn't sleeping properly again. So I slept through my alarm and, despite tearing my way up the motorway, arrived late for Granddad's birthday. In celebration of his eighty years, Dad had brought out the foldaway gazebo we had used for Thomas's christening, which flapped, mossy and listless, at the end of the garden where, through the open door that led to the back alley, a succession of neighbours popped in and out, bringing cake or good wishes. Granddad sat in the middle of it all on a plastic garden chair, nodding at people he no longer recognized, only occasionally gazing longingly towards his folded copy of the Racing Post.

'So this promotion,' Treena was on tea-duty, pouring from an oversized pot and handing out cups, 'what exactly does it mean?'

'Well, I get a t.i.tle. I balance the till at the end of every shift and I get to hold a set of keys.' This is a serious responsibility, Louisa, Richard Percival had said, bestowing them with as much gravitas and pomposity as if he were handing me the Holy Grail. Use them wisely. He actually said those words. Use them wisely. I wanted to say, What else am I going to do with a set of bar keys? Plough a field?

'Money?' She handed me a cup and I sipped at it.'A pound an hour extra.'

'Mm.' She was unimpressed.

'And I don't have to wear the uniform any more.'

She scrutinized the Charlie' s Angels jumpsuit I had put on that morning in honour of the occasion.

'Well, I guess that's something.' She pointed Mrs Laslow towards the sandwiches.

What else could I say? It was a job. Progress of sorts. I didn't tell her about the days when it felt like a peculiar form of torture to work somewhere where I was forced to watch each plane taxi on the runway, gather its energy like a great bird, then launch itself into the sky. I didn't tell her how putting on that green polo shirt each day made me feel somehow as if I had lost something.

'Mum says you've got a boyfriend.'

'He's not really my boyfriend.'

'She said that as well. What is it, then? You just b.u.mp uglies once in a while?'

'No. We're good friends '

'So he's a pig.'

'He's not a pig. He's gorgeous.'

'But c.r.a.p in the sack.'

'He's wonderful. Not that it's any of your business. And smart, before you '

'Then he's married.'

'He is not married. Jesus, Treen. Will you just let me explain? I like him, but I'm not sure I want to get involved just yet.'

'Because of the long queue of other handsome, employed single s.e.xy men waiting to snap you up?'

I glared at her.

'I'm just saying. Gift horses and all that.'

'When do you get your exam results?'

'Don't change the subject.' She sighed and opened a new carton of milk. 'Couple of weeks.'

'What's wrong? You're going to get top marks. You know you will.'

'But what's the difference? I'm stuck.'

I frowned.

'There are no jobs in Stortfold. But I can't afford the rent in London, not with childcare for Thom on top. And n.o.body gets top dollar when they're first starting out, even with top marks.'

She poured another cup of tea. I wanted to protest, to say it wasn't so, but I knew only too well how tough the job market was. 'So what will you do?'

'Stay here for now, I suppose. Commute, maybe. Hope that Mum's feminist metamorphosis won't stop her picking Thom up from school.' She raised a small smile that wasn't a smile at all.

I had never seen my sister down. Even if she felt it, she ploughed on, like an automaton, a firm advocate of the 'short walk and snap out of it' school of depression. I was trying to work out what to say when there was a sudden commotion on the food table. We looked up to see Mum and Dad facing off over a chocolate cake. They were talking in the lowered, sibilant voices of people who did not want others to know they were arguing, but not enough to stop arguing.

'Mum? Dad? Everything okay?' I walked over.

Dad pointed at the table. 'It's not a homemade cake.''What?'

'The cake. It's not homemade. Look at it.'

I looked at it a large, lavishly iced chocolate cake, decorated with chocolate b.u.t.tons between the candles.

Mum shook her head in exasperation. 'I had an essay to write.'

'An essay. You're not at school! You always do a homemade cake for Granddad.'

'It's a nice cake. It's from Waitrose. Daddy doesn't mind that it's not homemade.'

'Yes, he does. He's your father. You do mind, don't you, Granddad?'

Granddad looked from one to the other, and gave a tiny shake of his head. Around us, the conversation stuttered to a halt. Our neighbours eyed each other nervously. Bernard and Josie Clark never argued.

'He's just saying that because he doesn't want to hurt your feelings.' Dad harrumphed.

'If his feelings aren't hurt, Bernard, why on earth should yours be? It's a chocolate cake. It's not like I ignored his whole birthday.'

'I just want you to give priority to your family! Is that too much to ask, Josie? One homemade cake?'

'I'm here! There's a cake, with candles! Here's the ruddy sandwiches! I'm not off sunning myself in the Bahamas!' Mum put her pile of plates heavily on the trestle table and folded her arms.

Dad went to speak again but she shut him up with a raised hand. 'So, Bernard, you devoted family man, you, exactly how much of this little lot did you put together, eh?'

'Uh-oh ...' Treena moved a step closer to me.

'Did you buy Daddy's new pyjamas? Did you? Did you wrap them? No. You wouldn't even know what b.l.o.o.d.y size he is. You don't even know what b.l.o.o.d.y size your own pants are because I BUY THEM FOR YOU. Did you get up at seven o'clock this morning to fetch the bread for the sandwiches because some eejit came back from the pub last night and decided he needed to eat two rounds of toast and left the rest of the loaf out to get stale? No. You sat on your a.r.s.e reading the sports pages. You gripe away at me for weeks on end because I've dared to claim back twenty per cent of my life for myself, to try to work out whether there is anything else I can do before I shuffle off this mortal coil, and while I'm still doing your washing, looking after Granddad and doing the dishes, you're there harping on at me about a shop-bought f.e.c.king cake. Well, Bernard, you can take the f.e.c.king shop-bought cake that is apparently such a sign of neglect and disrespect and you can shove it up your ' she let out a roar ' up your ... well ... There's the kitchen, there's my ruddy mixing bowl, you can make one your ruddy self!'

With that, Mum flipped the cake plate upwards, so that it landed nose down in front of Dad, wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n, and stomped up the garden to the house.

She stopped when she got to the patio, wrenched her ap.r.o.n over her head, and threw it to the ground.

'Oh, yes! Treena? You'd better show your daddy where the recipe books are. He's only lived here twenty-eight years. He can't possibly be expected to know himself.'

After that, Granddad's party didn't last long. The neighbours drifted away, conferring in hushed tones, and thanking us effusively for the lovely party, their eyes flickering towards the kitchen. I could see they felt as thrown as I did.

'It's been brewing for weeks,' Treena muttered, as we cleared the table. 'He feels neglected. She can't understand why he won't just let her grow a little.'I glanced to where Dad was grumpily picking up napkins and empty beer cans from the gra.s.s. He looked utterly miserable. I thought of my mother at the London hotel, glowing with new life. 'But they're old! They're meant to have all this relationship stuff sewn up!'

My sister raised her eyebrows.

'You don't think ... ?'

'Of course not,' said Treena. But she didn't sound quite as convinced as she might have done.

I helped Treena tidy the kitchen, and played ten minutes of Super Mario with Thom. Mum stayed in her room, apparently working on her essay, and Granddad retreated with some relief to the more reliable consolations of Channel 4 Racing. I wondered if Dad had gone down the pub again, but as I stepped out of the front door to leave, there he was, sitting in the driver's seat of his work van.

I knocked on the window and he jumped. I opened the door and slid in beside him. I'd thought maybe he was listening to sports results but the radio was silent.

He let out a long breath. 'I bet you think I'm an old fool.'

'You're not an old fool, Dad.' I nudged him. 'Well, you're not old.'

We sat in silence, watching the Ellis boys wheel up and down the road on their bikes, wincing in unison when the littler one took a skid too fast and slid halfway across the road.

'I want things to stay the same. Is that so much to ask?'

'Nothing stays the same, Dad.'

'I just ... I just miss my wife.' He sounded so bleak.

'You know, you could just enjoy the fact that you're married to someone who still has a bit of life in her. Mum's excited. She feels like she's seeing the world through new eyes. You've just got to allow her some room.'

His mouth was set in a grim line.

'She's still your wife, Dad. She loves you.'

He finally turned to face me. 'What if she decides that I'm the one with no life? What if all this new stuff turns her head and ...' He gulped. 'What if she leaves me behind?'

I squeezed his hand. Then I thought better and leaned over and gave him a hug. 'You won't let that happen.'

The wan smile he gave me stayed with me the whole way home.

Lily came in just as I was leaving for the Moving On Circle. She had been with Camilla again, and arrived home, as she often did now, with black fingernails from gardening. They had created a whole new border for a neighbour, she said cheerfully, and the woman had been so pleased she had given Lily thirty pounds. 'Actually, she gave us a bottle of wine too but I said Granny should keep that.' I noted the unselfconscious 'Granny'.

'Oh, and I spoke to Georgina on Skype last night. I mean it was morning there, because it's Australia, but it was really nice. She's going to email me a whole load of pictures of when she and my dad were little. She said that I really look like him. She's quite pretty. She has a dog called Jakob and it howls when she plays the piano.'

I put a bowl of salad and some bread and cheese on the table for Lily as she chatted on. I wondered whether to tell her that Steven Traynor had called again, the fourth time in as many weeks, hoping topersuade her to go and see the new baby. 'We're all family. And Della is feeling much more relaxed about things now that the baby is safely here.' Maybe that was a conversation for another time. I reached for my keys.

'Oh,' she said. 'Before you go. I'm going back to school.'

'What?'

'I'm going back to the school near Granny's house. Do you remember? The one I told you about? The one I actually liked? Weekly boarding. Just for sixth form. And I'm going to live with Granny at weekends.'

I had missed a leaf with the salad dressing. 'Oh.'

'Sorry. I did want to tell you. But it's all happened really fast. I was talking about it, and just on the off- chance Granny rang up the school and they said I'd be welcome, and you'll never guess what my friend Holly's still there! I spoke to her on Facebook and she said she can't wait for me to come back. I mean, I didn't tell her everything that's happened, and I probably won't tell her any of it, but it was just really nice. She knew me before it all went wrong. She's just ... okay, you know?'

I listened to her talking animatedly and fought the sensation that I had been shed, like a skin. 'When is all this going to happen?'

'Well, I need to be there for the start of term in September. Granny thought it would probably be best if I moved quite soon. Maybe next week?'

'Next week?' I felt winded. 'What what does your mum say?'

'She's just glad I'm going back to school, especially since Granny's paying. She had to tell the school a bit about my last school and the fact that I didn't take my exams, and you can tell she doesn't like Granny much, but she said it would be fine. "If that's actually going to make you happy, Lily. And I do hope you're not going to treat your grandmother the way you've treated everyone else." '

She cackled at her own impression of Tanya. 'I caught Granny's eye when she said that, and Granny's eyebrow went up the tiniest bit but you could totally see what she thought. Did I tell you she's dyed her hair? A sort of chestnut brown. She looks quite good now. Less like a cancer patient.'

'Lily!'

'It's all right. She laughed when I told her that.' She smiled to herself. 'It was the kind of thing Dad would have said.'

'Well,' I muttered, when I'd caught my breath, 'sounds like you've got it all worked out.'

She shot me a look. 'Don't say it like that.'

'Sorry. It's just ... I'll miss you.'

She beamed, an abrupt, brilliant smile. 'You won't miss me, silly, because I'll still be back down in the holidays and stuff. I can't spend all my time in Oxfordshire with old people or I'll go mad. But it's good.