The Last Time I Saw You (19 page)

“Why did they even pack these?” he says, angrily.

I open the next box, running my fingers across another rack of perfect dresses. My eyes roll upward, almost unconsciously; I hope you’re glad I’m doing this, I think. You’ll either be glad or enraged, there’ll be no third option. I pull out a black velvet dress with a fishtail hem and a boned bodice, the kind of outfit she must have worn to accompany him to those god-awful functions. It makes me feel unexpectedly close to her, something we’ve shared without ever having been able to share it. I gather it close, my heart beating against the fabric.

“She had such lovely dresses,” I say, my voice thick. “She always did. Do you remember her wearing this one?”

He glances over briefly.

“Not specifically, no.”

I feel stung, and by proxy that she too has been stung. It suddenly feels so important that the dark is not allowed to
eclipse the light—surely we need to remember the ways she shone as we plow through the pieces of her life? I pull out the green one.

“She was wearing a green dress on my nineteenth, the year she threw me a surprise party. She looked like some kind of sea creature.”

“She was certainly a big fan of parties,” says William, terse.

“Yes, she was,” I say, sharp, reacting to the judgment I hear in his voice. “She could’ve made a party out of a couple of packets of crisps and a Bacardi Breezer.”

“You’re right,” he snaps. “It’s just that at some point the music has to stop.” He stands up, face turned away, but even in profile I can see he’s boiling. “Excuse me a minute” he says, walking swiftly out of the room. I stare after him, shocked. How did we move from the gentle companionship of the journey to that kind of spitting rage? I look around the room, Sally’s life heaped up around us, the stage set—of course it wouldn’t be without drama. Part of me wants to bolt after him, apologize profusely for my clumsiness, but I worry it will only make it worse. How little I know him, even though sometimes it feels like the opposite.

I cross to the box with the jewelry and take out the necklaces that lie there, tangled up together like strands of bindweed. I tease each one out and lay it down, until the velvet interior starts to feel like a coffin. I swallow down a tide of nausea, suddenly wanting nothing more but to run down those lanes, my heart lurching in my chest, until I’m somewhere far from here. I sit down, gather myself.

After a few minutes I carry on, sorting determinedly through more boxes of sweaters, and exquisite pants, and perfect pairs of heels until I eventually reach a box full of
heavy winter coats, bought to withstand chilly New York winters. I pull each one out individually, take a proper look at it, imagine the life it’s lived. One attracts me like a magpie alighting on a jewel: it’s scarlet, with a sweeping collar and ostentatious black buttons running down from a scooped neckline. That same smell of Chanel No. 19 clings to it, perhaps even the underlying odor of a secretly puffed cigarette, and something compels me to slip it on, even though doing so leaves me light-headed. I twist my body around, feeling its luxuriant swish, and go and look at myself in the bathroom mirror, almost expecting it to be Sally who stares back at me. Who were you in this? Where did it take you? I don’t know why, but something tells me it was a favorite amongst all those others that are stuffed together, as tight as sardines.

As I stand there, I feel something hard in the pocket, and my hand tightens around it. I pull it out: it’s a numbered plastic tag with
CAPRICORN
HOLDINGS
written down the middle. It sits there in my palm, significance unknown. I’m suddenly desperate to get the coat off, terrified of William coming back in and finding me in it. I put the tag in the pocket of my jeans, away from the mess of boxes, ready to show him. I try to move on to the next box, but there’s a gnawing sensation that won’t allow me to lose myself in the task at hand. The tag digs into my upper thigh, hard and pointed, until I feel I’ve got no choice but to go and find him.

It’s raining outside, the lawn wet and spongy under my feet. The kitchen door is stiff, and water pours down the back of my neck as I try to jiggle it. I shout William’s name, but there’s no response. Eventually I shoulder my way in but the house is still, with only the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway punctuating the silence.
Where is he? I take a doorway off to the right of the hall and find myself in a dark dining room, tall wooden chairs positioned around a rosewood table like jurors trying a case. I can’t help but inspect the family pictures displayed on the sideboard, my eyes drawn to a school picture of William aged around twelve, dressed in a striped school blazer with a large crest, his hair cut into a severe short back and sides. He’s looking straight into the camera like he’s trying his very hardest, like he wants so much to deliver on what’s been asked of him. I take a quick look over the rest of the pictures—the interchangeable shots of infant grandchildren, the wedding photos—rites of passage that prove you’ve left your mark on the world. His parents’ wedding photo is a sight to behold, his dad dressed in a spotless morning suit, body held rigid, unsmiling gaze directed outward, as if the pretty, smiling bride holding his hand wasn’t even there. I’m not sure there’s a single image that hasn’t been formally composed.

I go back into the hall and call William’s name, not trusting myself to open any more doors. There’s no response, just that maddening ticking sound. I’m cold and damp and alone, somewhere in the depths of the countryside, living out my very own version of
The Shining
.

“William!” I shout, more sharp, trying to quell the irrational fear that’s starting to creep through my veins like a slow-acting poison.

There’s a pause, and then the creaking of a door.

“Here,” he calls, voice broken.

I stand there, frozen, wondering if it’s an invitation. I trip-trap up the long staircase that curves around the entrance hall, arrive on the landing and head for the one open door. It’s like I’ve stepped through time; he’s sitting in
his boyhood bedroom, perched on a single bed, surrounded by cricketing trophies. There’s a small wooden desk under the window, replete with a dictionary for homework duties, and a bookshelf full of
Tintin
books, with a few
Star Wars
figurines scattered across it. He’s looking at his iPhone, but he dumps it on the bedside table at the sight of me.

“Sorry,” he says, voice flat. “I didn’t mean to abandon you.”

“It’s okay,” I say, sheepish. “I just wanted . . .” I’m about to pull the tag out of my pocket, but when I look into his hollow eyes I can’t force the words out. “To know if you wanted a cup of tea.”

“I should be making you tea, Olivia,” he says, half rising, our apology exchanged in the most English of ways. I sit down next to him, hoping it will keep him here—I don’t want him to switch back into autopilot. This room is like a shrine. Even if my parents hadn’t sold the family home, I know Mom would’ve taken roughly five minutes to turn it into a stinky, incense-ridden meditation den.

“Are you a batter or a bowler?”

“Batter, though I only get about a game a year these days,” he says. “Got—that might change now.”

“
Tintin
not
Asterix
?”

“I’ve never trusted the Gauls.” He gives a half smile. We sit there in silence for a few seconds, the rain pitter-pattering against the glass. “Tell me about
your
room,” he says.

“Then or now?”

“Either. Or both.”

I look out of the window, aware of the gathering dusk, the piles of boxes yet to sort. Perhaps he’d rather do it alone, perhaps my presence has left him too vulnerable.

“I had lots and lots of books.”

“That’s no great surprise.”

“Yes, but they weren’t all highfalutin! I had
Hollywood Wives
hidden under the mattress so my mom wouldn’t find it.” I look round the tiny bedroom. “Come on then, where are your
Playboy
s?”

He crosses the room, opens the wardrobe door with a flourish.

“Top right-hand corner, under the rowing gear. At least I hope they’re still there.” He sees my face. “Not for that! For the sake of Mom’s modesty.”

“I didn’t know your mom was a centerfold.”

He rolls his eyes at me, and I giggle, despite myself.

“What else?” he asks, the bed shifting as he sits back down next to me. “Actually, revise that. What’s it like?”

“
Hollywood Wives
? Oh, terrifying if you’re me,” I say, and then curse myself for accidentally tripping over the truth. He looks at me, quizzical. “You know, all those waxed dominatrices with their bedroom acrobatics.”

I’m suddenly very aware we’re on a bed, even though you can 100 percent guarantee no Jackie Collins heroine would be caught dead strutting their stuff on this beige candlewick bedspread.

“I see. Sounds very intriguing.” We smile at each other again, the silence an unexpectedly gentle one. “I need to get you to your train relatively soon.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I feel like I’ve hardly done anything,” I say, feeling that hard chip of plastic digging into me. This peace feels too fragile and hard-won to take an ax to just yet.

“Not at all,” he replies, heartfelt, and I realize that somewhere along the way I’ve learned the difference between
his meaningless reflexes and the moments in which his real feelings peep through. “Let me organize that cup of tea.”

“And then we can do some more . . . if that’s helpful.”

“You’re very kind,” he says, turning those soft, dark eyes toward me, and a glow of satisfaction spreads through me like molasses.

One disgusting cup of tea later, accompanied by a stale ginger snap, I start steeling myself for the final push. I can’t help but wonder why there’s no more than a stale ginger snap, why his parents didn’t try to take the edge off the abject horror of this task, but perhaps I’m reading too much into the damn cookie.

“Shall we?” I ask, tentatively, swallowing down a mounting feeling of dread. I’ve decided to wait until we’re back out there, and I can show him the coat I found it in. He doesn’t reply, gaze lost. Maybe he’ll know exactly what it is—a facility they used when they moved to the US, a family hidey-hole for excess furniture—and I’m making a fuss about nothing, but some sixth sense is whispering to me that it’s more. And if it is—how can I abandon him here, surrounded by the ashes of a life he’s struggling to know how to grieve? His head snaps back in my direction.

“No,” he says. “You’ve done enough. If we leave now we’ll get you to the train in plenty of time, and I’ll push on through until it’s done.”

Relief winds me—the knowledge that I won’t have to go back into that makeshift mausoleum and pick through Sally’s life like a thief—but it’s mixed with an illogical sense of hurt. I want so much to shoulder some of the burden, to breach his isolation. A horrible thought strikes me—do
I want that for him, or is some sly, perfidious part of me wanting it as much for myself?

As he busies himself finding my coat, I pull the tag out and hold it in my hand, ready to offer it up. He holds my coat out, and I step into it, liking his old-fashioned courtesy. Once I’m successfully swaddled, I turn to him, to spit out the words that have kept catching in my throat, but his phone rings before I get there.

“Hello, darling,” he says, and signals for me to follow him out with that natural authority that he has.

It’s Madeline’s bedtime, and I hear him asking about her day with her cousins. “I see,” he says, a number of times, sounding a little like he’s on a conference call, before he starts to wind up. “I’m afraid I’ve got to go. I’m taking Olivia to the station.”

I wave a hand, try to tell him there’s no rush, but after a “night-night” he hangs up. I feel a pang, imagining her clad in her white nightie, little hand clinging on to the dead receiver; I hope she doesn’t feel abandoned, like I’ve stolen him away from her.

“Righto,” he says, coming around to unlock my door—the spit gobbet is from an age long before central locking. He turns the key in the ignition, and it emits a low rumble, before puttering back to silence. He tries three times, each less successful than the last.

“Bugger,” he says, striking the steering wheel hard with both hands. “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” I tell him. And suddenly it is okay; suddenly it feels too soon to go, to abandon him to the chilly embrace of this big, gloomy house.

“I’m afraid it is.” His tone is stern, his inner headmaster in overdrive. “Let’s just hope Belinda’s got breakdown
coverage,” he says, heading for the house. The unfortunately named Belinda’s managed to disappear off the face of the earth—her cell and landline elicit no response—and William resorts to searching for a cab number. He looks at me, stricken.

“They’re an absolute nightmare to track down on a Saturday night, and it’s a good thirty miles to Poole. I feel wretched about this. Have I ruined your plans?”

The rain’s bucketing down by now, wind blowing the trees into oblivion. It’s emphatically not a night to be screeching around hairpin bends on the back of a combine harvester praying I’ll make the last train. And I have no plans.

“William . . .”

“Mm?” he says, rootling through the kitchen drawers.

I feel utterly exposed, but I tumble on before I can censor myself.

“I could just stay,” I say, feeling myself blushing. “There’s tons of room, and I can get a cab in the morning if we can’t get the car fixed. I won’t get home till God knows when if I go tonight.”

I study his face, desperate to capture his true reaction before good breeding suffocates it. He smiles a real smile.

“We might starve.”

“Man up, we’ve got ginger snaps.”

William opens a bottle of highly superior wine from his dad’s cellar and gives me carte blanche to look in the larder. I find some tinned tomatoes and some ancient-looking chili flakes, the beginnings of some kind of scratch supper. I look through the window at the barn, the lights glowing, a
constant reminder of why we’re really here, and survey the paltry ingredients, acutely reminded of the student suppers I’d rustle up from the shelves of the Happy Shopper. Sally never cooked, never ate anything that didn’t come from a packet, a can, or a waiter, unless I made it for her. She was like a baby bird, waiting to be fed, and I was happy to oblige. I liked taking care of her—did she learn to find that same satisfaction from looking after them?