The Last Time I Saw You (35 page)

Poor, dear William. That must be that Catskills weekend he talked about, the one time they’d slept together in months. It makes me hate her, I can’t help it. If her insidious cruelty really has destroyed his ability to love, then that crash took not one life, but two.

School gates? Suddenly it dawns on me who Riski Wager might be. Richie to Riski only involves changing a few letters, and God knows, his behavior was risky enough to merit it. I put the phone down, feeling like I’ve been punched in
the stomach. I can’t bear for William’s betrayal to be so total. How could they have inflicted such humiliation on him? Maybe I shouldn’t have done this, kept pushing for information that might have stayed buried. Am I an unwitting part of his torture?

I read his last e-mail again, struck by how shifty it is. Far more kisses than Richie normally awards her, which I’m sure is an attempt to distract her from his lack of response, and a subtle slide into text-speak like it’s no more than a teenage snog. She wouldn’t have been stupid enough to miss it though: that’s why she’s kept it. It’s an evidence log. The question is, who did she lay it for? There are only two e-mails left, and I quickly scan them.

So she really was going to leave him. And yet—when he asked if she wanted a divorce she was distraught. I would ask myself why she didn’t simply take a well-timed get-out clause, but I know her well enough to answer the question myself. She wouldn’t have wanted to hand over the control, would have wanted to make a dramatic exit entirely of her own making. Or maybe—maybe she only wanted to leave him some of the time? Maybe the gaps between these e-mails tell a different story?

I read this last one again. There’s something so juvenile about it, more teenage than I ever remember her being when she was only just past being one—all those exclamation marks and capitals. It’s such a one-sided conversation too, like she’s making up a version of the relationship that matches her fantasy. Something tells me his side of the story was very different.

And that’s where they end. She’s left enough though. At least I know who to call.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I stare out of the living room window into the night, wondering what to do. I’ve let too much time elapse: it’s past seven o’clock now, pitch black, which means it’s past midnight at home. Right now I want to speak to Jules more than anything in the world; it’s not just because I’m so desperate for her advice, it’s also a primal need for my big sister to know exactly where I am. Even if she’s thousands of miles away, it will make me feel safe.

I know that soon I’ll have to call William, but now I’ve come so far, I want to get hold of the last few pieces. I hope he won’t hate me for what I’ve done. I don’t know anymore—not here, not now, sitting in this dingy room, the slice of desiccated lemon from Sally’s vodka and tonic sitting in the glass. Did she think she was coming back? Would be here to wash it out, to empty the ashtray, to start
a new life? Or was it all a game? Was she like a little girl with a playhouse in the garden, enjoying the fun of let’s pretend, safe in the knowledge she’ll be tucked up in her own big bed come nightfall?

There’s only one person who can answer the question. I force my shaking hands to page through the numbers in her phone, dial Richie’s number, but then, as I hear the first ring, I bottle it and hang up.

I’m not quite strong enough yet. Then I get out my own phone, and call the one person I know will most likely be still awake.

“I’m just this second walking through the door,” says James, picking up on the first ring. Just the sound of his voice suddenly makes everything less twisted.

“I’m so glad you’re there,” I say, a sob rising up in my throat.

“I’m glad you’re there too. Well I’m not actually, I wish you were here. It’s shit when you’re not. How’s it going?”

“Don’t ask,” I say, but then I tell him absolutely everything. He tries to interrupt a couple of times, but I need to just vomit it all out. Holding it all in has felt so utterly toxic.

“Lithium,” he says, when I eventually stop. “It makes total fucking sense.”

“I’m not looking at my e-mails, so I couldn’t Google it.”

“You know what lithium is! It’s for bipolar.”

“But that’s like, a proper mental illness.”

“There’s different types, it’s come up in a couple of cases at work. Some types of it you can function with.”

“But then, if she was medicated . . .”

“She wouldn’t have been before. Back then. And anyway, it can be really hard to get the treatment right. It can even make it worse.”

All those jagged fragments of our friendship start to swirl past me like they’re trapped in a kaleidoscope, recolored by the idea of her illness.

“Poor Sally,” I say, starting to cry. “I wonder why she didn’t just tell William, they could have shared it then.”

“Maybe she did.”

I think about the conversations we’ve had; the look on his face when he said “a few sessions of therapy,” his utter dismissal of the idea that Madeline might need professional help, the oppressive control of his family. Perhaps she thought it would give them another reason to think she wasn’t worthy of being a Harrington.

“I just don’t think he knows. And the prescription’s made out to Atkins.” Was this the secret she was so frightened and relieved that she was going to have the chance to share? I hope Richie’s noticed a missed call from that familiar number, is suffering a little of the anguish that she went through. “I’ll get it out of Richie.”

“Don’t you even think about ringing him.”

“I’ve got to, I’ve got no choice!”

“Don’t be so fucking ridiculous. He could be dangerous.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous. He’s some middle-aged dad who was looking for a cheap thrill.”

“Livvy, don’t. You don’t even know for absolute sure it’s him.” I stay silent, reading the frustration in his breathing. “Seriously—I’ll come out there.”

“You can’t just come out.”

“Then you can’t do it. I won’t let you.”

There’s a break in his voice as he says it.

“Thank you. I’m really glad you care . . .”

“I do care,” he says, voice low. “I really care. I hate you not being here, and not just because you do all the cooking,
or because I secretly like the Carpenters and I can’t admit to myself. Fuck! I think I do. Like the Carpenters.”

“Which one do you like best?” I say, grasping onto the silliness, the familiarity of our well-worn routine.

“
Close to Yo-ou
,” he sings, turning his voice into a warbly falsetto.

“That was really lovely, James,” I say, giggling.

“They kind of do, you know.”

“What do?”

“The birds. The whole suddenly appearing thing.”

I can hear something in his voice—something spilling out of him that I never dared to believe could come back, not after that day in the pub all those years ago. I think of the relief in his eyes, and even now, it scorches.

“That’s birds for you.”

I can hear his breathing, searching for the right words. James never bothers to choose his words, they just tumble out in a confident jumble.

“You were right about Charlotte, by the way. I felt like shit for a bit, and then it was like it had never even happened. Like I’d just wanted to feel like that about someone, and she’d happened to walk past. But it wasn’t her I wanted to fall in love with.”

“Obviously,” I say, trying to banish the wobble from my voice, “she’s a robot.” Since when did the world go so weird on me? I look out of the window, trying to steady myself, but the sight of the New York skyline makes everything feel even more alien.

“Do you get what I’m trying to tell you?” he says.

“Sort of,” I say, twisting one of the buttons on the horrible velour sofa.

“Obviously I love you, and I probably don’t say it enough, but . . . I love you, love you, Livvy. You’re not my
mate anymore, I don’t ever want you to be just my mate again.”

“Oh.” I wish I could establish some kind of mental order, but the shock of all of it is too great. If I were James I’d be slowed by my lukewarm response, but I’m not James—he’s got a mission, and he won’t be deterred.

“I know you’re going to think this is insane, but hear me out. I think we should just get married. We know each other backward, we know we love each other, we’ve both been through those shitty breakups . . . Why waste any more time?”

“I think that might be the most romantic proposal ever recorded,” I say, then realize from his sharp intake of breath that the time for joking has passed.

“Look, Livvy, I know it’s a shock and you’re right in the middle of something massive, but please just think about it. No one knows you like I do, or the other way around. I’ve never trusted anyone like I trust you. There’s no one I’d rather be with, anytime, ever. And I know as much as I’ve ever known anything that I’m going to feel exactly the same when I’ve got no teeth and you’re wiping my bum.”

I laugh, I can’t help it. I do love him—how could you not—but I can’t find the surge of unbridled joy that I always thought this moment would bring. That sense of completion.

“Only you would do this,” I say, starting to get frustrated.

“What?”

“Try and go straight to the finish line, do not pass go. We haven’t even . . .” I’m too embarrassed to say it, a tide of shame rising up at the thought of that fumbled attempt in my cramped single bed.

“That? That’ll be fine,” he says, a warm, dirty laugh escaping out of him. “And I don’t agree with you about the
other bit. You’re my best friend. Who doesn’t want to live their life with their best friend?”

I want to swaddle myself in the comfort blanket of his certainty, but I can’t do it. All I keep thinking about is William, wondering how he would feel if he knew that someone else was proposing to me. Perhaps he’d be relieved, his rampant guilt soothed by me becoming someone else’s responsibility. The thought winds me. Do I really want to carry on alone?

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” I say, my voice small, but then a rush of anger almost knocks me to the ground. It’s the thought of the years I’ve spent staring through the bars of my love for him, waiting for him to notice. “Did you know?” I say, my voice shaking. “All that time, did you know how much I loved you? If you know me so bloody well, surely you smell it on me?”

He pauses, and I hear a clicking sound. I know exactly what he’s doing, he’s playing with one of those ink pens he always uses, stamping the nib in and out. He’ll be biting his bottom lip as he tries to formulate a response, struggling between his knee-jerk tendency to tell a woman what she wants to hear and the fact that it’s me, and whatever he says, I’m still Livvy.

“I didn’t want to engage with it, I wasn’t ready. I was being a twat, basically, but Livvy . . . don’t let pride ruin this for us. It’s all about timing, isn’t it?”

“Timing? Are you not worried that I’ve just had my heart mashed to a pulp?”

James gives a dismissive snort, too certain of himself to self-censor.

“He’s not right for you, Livvy, he’d bore you rigid, trust me. You’re like . . . you’re the kindest person I’ve ever known,
and it’s got mixed up in your head with something else. All you need to do now is come home. Just come home to me.”

I sink my hot cheek against the velour. So much of what he says makes sense, and yet . . . I can’t say yes. But is this just another one of my romantic get-out clauses? Here I am, with a man I love, have loved for a lifetime, promising himself to me, and all I can think about is a man I’ve known for less than six months who’s in love with a ghost?

“I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t overthink it, Livvy, that’s all I’m saying.”

Love conquers all is such a stupid generalization—as far as I can see, we need a thousand different words for love, like the thousand-odd words that eskimos have to tell each other about snow. And this love—it needs a different word now. I’ve changed, and so has it.

“James? I love you too. I don’t say it enough either.”

“I know you do.”

“But I can’t marry you.”

“Livvy . . .”

“Please, James, just listen to me. It was what I wanted for so long, and I don’t love you any less, but now . . . it’s not right anymore. It’s not our time, not for me. My heart’s not mine to give.” A sob escapes me. “But I don’t want to lose you. Please don’t let me lose you.”

And suddenly I realize that James is crying too, real tears that convince me absolutely that this is more than just a symptom of his need to feel like he’s winning at the game of life. Why am I so contrary? Am I just like Sally, but with the sharp edges blunted?

“I’m so sorry,” I say, hiccupping from the tears.

“Thanks for telling the truth.”

“I couldn’t lie to you.”

And eventually, once we’ve sat there for half an hour or so more, not saying all that much, we put the phone down on a chapter of our friendship that will always be more precious than I can put into words.

Once I’ve put the phone down I give way to the tears—proper racking sobs, curled up in a fetal ball on that horrible sofa. Somehow I manage to fall asleep, waking up in the middle of the night with my neck aching and my clothes clammy on my body. I want to leave, but I don’t think I’ll be easily able to hail a cab, and I’ve no idea how to ring one. I could probably somehow work it out, but I’m too exhausted, every drop of strength used up by the day I’ve just had, any remnants desperately needed for what’s to come.

Instead I gingerly crawl into Sally’s bed, the irony not lost on me. I’ve done this metaphorically so many times over the last couple of months, looking over my shoulder, the guilt almost too great to bear. The sheets seem newly laundered, although I can smell a whiff of Chanel No. 19 clinging to the pillow case. And suddenly it’s not scary. Suddenly it almost feels like a surreal kind of comfort.

I know that it’s stupid and egotistical of me to think that those carefully curated messages are a trail of breadcrumbs intended for me, but doesn’t any kind of love require a healthy dose of magical thinking, even a love that’s as corroded and battered as ours? I look at the half-empty pill bottle that I abandoned on the bedside table, then shake a lone white tablet onto the pinky expanse of my palm, where it lies, small and innocuous. I’m sure she never had them when we were friends: what kind of lonely journey did she go on to get to that place?

I sleep fitfully, waking time and time again, shaken by nightmares I can no longer grasp hold of once my eyes are open. At seven-thirty I give up on the illusion of rest, desperate now to leave this fetid hiding place of hers. The sky is gray and oppressive, the river a thick streak of brown. It’s such a relief to be safely ensconced in a cab, heading back into Manhattan, but the knowledge of what it is that I have to do means the relief is short-lived.

I take my unwashed, unbrushed body via reception for my key, earning myself a knowing look from the bright-eyed girl behind the desk.

“Good morning, Miss Berrington, you’ve got messages,” she says, looking down at her screen. “A Mary Reynolds has called twice today.”

I give her a weak smile and take the elevator upstairs, treating myself to a long, hot shower. “I’m doing this,” I declaim into the stream of water, not sure exactly who it is that I’m promising. Then I get dressed, putting on a smart black dress that I packed to make Flynn feel that I was authoritative. I mustn’t stumble.

The phone rings a few times before it’s picked up.

“What is this?” says a low voice that I immediately know for absolute sure is Richie’s. “Who is it calling me?”

“It’s Livvy,” I say, a tremor running through my body. “You met me at the funeral. William sent that e-mail saying I was coming out for work.”

He tries to cover.

“Sure, Livvy. Got it. But why are you calling me from Sally’s phone?”

“I’ve been going back through her last months, trying to find out what really happened. I know everything, Richie, almost everything. I need you to meet me and tell me the rest.”

“Why are you doing this?” he says, his voice red and angry. “You must know I can’t talk to you.”

“You’ve got no choice. I can tell from those e-mails what a selfish bastard you are, but you must surely realize that William needs to know the truth? He can’t go into that hearing without it.”