The Moment You Were Gone (27 page)

He sat up straight and offered her a cigarette.

‘No, thanks. Maybe later.'

Later – was there going to be a later? He lit his own cigarette and dragged smoke deep into his lungs, tapped non-existent ash into the ashtray, looked intently at his coffee as if something of great interest was in there, waited for his heart to stop thudding.

They talked about other books they had loved as children (him,
The Phantom Tollbooth, Winnie-the-Pooh
and later the
Northern Lights
trilogy; her, the Moomintroll books and
The Little White Horse
– all of which her mother had read to her – and books by Michael Morpurgo, David Almond and, later, Agatha Christie thrillers in the bath). They talked about their gap year (him, travelling through Eastern Europe, sometimes with other people – he didn't mention that ‘other people' actually meant one person, Rosie – and sometimes on his own, ending up in Moscow; her, the final days of her mother's life and then a period in which she mourned, worked in the local supermarket and took care of her father and her sisters). They swapped bands they liked, drew up a list of the five worst films of the last year, agreed that the planet was being poisoned, discussed the meaning of dreams, found out they both loved Thai food and sushi. And suddenly Ethan realized that it was dark outside. Evening had fallen; the world had become more dangerous. He mustn't forget Harry's words, or he would lean towards her right now and touch the curve of her cheek. He clenched his fists.

‘How long have we been here?' he asked.

‘I don't know. Are you meant to be somewhere?'

‘Not as such, but –'

‘Can I have that cigarette, then?'

He shook one out of the packet, handed it to her and struck a match. His fingers trembled and she put her hand round his to keep the light steady and, for an instant, they gazed at each other through the orange flame. The rest of her face was close up and blurred, but her eyes were clear and he could see his face reflected in them. He moved towards her; he felt her breath on his skin and his heart pounding in his chest; he felt a groan force its way up his throat.

Abruptly, he removed his hand from hers, lit his own cigarette, blew out the flame with a sharp, emphatic puff, sat back from her. ‘I've got to go in a minute,' he said briskly.

‘Oh – all right, then.'

‘Work. I'm behind.'

‘Work,' she said. ‘I see.'

‘What are you up to this evening?'

‘Well – I said I might meet Harry later.'

It was the first time Harry's name had been mentioned and Ethan felt himself flinch. ‘That's nice,' he said.

‘But I had this thought that –' She stopped.

‘What?'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘Harry's great.'

‘Yes.'

‘Great,' Ethan repeated, more loudly. He heard himself boom on in an absurd, avuncular tone: ‘One of the nicest people I've met here.'

‘He's fond of you too,' said Lorna, dutifully.

‘Good,' said Ethan. He stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray and ground it down. ‘That's good. To have friends.'

‘Ethan?'

‘What?'

‘What's wrong?'

‘Wrong? Nothing. Nothing at all. Why should anything be wrong? Everything's fine. Really fine.'

‘You've just gone a bit –'

‘A bit what?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Go on, tell me.'

‘A bit odd, that's all. Have I said something to offend you?'

‘No! Honestly. What makes you think such a thing? I have to go, that's all. I have to work. I'm behind with everything. I keep thinking that if I work all night without stopping, then in the morning I'll be almost back on track, but then I'll be so bloody knackered that I'll let it get out of control again.'

‘You're going to work all night?'

‘That's what I say now. I'll probably wake up with a jerk at dawn and realize I've been asleep for hours and got nothing done. I'd better get going now.' He rose to his feet and put on his coat.

Lorna stood up, too, and edged out of the booth. ‘It's been nice,' she said, suddenly shy. ‘Thanks.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘It has been nice. Really nice. Lorna –'

‘Yes?'

‘I didn't mean to be odd. I just –'

‘Just?'

‘Nothing.' He pulled open the door. ‘I think we go in opposite directions from here.'

‘Do we?'

‘Yes.' He shuffled awkwardly. ‘So – goodbye, then.'

‘Goodbye. Unless you want to go and see a film with me or have something to eat maybe? Before working all night, that is.'

‘No!'

‘All right. It was just a thought.'

‘I mean – I can't.'

‘Don't worry – I've got the message.'

‘Lorna, you don't understand – I'd like to – I'd love to.'

She shrugged, suddenly cool. ‘Yeah, well. Another time.' And turned to go.

‘Christ, Lorna!' The fury in his voice spun her round to face him again. ‘I can't because I want to so much.' Ethan felt all his resolution leaving him, like water finally breaching the dam. Words gushed out of him. ‘Don't you understand? All I want is to be with you, it's driving me mad, I dream about you for God's sake, don't smile like that, I know it's stupid but it's how I feel, and anyway you're going out with Harry and Harry's my friend, and even if you felt one iota of what I feel about you – no, don't say anything,
don't say anything
, and don't look at me like that, I know you don't, of course I know you don't – but if you did, I still couldn't go out with you because he trusts me. Well, maybe he doesn't really trust me, but he should, he should trust me not to – not to – I know you wouldn't want it anyway, I'm not assuming anything,
I hope you don't think that – oh, God, Lorna, just tell me to shut up. I'm his friend.'

‘Faithful one hundred per cent,' said Lorna.

She smiled, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, just to one side of his mouth. Then almost before he realized what she was doing, she left him standing there and walked away. He watched her go: the straight-backed, light-footed glide he'd seen on that first evening, her soft hair shimmering under the lamplight, until she melded with the other figures in the street and at last disappeared. Still he stood and stared, imagining that she would change her mind and return to him and put her arms inside his coat and hold him tight.

At last, he sighed and stirred, glanced at his watch. It was time to go and work, as he had said he would. He would stay up all night because he couldn't imagine sleeping now. He would smoke too much and drink too much instant coffee and his eyes would sting with tiredness and emotion. He felt sick with her absence and his foolishness. He felt sick with hope and loss.

‘Hello? Hello, Ethan my darling. It's me. I hope you get this soon. Your mobile always seems to be turned off. I'm planning to come up tomorrow to collect the car and I want to take you out for lunch. Or tea. Or both. Whatever you want. Let me know as soon as you can because I've got to leave first thing tomorrow and I don't want to come if I'm not going to see you and I know you're probably busy with work and stuff so I don't want to get in your way but it will be
lovely
to see you. I hope you're OK. Are you OK? Ring me. 'Bye. Oh, and, Ethan,
tell me what you want me to bring you – I mean, do you want any special food, or anything like that? Or if there's anything you forgot to take and you've discovered you need – this is going on too long, isn't it? Sorry. I'll go now. Lots of love. Take care.'

Ethan, listening to the message, imagined his mother as she left it – her hair would be coming undone at the end of the day, she would be gesturing as she talked, or walking around the room with the phone. He felt a sharp stab of homesickness. He didn't want to be here, in his messy room, crumbs on the carpet and a bin full of beer and beans cans; he didn't want to sit up all night with his history essay, or to fall asleep fully clothed and wake up to a corridor of other students whose lives occasionally brushed against his. He didn't want to be in love with his friend's girlfriend. He didn't want to be in love at all. It was too tiring and bewildering. He wanted to be a child again, living peacefully at home, in the room he'd had almost all his life, surrounded by familiar objects. He wanted to hear his father at the computer in his study, or listening to his beloved Bach, and his mother singing in the shower or laughing with friends downstairs, or calling up to him to come down for supper.

He looked at his mobile to see the time. Eight o'clock. What would they be doing now? Probably his father would be cooking something, slicing red peppers into thin strips, carefully mixing cardamom and cumin in his mortar, peeling and crushing garlic, never hurrying; the fragrant steam would be rising into his concentrated face and every so often he would take a sip of wine from the glass at his elbow. And his mother, she'd be curled up on
the sofa with a book most likely, or maybe lying in a luxuriously hot bath with candles and foam. If he was there now, he might be playing cards with her, or sitting at the piano and letting his fingers range over the keys. He'd go to sleep on clean sheets and wake to the smell of coffee being ground.

He sat on the bed, still in his coat, and keyed in the home number.

‘Hello, Ethan.' She sounded breathless.

‘Mum, sorry, I've only just got your message.'

‘So, then, are you around tomorrow?'

‘Yeah. When do you reckon you'll be here?'

‘I can fit myself round you. I'll get an early train and be with you whenever. But if tomorrow's no good I can always come another day. Whatever's best for you.'

‘No – tomorrow's good.'

‘Tomorrow it is, then. When do you want to meet?'

‘You said lunch – is that still OK for you?'

‘Of course. Shall I come to your room?'

‘Why don't you ring me when you get here and then we can decide?'

‘Fine. And are you all right?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Really all right? You sound a bit subdued.'

‘Mum, I'm good. A bit tired, maybe.'

‘What can I bring?'

‘I can't think of anything I need.'

‘How about marmalade? Or coffee? Have you run out yet? Some ready meals? Biscuits?'

‘Tell you what, surprise me.'

‘Fine. What are you doing tonight?'

‘Working.'

‘But everything's –'

‘Mum, everything's good. Honestly. We can talk tomorrow.'

‘You're right. I'll ring when I arrive, then. Hope your work goes well.'

‘Thanks. See you.'

He disconnected and lay back on his bed, with his hands behind his head. In a few minutes he'd raise himself, make strong coffee, sit at his desk with his laptop. No, not at his desk: it was piled high with books, files, clothes, cups, scraps of paper, CDs. He closed his eyes and let himself, for just a few seconds, remember the feel of Lorna's lips on his skin. Her face glimmered behind his eyelids.

He worked through the night, drinking coffee until his head buzzed, smoking cigarettes until his throat was sore and his chest ached. He plugged himself into his iPod and didn't answer his phone. He ate two stale custard creams to keep him going. At just before half past six, he had finished. He transferred his work to his memory stick, turned off his computer and closed its lid. He felt empty rather than tired; his body ached as if he'd been for a long run. Later, when he drew back the curtains, he saw that it was getting light outside. The sky was a clear turquoise, with tiny scribbles of clouds like white runes along its horizon. He rubbed his eyes and opened the window, leant out to feel the wind fresh against his prickling skin.

He pulled on his shoes, and the coat he'd left in a heap
on the floor, and went out on to the deserted campus. His footsteps echoed in the silence. With each gust of wind, leaves floated silently down. In the branches of one tree, stripped almost bare for winter, dozens of small brown birds bunched and swayed like unpicked fruit. Ethan walked for a long time. He didn't know where he was going, or what he was thinking. He just wanted the clean air to pass through his tarry lungs and his fevered brain. At last he stopped at a diner to buy a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea, which he had standing at the counter. The bacon was salty, the bread plasticky and the tea stewed enough to make him wince, but he felt himself revive, and the sense of being disassociated from the world receded. The vague drift of melancholy emotions sharpened into thoughts. He looked at his watch, and saw that he must hurry if he was to shower and dress in clean clothes before his tutorial.

‘You still haven't unpacked!'

‘Not as such. I tided up for you, though.'

‘Thank you,' said Gaby, doubtfully. ‘You've lost weight.'

‘I was going to say the same to you.' Ethan scrutinized his mother. Her face was thinner, so that her eyes looked large and her cheekbones more prominent. And her clothes were loose on her, as far as he could tell. ‘Are you OK? Have you been ill or something?'

‘Ill? No, I've been fine. Maybe it's because I've been dashing around – or maybe I haven't been eating so many puddings since you left. Anyway, it's always all right for a woman to lose weight,' said Gaby, cheerfully. ‘You know what they say in Hollywood: you can never be too rich or too thin.'

‘Well, they don't say that anywhere I care to be. What's in the box, then?'

‘Lucky dip.'

He put his hand inside. ‘Hazelnut and chocolate-chip cookies,' he said. ‘Sardines. Tuna with mayonnaise. Jelly – why have you brought me jelly?'

‘Not so you'll make it or anything but it's good for energy. A few squares can keep you going. Actually, I left before the shops opened this morning, so it's a random selection from the cupboards at home.'

‘This is like Christmas. Dried chillies. What am I going to use dried chillies for? Do you think I cook real food? Marmalade, made by Dad – great. Marmite. I've still got a whole giant pot of Marmite; with this, it'll last me till I graduate. Dark chocolate. Sweetcorn. Pasta. Pasta sauce. What's this?'

‘I don't know. What is it?'

‘Harissa. What's harissa?'

‘Something Dad bought.'

‘Maybe you should take it back to him.'

‘Nonsense. You have it.'

‘What'll I do with it? It smells odd.'

‘I don't know. It's Middle Eastern – you add it to things.'

‘Add it to what – baked beans? Coffee? Take it back, Mum. How is Dad anyway?'

‘Fine.'

‘Just fine?'

‘He's good. You know – busy, happy, fine.'

‘Send him my love.'

‘Of course. Where are we going to eat?'

‘I thought we could walk down to the quayside. It's really pretty there. You'll like it. And there are some nice cafés – you don't want anything grand, do you?'

‘Do I look like I want something grand?'

‘Not really.'

‘Mum?'

‘Mmm?'

After lasagne and garlic bread, which neither of them came near to finishing, Gaby had insisted on buying
Ethan a large slice of cheesecake. To see him eat made her feel better herself, less hollowed out by strangeness. But Ethan took only one bite, then laid down his fork.

‘Can I ask you something?'

‘Of course. Though I might not have the answer.'

‘Say I liked someone, OK, and say she was already involved with someone else, what should I do?'

‘Do?'

Ethan picked up his fork, then pressed it lightly into the top of the cheesecake, leaving four small punctures in it. ‘Yeah – I mean, should I leave it? I should, shouldn't I?'

‘Does she like you too?'

‘I don't know – maybe. There was a moment when I thought she might, but she probably doesn't, not in the way I like her. She's just being nice to me and I'm reading all sorts of things into it.'

‘This other relationship she's in, is it serious?'

‘No – well, I don't think so, not on his side, anyway. He's not like that. He's too – too detached. Everything's like a game for him.'

‘You know him, then?'

‘Um, well, yes. That's how I met her. He's my friend. Harry.'

He saw Gaby wince. ‘He's your friend?'

‘Yes. OK, OK, don't look all pensive like that. I should leave it. I knew I should anyway. I didn't even need to ask you. Maybe asking your advice is my way of telling you about it. Not that there's anything to tell. Nothing's happened. Nothing will happen. It's just – I like her. I haven't felt like this for ages. I know it'll blow over, but I don't believe it.'

‘Does she know you like her?'

‘Yeah,' said Ethan, wretchedly. ‘I kind of blurted it out. I didn't mean to. But, anyway, she probably knew. I'm just a fool.'

‘No, you're not.' She paused, then said: ‘Friendship's important.'

‘I know.'

‘You don't want to do something you'll feel rotten about later.'

‘Right.'

He put his elbows on the table and cupped his face in his hands.

‘On the other hand –'

‘What?'

Gaby wanted to reach out and put her arms round his body in its crumpled jacket. She wanted to hold his sweet, familiar face between her hands and tell him that everything would be all right, she would make sure of it. As she looked at him, she was assailed by memories of all the other times he had sat like this before her, troubled and woebegone and asking for help. When he'd woken up out of nightmares, when he'd fallen over and grazed his knees, when boys at school had pushed him around the playground, laughing at his distress, when he'd felt bad and sad and worthless. At two, you can help a child, pick them up and make it better. At four you can speak to the teacher about bullies or comfort them after night fears. At seven, your power to intervene is already on the wane, however you might still hang on. Later, there's nothing you can do but watch and listen and be there. When Ethan was little, he had been shy and dreamy, and
Gaby had feared for him because he lacked the protective skin that other children had, their worldliness and resilience. Even now, a young man who to all appearances was confident and popular, he seemed raw and vulnerable. He could be lifted up by waves of joy or dragged under by misery, and had no defence against either. But perhaps all mothers think that about their sons, she thought – perhaps even the coolest, toughest, most streetwise teenage boy has a mother at home worrying that he will be hurt by the world's callousness.

After the past few weeks, Gaby felt that she, too, had been flayed of her skin, exposed to the bright horrors of the world. She told herself constantly that what had happened to her was negligible compared with the upheavals of most people's lives – an injury had been done to her many years ago and now, like a piece of shrapnel, it had worked its way to the surface. Yet as she tried to reduce the significance of what had happened, she was in a state where anything could hurt her, the lightest touch and the smallest word. She had to carry herself carefully, avoiding injury. The frown of a stranger could make her flinch. The sight of a mother hand in hand with her toddler, say, or a couple walking along together, smiling at each other, turned her helplessly tender and nostalgic, although at the same time she observed herself and knew she was being foolishly sentimental. Tears would fill her eyes when she read about wars in far-off places or saw photographs that showed the grieving faces of parents. She went out for dinner with a friend who had recently lost her mother and the two of them sat holding hands over their salmon, fat tears
rolling down their cheeks. A piece of music would fill her with such painful longings that she preferred silence, although in silence her thoughts heaved and surged and images she was trying to hold at bay broke over her. Most of all she was charged with a hopeless protective love for Ethan that made her rock herself from side to side. He thought he was their only child and would now discover that he wasn't, not really; he thought that their home was his safe haven and would see now that there were jagged rocks under the surface of the smooth water.

She looked at him, his creased face and bitten nails – the defeated hunch of his shoulders – then leant across the table and pulled the collar of his jacket straight, taking an imaginary hair off its lapel. ‘What I really think, Ethan, is that I don't know. I simply don't know. These things are so complicated.' She fumbled for the right words, which all of a sudden seemed barbed and dangerous. ‘You can't take advice from anyone else. Everyone has their own memories and agendas muddled up in it. You have to decide what's right for you and good for you – what will make you happy. For all sorts of reasons, which I can't go into, I'm the last person to know what you should do.'

‘I know. I don't think I can eat all this cheesecake. Sorry.'

‘Not to worry.'

‘I ought to get back in a minute.'

‘Of course. And I've got to collect the car.'

‘Was Dad furious about it?'

‘A bit annoyed, understandably.'

‘It would have been nice if he'd come down too.'

Gaby turned up her palms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘His work,' she said.

That was a lie. For the first time in his life, Connor was neglecting his work. He had taken half-days off to spend with Gaby. He had turned off the alarm clock and rolled over on to his side in bed, gazing at the wall for hours. But today was different. Today he was meeting Nancy. He had shown Gaby the letter, which although it was addressed to him was clearly written to the two of them, carefully setting out the situation as Nancy understood it and explaining that, very shortly, she was going to meet Sonia and would like to talk through the implications of this in advance. She was sure that Sonia would want to know who her biological father was, and she needed to know what Connor's – and Gaby's – thoughts were on this. She also wrote that she would quite understand if Connor chose not to meet her, or if he wanted to bring Gaby with him. But Gaby read the letter carefully, then told Connor he should obviously go alone. She said that of course Sonia must know who he was; now the secret had been breached, anything else was unthinkable. She knew – they both knew – that this would very likely mean that Sonia would want to meet Connor as well, perhaps Ethan too – she had no siblings of her own, and he was her half-brother, after all.

‘Work,' Ethan repeated, with an ironic shrug. ‘As ever.'

‘He wants to come and see you soon. He misses you.'

‘Does he?'

All of a sudden, Ethan felt tears pricking his eyes. He blinked furiously and clenched his hands into fists.

‘Of course. What do you think? You're his beloved son.'

‘Sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me today. You came on the wrong day – if you'd come tomorrow or something, I would have been completely different. I'm tired. I didn't get any sleep. Everything's good, really. I'm good. I like it here. I'm being stupid. This'll pass.'

‘I know.' She laid her hands over his fists. ‘Tiredness can often feel like grief.'

‘Right.'

‘And, of course, so can love.'

‘Very mystical. Let's get going, shall we? Now that I stayed up all night doing my essay I don't want to be late handing it in.'

At the door of the café they hugged each other. She breathed in the smell of his sweat, his cigarettes, his hair, his aftershave, his nearness.

‘Take care,' she said, smiling hard and bright, and they walked away in opposite directions.