them away with her fingers. Mascara streaks her cheeks. Even
when it’s blotchy with tears, I can see that she has a beautiful face.
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High cheekbones and pale, almost translucent skin. She’s like a
tiny porcelain doll. How could I ever have been scared of her?
‘So you told Mum the truth about your name, at least.’
She looks down at her feet. ‘I don’t really know why I went to
your house. Maybe I was hoping I’d find some evidence that
you didn’t deserve to have Simon’s letter. But when I saw your
room, it looked so . . . empty and sad. I saw you were reading
the Big Book and then I saw . . .’ She glances at me from the
corner of her eye. ‘Then I saw the gold ball and I knew. I knew
you still loved him.’
She reaches into her jacket pocket and takes it out, stares at
it. ‘Here, have it back. I’ve got the other two at home. I shouldn’t have taken it.’
She fumbles around in her pocket for a tissue and blows her
nose. She’s given up trying to wipe away her tears. Oh, for
fuck’s sake, I’m starting to feel sorry for her now. And I can
hardly take the moral high ground, can I? Not after the things
I’ve done.
‘Keep it,’ I tell her. ‘They belong together.’
She puts it back into her pocket. ‘If only I hadn’t let him go.’
‘What do you mean?’
Her shoulders sag. ‘When he gave me this letter to give to you,
he told me there was something else he had to do. Something
that would make everything all right.’ She gives me a helpless
look. ‘I should have gone with him. I should never have let him
go off on his own like that. It was too soon. If I’d had the slight-
est suspicion he was going to . . . to do what he did, I’d have told one of the nurses. I’d have made him stay in hospital.’
She stares at her feet. ‘He was so persuasive, though. So calm
and determined. I had no idea.’
‘There’s nothing you could have done,’ I tell her. ‘When
someone’s made the decision to end their life, they don’t usu-
ally talk about it.’
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Laura looks up at me then. ‘I miss him so badly.’
‘So do I.’ My words come out all muffled because now I’m
crying too. ‘And anyway, it’s my fault he started drinking again.
My fault he died.’
She turns away. ‘I wanted to kill you when I found out what
had happened.’ She faces me at last. ‘But I don’t feel like that
any more. Not now I’ve met you.’
‘Tell me, Laura, why do you wear his aftershave?’ But even as
I’m asking her the question I already know the answer.
‘It’s my way of kidding myself he’s still with me. I’d have
looked after him, Astrid. I’d have stayed with him for ever.’
‘You couldn’t have stopped him, you know, even if you’d tried.’
She nods. ‘I know that really, but I still torture myself about it.’
We’ve reached the main road now. She looks at her watch.
‘The last train leaves soon. I’ve got to run.’
She races off, rucksack bumping against her back, her dark
hair flying out in the wind.
‘Wait!’ I shout after her. ‘I’ll come with you.’
But she doesn’t slow down and, after a few minutes trying to
catch up with her, I stop, exhausted, and hang over my knees
to get my breath back. It’s not as if the two of us are ever going
to be friends, not after all that’s happened, so what’s the point?
She’s done what she came here to do and now she’s gone.
She’s gone. After weeks of dread weighing me down like a
heavy cloak, I feel lighter. As if I’ve finally come up for air. As I walk back to Mum’s cottage, my heartbeat returns to normal.
I’m safe. At last.
My fingers curl round the envelope in my pocket. A letter
from Simon. I’m going to need every single ounce of my
strength if I’m to read his final words. How will I cope, hearing
his voice in my head after all this time, as if he’s back from the
dead after all?
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There she is, letting herself into her mother’s house, like a sad little wraith. All alone in the dark with her guilt and her shame and her fragile sense of hope that maybe, just maybe, she’ll get another chance at love.
I’d laugh out loud if the very thought of her didn’t make me want to retch.
I think it’s about time I stopped fannying around with hate mail and bottles of vodka in her coat pocket, fun though it was. About time I stopped playing games. I’ve wasted enough time here as it is. The little bird is weakened now. It’s time for the cat to pounce.
Like I told you before, bitch, what goes around comes around. Some mistakes can’t be corrected. Some mistakes you have to pay for.
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40
I close the front door behind me and go into the living room,
curl up on the end of the sofa. But before I’ve even drawn the
envelope from my pocket the craving starts. A delayed reaction
to everything that’s happened since Mum left for her retreat.
The implications of not being invited to the party. The confron-
tation with Laura. The words I’m about to read.
I draw my knees to my chest and hug them tight, rock back-
wards and forwards. I want a drink so badly I can barely
breathe. All this time, I’ve been running scared and I’ve man-
aged to keep it together, but now, now that I’m finally safe, I’m
on the verge of throwing it all in.
I get as far as opening the flaps of the envelope and holding
the edge of the folded paper between my forefinger and thumb
when the feeling swells till it’s all there is. I focus on my breath.
It’s fear, that’s all. Fear of the emotions I’ll experience when
reading it. I might not have to worry about Laura and her nasty
games any more, but my memories will always stalk me. The
grief. The guilt. And now I’ve lost Josh too – the one person
who might have saved me from the worst of myself.
I glance at the clock. The Co- op will be shut – it’s gone ten.
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But there’s a little Asian shop that sells food and wine, isn’t
there? That might still be open.
No. It’s crazy to give in now.
Suddenly, I’m back on my feet and in the hall again. I’m just
minutes from buying what I need. From pouring it down my
throat and drowning out the noise in my head. Mum won’t be
back till Sunday evening. I’ll have time to sort myself out by
then. It’ll be just this once, to get me through tonight. She’ll
never know. How am I supposed to read this letter without a
drink inside me?
Now I’m opening the front door, going back out into the
&n
bsp; night. My feet move faster and faster. Slapping rhythmically
against the pavement, they’ve got a life of their own. They’re not
listening to that small voice of reason. The one that’s getting
quieter by the minute. The one that’s fast losing the battle.
I’ve almost reached the shop now, but, oh no, I’m too late.
Tears of frustration stream down my cheeks as I stare at the
dirty grey shutters. It’s fate, I know it is. I should be relieved. I am relieved. Because the decision has been taken out of my hands. There’s nothing for it but to go back home and ride the
yearning out. Drink coffee and smoke. Eat biscuits. Bang my
head against the wall and scream if I have to. Smoke some
more. I should never have left the house in the first place.
I’m walking home when a memory worms its way into my
head. Helen in M&S, placing bottles of red wine in her basket.
My stomach twists and churns. I glance over my shoulder
towards her apartment block at the end of the street, on the
verge of heading straight for it, but now another memory
pushes through. Mum’s face, saying goodbye to me before she
left. The worry in her eyes. The knowledge that she was taking
a huge risk by leaving me on my own. And I know that I can’t
let it happen. I can’t let her down all over again. There’ll be no
going back if I do.
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With a sickening sense of inevitability I realize that there’s
only one person who truly understands what I’m going through
right now. All those times she’s tried to reach out and help me
and I pushed her away. All those warnings she gave me about
Helen still drinking, and what did I do? I ignored every one.
The Oxfam shop is closed, as I knew it would be. I peer into
the darkened interior, hoping by some miracle I’ll see her inside,
but I don’t. Of course I don’t. If only I’d kept hold of her number.
It was stupid of me to throw it away. Stupid and arrogant.
But what about the sleeping bag and torch I saw in her cloth
bag that day I tried the dress on? Is it possible that she really is sleeping in the shop overnight? Maybe she’s there right now, all
alone in that smelly back room, huddled down on the floor. It’s
worth a try, isn’t it? Okay, so she’s annoying as hell, but she’s
managed to stay sober for eight long years. She must be doing
something right. And it’s not as if I have any other options, not
now I’ve remembered what’s in Helen’s flat. If I take one look at
a glass of wine tonight, I’ll be all over it.
I dart down the alleyway that leads to the access road behind
the shops. I’ve never been down here before and it takes me a
while to work out which is the right door. For all I know, she
won’t even be here. She might have found somewhere else to
stay by now.
I squeeze past the paladin bins, bracing myself for the sight
of a rat, scavenging for food. I’ve seen a fair few in my time,
especially when I stayed in squats, but I never got used to it.
They always freak me out.
I raise my fist and rap sharply on the door with my knuckles.
I wait, then rap again. Louder this time.
If anyone can help me stay off the booze tonight, it’s Rosie.
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41
At last, I hear a shuffling noise from inside, then the sound of
bolts being drawn back and the rattling of keys. The door opens
a fraction of an inch and two suspicious eyes peer out through
the gap. When she sees it’s me, her eyes soften and something
akin to pleasure passes across her face. She knows she’s got me
and, for once, I don’t care. I need to be saved. From myself.
The door opens a little more, wide enough for me to edge
sideways into a cramped, dark space full of boxes. She sticks
her head out of the door and scans the street in both directions
before closing and locking it behind us.
‘How did you know where to find me?’
I follow her into the back room. ‘I saw your sleeping bag. I
guessed.’
The inner door that leads through into the shop is closed and
there’s a paraffin lamp on the table. Of course. That’s the smell
I recognized before but couldn’t identify. Her red sleeping bag is
unfurled on top of a makeshift mattress of old curtains and
blankets piled on top of each other. It makes me think of the
fairy story I loved as a child. ‘The Princess and the Pea’.
Rosie leans across the table to adjust the wick of the lamp
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and dim yellow light expands in the windowless room. Shad-
ows dance on her face. She looks grotesque. As far removed
from a fairy- tale princess as it’s possible to be.
‘I’m trying not to use too much electricity,’ she says. ‘In case
they notice the bill’s higher than usual.’
She gestures to a chair. ‘You can shove that stuff on the floor
and sit down if you want.’
She takes hold of a kettle and disappears with it into a recess.
I hear her filling it up.
‘I thought Helen was your go- to friend in times of trouble.’
She sounds defensive, as well she might. I’ve spurned her
advances too many times.
‘I don’t think she’s very well.’
‘Hmm.’
Rosie comes back into the main space of the room and goes
over to a stained Formica shelf that passes as a kitchen area. An
assortment of chipped and dirty mugs is stacked up next to a
large box of value teabags and a catering- size jar of cheap
saucer.
‘Tea or coffee?’ she says.
‘Coffee, please. Black.’
‘Don’t worry, it will be. I’ve used the last of the milk.’
I shiver. It might be warm outside, but in here it’s distinctly
chilly. Rosie grabs a cable- knit sweater from the top of one of
the donation bags and tosses it towards me. I catch it by the
sleeve and give it a quick sniff. Time was I wouldn’t have cared
less about putting someone’s dirty jumper on, but with sobri-
ety comes a more refined sense of smell. I’m more discerning
all round now I’m not permanently shit- faced. Rosie watches
me with interest.
‘You’ve been crying,’ she says.
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
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Rosie laughs through her nose. She turns her attention back
to the kettle and soon she’s sloshing hot water into two mugs.
‘Sugar?’
‘No, thanks.’
She spoons three heaped teaspoonfuls into her own mug
and hands me the other. Then she crosses her ankles and sinks,
effortlessly, on to her sleeping bag.
I sniff. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me why
I’m here?’
Rosie smiles. There’s a smugness about her that infuriates
me. I’d get up and leave right now if I didn’t know for sure what
I’d do if I did.
She holds her mug close to her chin so that steam rises up in
front of her face. ‘I knew you’d show up, one of these days. It
was just a matter of waiting.’
A tear rolls out of the corner of my right eye. I don’t want to
break down in front of her because I know, as soon as I do, I’ll
tell her everything, just like she wants me to. Like she’s wanted
me to from the very beginning. And yet there’s something
about the way she’s sitting there, that patient, resigned expres-
sion on her face, as if she’ll sit there for ever until I do, that acts like a valve inside me, and the words judder out.
‘My boyfriend died. He killed himself and it’s my fault and
now I’ve got his suicide note and I can’t read it. I just can’t. Not without a drink.’
Rosie puts her mug on to the floor. She’s looking at some
place I can’t see, some private region inside herself. In a terrible flash of insight, I see in her a future version of me, or how I
might end up, eking out my interminably dry days sifting
through other people’s rubbish, squatting in a shop that smells
of death and decay.
Rosie returns from wherever it is she’s been. ‘A letter? From
Simon?’
I’m amazed she knows his name. I don’t even remember
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telling her. I must have let it slip during one of my shares. ‘Yes.
I only got it tonight.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘How come?’
‘His ex- girlfriend gave it to me.’
Her eyebrows flicker. ‘I thought you were his ex- girlfriend.’
‘I am. I mean I was. It’s a long story.’
‘You’ve got a new boyfriend now, haven’t you?’
I shake my head. ‘Not any more. I finally did the right thing
and told him the truth, and now he doesn’t want anything to do
with me.’ I stare at my feet. ‘I should never have allowed myself
to get involved with him in the first place. It was too soon after
Simon. But I am involved. I’ve fallen in love with him.’
Rosie tugs at her sleeves and pulls them over her knuckles.
‘Tell me about him.’
‘He’s here for the summer. Helping his dad renovate an old
house.’
‘No. Not him. Simon.’