You and Me Page 7

  As I wait, I pick at a packet of Wotsits, dusting the orange crumbs from the pages of my book and glancing up at regular intervals. Tourists traipse out of the museum in herds in the direction of the tube. I’m worried I might miss him if I’m not careful. Then I see her. I can tell it’s her from the strut. Fiona. Her hair tucked into her navy coat, her hands clutching the twins’ hands, their heads, blonde like their father’s, bobbing next to her at thigh height as they try to keep up. A surprise, perhaps. A family evening out.

  She pauses outside the main door, glancing around her as she waits. I sink deep into the bench, wrapping my scarf around me, hoping the traffic on Cromwell Road stays heavy enough to keep me hidden. After a couple of minutes, she looks up, raises a hand and I see Caroline trotting towards her with the pushchair. The pair of them embrace quickly and Fiona makes a call. A few minutes later, Charles appears at the door in his dark winter coat and the six of them walk swiftly back towards the tube.

  I wonder where they’re going – an evening meal? A theatre trip? Peter Pan and hot chocolate. The kids are probably still too young.

  I get up slowly, stiff from the cold. What had I thought? That my tea with Caroline might lead to something? A friendship? An invitation to a group outing? Witnessing their neat little family units, their togetherness, stirs my ancient longing to be included. To be part of the gang.

  Walking home, I remember a rare school trip to Stratford-upon-Avon. We’d been going to see the Royal Shakespeare Company in King Lear – something I’d been very excited about. We wouldn’t study the play until sixth form, but I’d read it with Mother.

  School trips always made me nervous – the question of who I’d sit with on the bus there stressed me out, and Meilin wasn’t going this time, so I’d ended up next to Emma Bellingham, one of Juliet’s friends. Against the odds, we got on well. I was able to highlight a few moments to look out for – the blinding, the storm scene and so on – and she seemed grateful for, rather than amused by, my tips.

  After the play, we chatted all the way back to Chesterfield and I remember thinking, on that happy journey back to school, that I’d made a friend for life, that this was the point at Chesterfield where my fortunes had turned, when I could speak in class or at mealtimes and not hear the sound of stifled sniggering, that I would be able to queue up for lunch without the sickening prospect of having to dine alone, without the feeling that anytime something good happened to me, someone, somewhere, would be hovering not too far away, ready to take it from me.

  Anyway, as it turns out, none of these fantasies came true. When the bus pulled up at Chesterfield, Emma got to her feet and said, ‘See you.’

  I, of course, took ‘see you’ to mean: I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch, where we’ll be sitting side by side.

  But it didn’t – it meant just that. That sometimes walking down the marble corridor, arm in arm with Juliet, she’d glance back and, quite literally, see me, and on a good day there would be the faintest shadow of a smile on her face but mostly, in truth, it was as if I were a pane of glass and she was simply looking through me.

  15

  To my surprise, Meilin is true to her word. It’s her suggestion we go for sushi in Notting Hill – not a typical evening out for me, though I don’t let on when we make plans on the phone. I walk there after work and arrive twenty minutes early, which gives me time to decide what I would like to eat and to begin the Charlotte Brontë biography I’ve brought with me. I spend half an hour or so sipping iced tap water and batting away waiting staff who keep checking if I want anything more substantial. Then when I look at my phone, I see a text from Meilin warning me she’s running late. By the time she arrives, I’ve been there for almost an hour and I’m fed up. I’m good at waiting, but everybody has their limits.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she puffs as she comes through the door and gives me a sweaty hug. ‘Work! You know how it is.’

  ‘The shop was quite busy too,’ I say pointedly.

  ‘How are things going?’ asks Meilin. ‘Do you ever think about trying again with that Open University degree?’

  I pick up the menu, though I chose my meal half an hour ago. I don’t want to think about that time – trying to fit my studies around work in the shop. It had briefly seemed like the perfect option. Working during the day meant I could help Mother with the mortgage payments she always struggled with, while studying at night. The things I’d miss out on – the social side of student life: the pub visits; student union and karaoke nights – hadn’t bothered me so much. The longer-term plan had been that I might follow my degree with teacher training, like Mother. But it wasn’t long after I started that she fell ill and I began to struggle, to fall behind with my essays and deadlines.

  ‘No, that ship has sailed,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I get to review the books and read stories to children sometimes,’ I add as brightly as I can, ‘so it’s different jobs rolled into one.’

  Meilin nods kindly and waves a waiter over. ‘Shall we order some sharing dishes?’

  ‘I was going to have chicken curry,’ I begin.

  ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘But let’s get some starters and other bits.’

  I stare glumly at the table as she orders, losing count after five or six dishes and trying not to worry about how much it will cost. Meilin always asks about my degree, even though it’s been years. I don’t like to think about it: the beginning of Mother’s illness in the early Noughties and how long it lingered over the next decade or so, stealing her from us piece by piece.

  After she’s ordered, Meilin gazes at me over her reading glasses in the way teachers at school used to when they asked you to stay behind after class.

  ‘Did you think any more about talking to the police?’

  ‘Like I said, I wouldn’t really have much to add.’ I do my best to keep the irritation out of my voice. I wish I hadn’t told her – that I’d shared my suspicions with Charles first.

  ‘What did you see exactly?’ she asks, holding my gaze.

  ‘I can’t be sure.’ I hesitate, picking up a pair of conjoined chopsticks and snapping them apart. ‘I just had the feeling he’d seen someone he knew on the platform, over his shoulder – but that he wasn’t sure what to make of it.’

  ‘Strange,’ says Meilin. ‘Could he have seen you?’

  I place the chopsticks back on the table. I hadn’t thought of that. ‘I don’t think so,’ I say carefully. ‘I was standing further away.’

  ‘But it’s possible,’ she points out agreeably.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘anything is possible. There was a big group of women on the platform,’ I continue, not wanting to dwell on my own presence. ‘Pushing and shoving. They’d just been to see a show. There were too many of us.’

  ‘It’s strange that Dickie died next to a huge group of angry women,’ Meilin half-smiles.

  ‘Divine retribution,’ I say. ‘I thought of the Furies.’

  ‘Or just retribution,’ Meilin says.

  ‘Dickie’s wife came to see me.’ I lift the chopsticks again and turn them over in my hand. I imagine what sort of weapon they would make. I do that sometimes – an old habit I once learned in a self-defence class. It makes me feel safe.

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘It’s funny, really. She wanted to get in touch with Ellie.’

  ‘Hasn’t she heard of Facebook?’ Meilin smiles.

  ‘Apparently Dickie already tried. Ellie ignored him.’

  ‘Well,’ says Meilin conclusively, ‘I don’t blame her.’

  We catch up a little about work and she tells me about a colleague of hers, someone she likes – a quiet man with neat dark hair, who was working his way through the Booker shortlist and swapped notes with her about the novels on coffee breaks. Then the food arrives, the steaming plates arranged on the table with a touch of theatre. Meilin begins to tuck in heartily, though I still feel unsettled.

  After I last saw Caroline with Fiona and Charles, I went home and warmed up with a hot bath. Wh
en I checked Fiona’s Instagram account later that night, I saw she’d posted a photograph: Keeping an eye on our darling @carolinegraham_82.

  Caroline sat between Charles and Fiona in the photo, her cheeks flushed pink, her green eyes clouded, the other two pressed protectively either side of her. I remembered her words. ‘Please don’t tell the others,’ with some bitterness then. She’d made out that she and I were in something together.

  Fiona’s make-up in the photograph was immaculate, her hair artfully tousled – she’s always so careful with herself, as if she can smooth over the age difference between her and Charles with foundation and hair mousse. Charles still had that distant, vacant expression he’s had since Dickie’s death. If I could just speak to him, I think now; if I could just tell him I understand.

  ‘She works for Haven, you know?’ says Meilin, interrupting my reverie.

  I chew my mouthful of salmon, trying to work out what she’s talking about.

  ‘Dickie’s wife,’ Meilin says impatiently. ‘It’s a women’s refuge. She does their digital marketing.’

  ‘Oh,’ I swallow.

  ‘What would a woman like that see in Dickie?’

  I’m not sure what to say. Sometimes I sense I disappoint Meilin in not matching her fierceness about such things. It’s not that I don’t feel it – it’s not that the memory of Dickie and what he did doesn’t make me sick, but I don’t want to talk about it all the time.

  ‘Ellie said it’d be OK,’ I murmur in the end. ‘For Caroline to get in touch.’

  After checking Fiona’s Instagram late that night, I’d gone on Facebook and seen that Ellie was online. Something strange happened today, I typed quickly. Dickie’s wife came to the shop. I paused to eat a chocolate biscuit in two hasty bites. She wants to get in touch with you.

  There was no reaction for a moment, then the three dots began to dance.

  With me?

  Yes. Something to do with Dickie and school. I hesitated and typed, Making amends, knowing Ellie would understand.

  Oh Christ, she writes. Can you tell her to sod off?

  I did. Sort of. I said she could send any messages through me.

  I thought then that the conversation was over, but the next day I saw Ellie had answered – It’s fine, you can give her my email address. Easier that way. x

  I’d done as she said and passed on her details to Caroline on Facebook.

  Meilin helps herself to more black cod. ‘I was wondering,’ she begins carefully, ‘was it just a coincidence you were there that night?’

  I’d been thinking about a second helping but now the serving spoon hangs stupidly in my hand.

  ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ She gazes at me. ‘I’ve been thinking about how you used to follow Charles around at school. You don’t do that any more, do you? I know it’s been years, but there was something about the way you kept looking at him at the memorial …’

  Nothing gets past her. I make a show of helping myself to more food as nonchalantly as I can.

  ‘School was years ago,’ I say. ‘Years and years.’

  ‘Why were you there that night?’

  ‘I was meeting a friend for a drink.’

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘Christ.’ I can feel my face burning. ‘What is this? Why does it matter so much?’

  ‘I just thought I should check,’ Meilin says calmly.

  ‘I wouldn’t judge you,’ I snap. ‘You and that situation with your colleague.’

  ‘It’s …’ She hesitates. ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘The same as what?’

  ‘Hanging on to someone from school days.’

  ‘Hanging on?’ I repeat.

  ‘I’m worried about you.’ She rubs her face wearily. ‘You witnessed the death, up close, of someone you knew, someone you hated. You’ve kept it a secret from everyone except me and I’m not even sure what you were doing there. It’s …’

  ‘What?’ I demand, daring her to say it.

  ‘It’s fr—’ She stops herself saying the word. ‘It’s weird, Fran. I know you’ve been through a lot – losing your mum, Ellie moving away. But following Charles around – if that’s what you’re doing – that sort of behaviour scares people.’

  I glare at the array of plates in front of us, the sauces congealing now, the noodles glazed and cold. ‘I didn’t want all of this food.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ says Meilin. ‘I’ll pay for it.’

  ‘I’m not saying that. It’s just I didn’t want it.’

  ‘What are you hoping will come from this situation?’ she asks.

  ‘This?’ I say, gesturing crossly at the table.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Charles. What are you imagining might happen?’

  I keep my mouth shut tight, my lips clenched in an angry line.

  ‘He’s not as special as you think,’ she continues quietly. ‘He’s just a guy. Just an ordinary guy. You’re pinning too much on him. You always did.’

  I pull my handbag angrily onto my lap and rummage through it for my wallet. I’m not going to tell her now, not in these circumstances, that I know it will happen. That one day Charles will look up at just the right time and I will be standing there and he will realise, This is what I have been waiting for. This is what was waiting for me all this time. A deeper kind of love. A love built on years and years of knowing someone. I know I’m a plump, ordinary sort of person, but Charles is my one chance at magic.

  I don’t say any of this to Meilin now. She doesn’t deserve it. She signals to a passing waitress and we spend the rest of our time together in surly silence. I’d known in my gut that our meeting would be a mistake.

  I replay the evening resentfully as I walk home and get ready for bed. How dare Meilin imply that I’m stalking Charles. How dare she. And why does she care so much that I was there that night? She’s the only person I’ve told about my suspicions, and she seems extremely concerned that I saw what I saw.

  I don’t understand why.

  16

  The next time Caroline and Daisy come to see me I’m glad of the distraction. It’s an unusually quiet morning in the shop. Everyone seems to be away at the moment. Charles is skiing in Zermatt and Fiona’s Instagram feed is full of friends and family unrecognisable in goggles and ski helmets, or her and Charles enjoying an ‘après glass of vino’, as she puts it.

  Fiona looks pretty on the slopes, dressing in cream to show off her tan. Behind his Ray-Bans, Charles doesn’t give much away. I wonder how happy he is and if such a noisy holiday gives him any time for quiet reflection.

  Ellie has moved east for the winter too, by the looks of her Facebook. She posts a photograph of Rose’s small feet on skis. It worries me, the idea of her on the slopes, but then maybe she’s good at sport, like her mum. I think, too, of where I might fit into this picture, sipping a hot chocolate in the sun, perhaps, watching Rose play in the snow while Ellie whizzes down the black runs. I don’t know why I even think of it – it’s not as if she’s invited me or even told me exactly where she is.

  ‘I’m not interrupting, am I?’ Caroline asks, jiggling the pushchair. Daisy looks up at me, sucking on a toy. ‘We were wondering if you fancied a tea? Our usual place?’

  In the café, Caroline sighs. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen on social media, but Juliet is organising a charity auction to raise money for families of people who’ve died on public transport.’

  I nod. Juliet’s many posts attracted my attention because of Charles’s involvement. The auction is going to be held at the V&A. I’ve been weighing up whether it might be worth making peace with Meilin so I can go with her.

  ‘Maybe you have something we could auction?’ suggests Caroline.

  ‘Me?’ I ask incredulously.

  ‘Juliet is offering an interior design session and Charles has suggested a private tour of the museum with an artist – someone terribly hip I haven’t heard of.’ She smiles apologetically.

  ‘We might be ab
le to offer book tokens.’

  ‘How about a personal shopping trip with you as well? Advice on the year’s biggest novels – that sort of thing?’

  I pull a face. ‘I don’t know – who’d want that?’

  ‘Please.’ She smiles weakly. ‘It would be nice to have you there – I find that crowd a bit intimidating.’

  I look away, trying to hide my pleasure. The warmth of it spreads across my cheeks.

  Caroline scrapes the foam off the top of her cappuccino. ‘Dickie and I had been thinking of moving away from London.’

  ‘Where?’ I ask, unsure what to make of this non sequitur.

  ‘Scotland, maybe? The Highlands. Somewhere wild. I wanted to get him away from everything.’

  I frown, trying to imagine Dickie in the Highlands. It doesn’t make sense. ‘He would have missed his friends.’

  ‘Yes, but his family are up in Scotland and it’s just …’ Caroline pauses. A teaspoon of foam hovers in the air for a moment. ‘He’d been drinking again.’ She stops to lick the spoon. ‘And it wasn’t just the night of the accident. There were other times, before he died.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘I know.’ She hesitates. ‘The post-mortem showed he’d drunk a significant amount that evening. He was quiet, Charles said, but then alcohol could make Dickie morose. They found a hip flask in his pocket, what was left of it, almost empty. He was really struggling with something.’

  ‘Are you angry with Charles?’ I ask carefully. ‘For not stopping him?’

  ‘No.’ Caroline is quiet for a moment. ‘Sometimes,’ she corrects herself. ‘But then what could he have done? Dickie wasn’t his responsibility. At other times, I wonder if I deserve this.’ She waves away my protestations. ‘When I wake in the middle of the night, with pins and needles in my hands, that cold sense of dread, I wonder if Dickie and I are being punished for our alcoholism. For the hurt we caused.’

  I think of Dickie then, dancing alongside the pool in Chesterfield. The stink of chlorine on his clothes. His crocodile tears later.

  ‘That’s partly why I work for a charity,’ she continues. ‘It’s like if I help enough people, it’ll balance out the ones I’ve hurt,’ she says. ‘Do you ever think that? If I give a pound to this homeless person, it’ll make up for that bad-taste joke I laughed at. As if there’s a final reckoning.’ She laughs. A short, dark exhalation.