Because She Loves Me (4 page)

‘What did you think?’ Rachel said, flipping up her visor as I disembarked outside the station.

I was still shaking off the images off Charlie in black leather. ‘Yeah, it was fun. In a terrifying way.’

‘You can’t beat it,’ Rachel said. ‘When we all go out riding together, it’s the best feeling in the world.’

‘All?’

‘Yeah, I mean me and the rest of the chapter.’

I recognised the terminology. ‘You’re a Hells Angel?’

‘No, we’re not Angels. Not proper ones, anyway. It’s just a motorcycle club – we call it “the chapter” as a kind of joke.’

‘I see.’ I pictured the kind of men Rachel hung out with: long hair, beards, tattoos, attitude.

‘Andrew . . .’ She looked at the ground.

Uh-oh
, I thought. When someone says your name like that it’s rarely good news. ‘Yes?’

‘Have you got five minutes for a chat before your train?’

‘Um.’ I checked my watch. ‘I’ve got fifteen, actually. What is it?’

She got off the bike. ‘Let’s go get a cup of tea and I’ll tell you. It’s about Tilly.’

She bought two cups of tea and we sat down at a greasy Formica table in the station cafe. Rachel’s expression and tone of voice had me worried. Was there something wrong with Tilly that I didn’t know about?

Rachel fidgeted with the zip on her leather jacket. When she spoke to me, she avoided eye contact, her focus slipping around the room. ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while. But I need your word that you won’t tell Tilly I’ve spoken to you. She’d freak out and fire me.’

Now I was really concerned. ‘It depends what it’s about.’

She fidgeted some more, her hand straying repeatedly to her mouth as she spoke. ‘I’m really worried about her. I’m sure you know that she’s always been prone to black moods, days when she is snappy and down and, to be frank, feels sorry for herself. But recently it’s been getting worse and worse. The good days are less common than the bad days now.’

I was shocked. I
didn’t
know that Tilly suffered from black moods, beyond the occasional grump that everyone in the world suffers.

‘I think the doctor has put her on a different antidepressant, but since Jonathan dumped her . . .’

I raised my palms. ‘Whoa. Hold on. Antidepressants? And who’s Jonathan?’

She appeared genuinely shocked, meeting my eye for the first time. ‘I didn’t realise you didn’t know. I thought you and Tilly were close.’

‘Obviously not as close as I thought.’

‘I’m sorry. OK, the crux of it is this: about a month ago she started seeing this guy who she met at the pool. I take her swimming a couple of times a week.’

‘That’s Jonathan? Is he disabled too?’

‘Yes – he’s an ex-soldier, lost his leg beneath the knee when he stepped on a mine in Iraq. Anyway, Tilly was completely smitten with him. She talked about him all the time.’

Not with me
, I thought.

‘He dumped her a couple of weeks ago. Out of nowhere. She thought everything was going brilliantly. She’s been distraught ever since.’

I drummed my fingers on the table. The pub was empty and silent apart from the burbling fruit machine in the corner and an old man talking to his dog.

‘Are you sure this is nothing more than her being heartbroken?’

She raised an eyebrow.

‘I’m not saying heartbreak isn’t serious. But everyone gets down after they split up with someone they really liked.’

‘It’s more than that,’ Rachel insisted. ‘She keeps talking about how she’s got nobody, how shit her life is, saying she’s got nothing to live for. I think you should talk to her.’

What she had told me turned the blood in my veins to ice.

‘But without giving away that you talked to me?’

‘That would be ideal, yes. Like I said, she’d be really angry. If you could do something to cheer her up . . . show her she has got something to live for. What with you being so far away—’

‘I’m only up the road in London.’ It was seventy miles away.

‘I know. But you don’t see each other very often, do you?’

If I hadn’t been so concerned about Tilly, I might have felt affronted by this woman, whom I barely knew, hinting that I was neglecting my sister. Instead, along with the chill of concern, the main emotion I felt was guilt.

‘I need to think about what to do,’ I said, after contemplating Rachel’s words for a while. Part of me wanted to go straight back to Tilly’s and talk to her, but I agreed with Rachel’s planned approach. It would be better to be subtle. Plus I was so surprised by what I’d heard that I needed time for it all to sink in.

‘That sounds wise,’ Rachel said, displaying a rare smile. ‘Thanks, Andrew.’

‘No. Thank
you
. Tilly’s lucky she has someone who cares about her so much.’

Rachel picked up her crash helmet and ran a palm over its smooth dome. ‘If only she realised that.’

Back in London, I stopped for a coffee then headed for my connecting train.

My phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognise. My hopes surged – was it her?

‘Hello?’

The call disconnected.

Annoyed, I switched my phone off. I needed to forget her. Get over it. I hadn’t been dumped, like my poor sister. It hadn’t even begun.

My flat is on the fourth floor of a Victorian terrace. Once upon a time, I guess it would have been an attic. It was cramped and the climb up the stairs was exhausting, but the view was fantastic. I could see the shining great transmitter in Crystal Palace, plus, in the other direction, I had a clear view across the park towards the Gherkin. The neighbours were nice. And it had been all I could afford. Both Mum and Dad had been insured and the money was put into a trust for Tilly and me. On my insistence, most of the money went to Tilly, to buy her apartment, but I’d had enough to put a deposit on this flat and pay for my education.

I carried my luggage up the stairs, chucked it on the bed and ran myself a bath. I thought about calling Sasha, see if she wanted to meet up, but remembered she was in Cornwall visiting her family. So I had a typical boring evening: I surfed the net, watched some TV, nuked something out of the freezer, played a bit of online poker.

At around eleven, I got undressed, ready for bed. My phone fell out of my jeans pocket and thudded on the floor. It had been switched off all evening.

As soon as I turned it on, it vibrated twice. I had a missed call and a voicemail. Both were from an unknown mobile number, though not from the number that had hung up on me earlier.

I listened to the voicemail.

It was her.

‘Hey, Andrew . . . just going to wait a sec in case you’re screening. No? Or maybe you are and you don’t want to talk to me because I’ve been such a flake. Or maybe it was the kiss. Maybe you didn’t like it. Though I thought it was a good one. Very good, actually. Oh God, I’m rambling.’

A smile spread across my face.

‘So, yes, this is what happened: I lost my phone. I know, I know. Sounds like the oldest excuse in the book. But it’s true, I swear to God. I lost it and didn’t have your number because it was saved to my phone and not the thingy. I don’t know the technical word for it. The cloud, or whatever. So, anyway, I thought that was it, that you’d hate me forever, or maybe be hugely relieved that this annoying girl who picks fights in pubs was leaving you alone. And then I was back at work today – no rest for the wicked – and did something a bit naughty. I looked up your details on the NHS database. Um, hope you don’t mind.’

Mind? I was ecstatic.

‘Give me a call. If you want to. I had fun the other night. Lots of fun. I’ll probably be up late so call me whenever. Wake me up, I don’t care. Bye!’

I punched the air.

Four

Charlie had arranged to come round at six. ‘Don’t worry about cooking me dinner or anything like that,’ she said when I called her back. I probably should have waited till the next day, or even the day after. Make her sweat a little. But I’m not very good at playing it cool.

I wished I was cooking for her, even though I am hopeless in the kitchen, because it would have given me something to do to distract me. Instead, I spent the day prowling like a polar bear at the zoo, watching the minutes tick by. I showered, agonised over whether to clean shave or trim my stubble, spent ages trying to decide what to wear, tidied the flat three times, tried to work out what music should be playing when she arrived.

I had never acted like this before. Halfway through the afternoon I sat down and gave myself a silent talking to. This was ridiculous. She was just a girl. I’d only met her once. Then I started worrying. What if we didn’t get on? What if she saw me and realised she didn’t like me after all? Or vice versa, though that seemed highly unlikely.

The doorbell rang at five minutes past six, after I had convinced myself she wasn’t coming.

‘Hello,’ she said, beaming at me and stepping forward to give me a hug. She smelled of expensive perfume and looked delicious, wearing a soft black dress and knee-high boots. ‘It’s freezing out here. Are you going to invite me in?’

‘Of course. Come in.’

‘If I was a vampire, you’d be screwed.’

‘I wouldn’t mind if you were,’ I said.

‘Well, if you want me to bite you . . .’ She laughed. ‘I feel a bit hyper. Sorry, I’m not normally like this.’

‘Me neither.’

A look passed between us and I knew that any fears I’d had about awkwardness or not liking each other had been foolish. People talk about chemistry, about sparks flying between people, and that was exactly what was going on here. I had been strongly attracted to other women before, even thought myself in love, but I’d never experienced something as intense and
fast
as this.

I led her up the four flights of stairs and into my flat.

She handed me two bottles of wine. ‘One white, one red. I wasn’t sure which you prefer.’

‘I’m easy. But you’re red, yes?’

‘Hmm, yes please.’ Her eyes had gone over my shoulder, taking in the room. I left her to look around while I went into the tiny kitchen to open the wine. I grasped the worktop for a moment, telling myself to get a grip. Be cool.

When I returned she was looking at the computer, scrolling through my playlists.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’

I handed her the glass of red and took a sip of mine. ‘Of course not.’

‘In the old days – or so I’ve heard – you could go round someone’s place and rifle through their record collection, take a look at their bookcases. Now you have to scroll through their iTunes or click on their Kindle. It’s not the same, is it? I’m pleased to see you have some real books though.’

She stepped over to the bookcase and ran a finger along the spines. A lot of my books are graphic design tomes and photography, with a small collection of novels.

She took out an Ian McEwan book, flicked through it and said, ‘I love this. I can’t bear people who don’t read. I think they must have something wrong with them, don’t you?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Books, music, art, films.’ She held up her glass. ‘Good wine. It’s what life’s all about.’

I held up my own glass. ‘To books, music, art, films and wine.’

She had missed something off that list, but I decided not to mention it. It was in the room with us already.

We clinked and she crossed to the window. ‘Amazing view.’

‘I know. It’s even better from the bedroom.’

I realised what that must sound like but before I could speak she laid her hand across her breastbone and said, ‘
Andrew
. I’ve only been here five minutes. Oh, are you blushing?’

‘I think I might be.’

‘Quick,’ she said. ‘Change the subject before it gets awkward.’

She sat down on the sofa and I had a moment of indecision. Sit next to her or in the adjacent armchair? I sat beside her and we turned towards each other, knees almost touching. I groped for something interesting to say.

‘When are you going back to work?’ I asked.

‘That is a change of subject. I’ve got a whole week off. Bliss.’

‘So you’re a project manager?’

She pulled a face. ‘Boring, huh? I just happen to be very good at organising things and people. It’s not exactly what I want to spend my life doing.’

I waited for her to continue.

‘I did an art degree. That’s what I really want to be doing. Painting. But there are thousands of us out there and the world needs more painters like it needs more politicians. So at the moment I do it in my spare time.’

We talked for a little bit about her art, about how she was trying to get some of her paintings shown at a big exhibition that was coming up, and then we talked a little about graphic design, though I didn’t have that much to say about it. I mainly wanted to listen to her talk, to hear her melodic voice as she skipped about from topic to topic. She knew a lot about literature and music as well as art, and when she spoke, her passion for these things, for culture, for life, was infectious. She was funny too, and unusual. I had never met anyone like her.

I refilled our glasses.

‘You must be doing okay from being a designer,’ she said, ‘if you could afford to buy this place.’

‘Did I tell you I’d bought this place?’ I couldn’t remember much of the conversation.

‘Yeah, you said something about having a mortgage.’

‘Wow, Mr Interesting. But I can afford this place because of money I got from my parents.’

Charlie gave me another of her ironic looks. ‘Ooh, are you rich? Have I lucked out?’

I hesitated. I don’t really like to tell people about my parents straight away because I don’t want them to feel sorry for me, and it can be awkward. I certainly didn’t want Charlie to feel sympathy for me but, at the same time, I didn’t want to keep any secrets from her, so I told her, keeping my voice as light as possible.

‘Oh Andrew,’ she said, her eyes shining with compassion. ‘That must have really . . . sucked.’

I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You could put it like that.’

‘I’d like to meet Tilly. She sounds very brave.’

‘Yeah, she is. But if you said that to her she’d tell you to fuck off.’

‘Ha. My kind of girl. And then you had your eye thing. Sounds like you’ve had a lot of bad luck.’

I took another sip of wine, surprised to find that I’d finished my second glass.

‘I’ve had some good luck too,’ I said.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You won the Lottery?’

‘No, I mean meeting you.’

She grinned. ‘Oh God, that is
so
corny.’

But she put her arms around me and kissed me.

It was even better than the kiss we’d shared at the end of our night out. She was so soft, and her lips so warm, and heat radiated off her body as she pressed it against me. It was like being a teenager again: kissing for its own sake, not only as a prelude to sex. Charlie made little noises in her throat, her eyes shut tight, one hand on my chest, the other snaking around my back, slipping up inside my T-shirt.

‘You’re a very good kisser,’ she said, breaking off for a moment. ‘Have you had lots of practice?’

I just laughed.

We kissed some more, music playing in the background, our empty wine glasses at our feet. She took my hand and put it on her thigh, her dress hitched up, and soon my T-shirt was lying beside the wine glasses.

‘Do you want to go to bed?’ she asked.

I nodded. When I stood up, the room swam. Drunk on wine and Charlie. I held her hand and helped her up, realising I needed a pee. Typical – my bladder was determined to ruin the atmosphere.

‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ I said. ‘The bed’s that way.’

My bedroom had a dimmer switch and when I got back from the bathroom I found that Charlie had turned the light low. Her clothes were on the floor and she was in the bed, the quilt tucked under her chin. I stripped, wondering for a moment if I should take everything off or leave my underwear on, deciding to go for it. I kicked my shorts across the room.

‘Fuck, your hands are cold,’ she protested.

‘They’ll be warm in a minute.’

We stopped talking.

I won’t pretend that our first time was amazing. I was too anxious about my performance, not yet familiar with her body, what she liked, what she wanted me to do. Our limbs knocked together, we both whispered apologies a couple of times. I had to concentrate hard to stop myself from finishing too soon, determined to make her come before me.

Not only that, but I was too aware that I was making love to Charlie, this woman who, in the few days I’d known her, had filled my head, knocked me out of orbit. It was impossible to sink into the moment, to become fully absorbed, because I was watching myself, recording the moment like someone taking a video on their phone at a gig, instead of enjoying the there and then.

Afterwards, Charlie lay with her head on my chest, her hair tickling my face.

‘Do you think I’m easy?’ she said, hoisting herself up and looking into my eyes. Her face and collarbone were flushed from her orgasm. She really was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

‘If you are, I must be too.’

‘That’s true. But there are different rules for guys, aren’t there?’

‘Stupid rules.’

She kissed me. ‘Can you see me without your glasses?’

‘Not much. I have to get really close.’

‘They suit you,’ she said. ‘You’ve got that hot professor thing going on. You look cute without them too. Like a little mole.’

‘Oh, thanks!’

‘I like moles.’

‘I like freckles,’ I said, touching hers.

‘Oh God, you really are corny.’

‘I know. I just made myself sick.’

She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her elbow, her free hand tracing patterns on my torso. ‘How come you haven’t been snapped up already?’

‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’

She grinned. ‘Plenty have tried to snap me up, Andrew.’

I must have looked worried, because she said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to give you a speech about how I’m not looking for anything. On the other hand, I’m not going to ask you to marry me either.’

‘Phew.’

‘I do like you though.’

‘Yeah, I can tell.’

She mock-slapped me. ‘Watch it. So, anyway, you didn’t answer my question. About why you don’t have a girlfriend.’

‘Oh. Well, I did have one until about nine months ago. We were together for a couple of years.’

The hand that had been drawing spirals on my flesh stopped moving. ‘What was her name?’

‘Harriet.’

‘Harriet! Posh.’

I stroked Charlie’s shoulder. ‘She was a little bit posh, yes.’

‘Did she have a pony?’

‘As a matter of fact . . . When she was a kid, anyway. I think she had a couple.’

Charlie was silent for a second. ‘So what happened with posh pony-loving Harriet?’

I shrugged. ‘Oh, there was no big drama. We were together a couple of years, we talked about moving in together, but then it kind of went flat. Fizzled out. We’re still friends though.’

Charlie’s hand had started wandering up and down my torso again. ‘Is that her picture out there in the living room?’

‘Huh? Oh – no, that’s Sasha. My best friend.’

There was a photo of Sasha and me on holiday in Ibiza on the wall by the door. We were standing on top of a large rock, laughing. It had been a fun holiday, quite debauched, in fact.

‘She looks like a laugh.’

‘Yeah, she’s lovely. I’ll introduce you to her.’

‘Can’t wait.’

She kissed me again, wriggling closer, and the kiss grew more passionate and Charlie came closer still until she was on top of me. We made love again, and this time I was fully absorbed, not worried about anything at all, great warm rushes of happiness enveloping me as Charlie made me feel better than I’d ever felt before.