Simply Heaven (47 page)

I pick at the word the way you feel a bad tooth with your tongue. Dead. Oh God. Each time I say it, silently, in my head, a fresh jolt of pain snatches my breath away, makes me howl inside.

Dead. Andy’s dead
.

He can’t be dead. I loved him
.

You killed him
.

I didn’t mean it. I never meant it. Oh, Andy
…

And then I remember him, alive: stupid Andy, the chiselled trapezoid jaw, the patchy blond stubble where he neglected to shave for days on end, the hair streaked with salt-bleach. Andy, singlet stained with sand and carnauba wax, smoking a blunt on the beach at Kirra, laughing fit to bust a gut. Andy fucking me, our hands over each other’s mouths to stifle the noise, against the balcony wall in our resort on the same trip while several dozen people ate dinner five metres below, unaware. And worst: Andy on that last day, the last time I saw him, his face a picture of shock, remorse, disbelief, concern, apology.

The last I’ll see of him.

And my mum sat with me all those nights, held my hand, stroked my hair, gave me sympathy, and all the time she knew
…

He doesn’t know what to do. He sees my desperation and doesn’t know how to reach me. And every time I close my eyes, I see Andy and
crash
, the pain comes back.

What did I do? What did I
do
? It was never meant to end like this. They were never meant to hurt him.

Andy, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry
.

He says: darling, it doesn’t matter. None of it. They’ll come round, they’ll get over it, you’ll find a way. You’re safe with me. I’ll never leave you. Nothing will ever induce me to leave you. And I kiss his hand and wipe my tears with the back of it, feel it against my eyes, and I love him, I love him so much it hurts, and if he only knew, if he only knew …

And he says: ‘Look, if it’s any consolation, I’m deeply ashamed of the way
my
family behaved, too. It’s hard to believe that any of us were raised by any of them. They don’t seem to have the maturity they were born with.’

I have never felt so isolated. Not when I was travelling, not when I thought that Andy had done what I deserved. I thought I knew all about grief: its searing, leaden, enervating, all-pervasive nature; the waking-to-remember and the sleep that never comes. But a grief you can’t tell a soul about is murderous. I believe, for the first couple of days, that it will kill me. I am their daughter, and in their twisted way they thought they were doing the right thing, the moral thing, and I don’t know what to think any more. And, yes, self-interest still drives me forward. The old
what would the in-laws think?
is still foremost in my mind. It would be the end of all hope. Even if Rufus could find it in himself to pass beyond this, his family would never, never do the same.

And besides, I know what happens if you dob on your mates. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

One thing you learn about pain: if it doesn’t kill you, it can never remain as intense for ever. The heart – and the body – have a resilience that sees to that. And even if the pain continues, the body adjusts, gets used to it, stops complaining.

I wake up three days after New Year and realise that I’ve got to get out of bed. That I can’t carry on here, mourning, for the rest of my life. Nothing will be the same again, I know it, but even though, for a while, I thought it had, the world hasn’t come to an end.

And then I do what I’ve done every day on waking, and think of Andy, at the bottom of the ocean, bones and teeth and little else, and, as every morning, I get a rush of grief, a cramping stabbing grip somewhere between heart and stomach, and I run to the bathroom and throw up. And then, instead of crawling back into bed, as I have every day of the past week, and exploring the physical symptoms that assail me – the on-and-off headache, the nausea, the weird fever flushes, the aches in my joints, the dryness in my mouth – I realise that whatever happens, I have to go on. Andy’s dead, and I know I will feel guilt every single day I breathe, but nothing – no illness, no retreat, no self-immolation – will change that.

I sit on the bathroom floor, splintery boards beneath my thigh through my nightie, right forearm still draped on the back of the loo seat where I was using it to rest my head, and wipe the sweat from my forehead with the left. I feel awful. Awful. I feel feeble and shaky, as though I have just emerged from a bout of flu. I am as weak as a kitten, fuzzy-headed and overwhelmed by the enervation of a three-day hangover.

I have to go. I can’t carry on like this. I’m even losing muscle strength.

Another wave of nausea washes through me and I throw up once more. This is nothing. When Andy left me – even now, I can’t stop myself from referring to it this way in my head – I had palpitations for a month, and shooting pains in my arm, as though my body were taking the idea of a broken heart literally. I’ve got to toughen up. I can’t be like this. I can’t let the Mummydaddy ruin my future.

It takes me a few minutes to summon the strength to get to my feet. Rufus went downstairs almost an hour ago, to do the rounds and stare mournfully at the moat, and they’ll be starting breakfast any minute now.

I make my way back across the bedroom. It’s only been a week, but I seem to have lost my sense of balance along with much of my muscle power: I have to use the furniture to lean against as I go. Rifle through the chest of drawers and find some jeans, a sweater, top, vest, thick socks. Sit in a chair to dress, and then sit on for ten minutes more, trying to soak up the heat from the electric fire because my fever seems to have swung to chill.

The house has reverted once again to the eerie quietness that dominated before my family’s arrival. It soaks up the sound of my footfalls. I feel as though my ears are filled with cotton wool as well as my brain. I notice that a new crack has opened in the staircase wall, the one that divides the Georgian and Victorian wings, while I’ve been weeping. The staircase sits a full inch proud of the plaster, and I walk carefully down, hanging on to the banister and trying not to tread too heavily. It’s as though the whole house is twisting, like it’s been picked up and wrung out by an invisible hand.

I pause outside the breakfast-room door. Not so much to listen to what’s going on in there as to try to slather some composure over my demeanour. It’s daunting, the prospect of this morning ritual.

Mary is talking: by the sound of it, she’s talking to Rufus. Or sort of talking generally, though I don’t suppose either Beatrice or Edmund is thinking about anything other than how much longer until the sun passes over the yardarm.

‘Darling,’ she’s saying, ‘mightn’t it be a good idea to talk to the doctor?’

‘No, not yet,’ he says. ‘I think … no.’

‘But, darling, even you must admit it’s not … normal. Rufus, it isn’t normal behaviour. We can’t just close our eyes and pretend it’s not happening. If she needs help, then it would be wrong of us to—’

‘I don’t think she does,’ he says. ‘She’s stressed. Definitely. I don’t think any of us have given her credit for all the stress she’s been under. And Christmas was just awful. Worse for her than for anyone, and we’ve all got to take some blame for that. Not just her parents: all of us. I think she’s upset, not ill.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ he says resolutely.

‘Because, you know, I think she’s wonderful, but you have to admit we don’t really know anything about her …’

‘No, Mummy.
You
don’t know anything about her.’

She pauses. ‘Well, really, darling, nor do you. I mean, I hate to have to point it out, but you did get married in such a hurry, and … well. Are we
sure
something like this hasn’t happened before?’

Rufus pauses in turn. Replies, in controlled tones: ‘No, of
course
I’m not sure. But you know what? You can know someone all your
life
and not know everything about them.’

Well, that’s too right, I think.

‘And in the case of Mel,’ he continues, ‘I choose to trust what I’ve seen.’

Oh, my darling. Thank you. Thank you. You’ll never know how relieved – how grateful – I am to hear you say that.

‘Well, I don’t know, darling. You know your own mind, of course …’

‘Yes,’ says Rufus, firmly. Oh, thank you, my love. You’ve not deserted me.

‘But you know, there have been some … I don’t know how to put it. You obviously don’t want to hear it at the moment. But you know, sometimes I can’t stop myself wondering.’

‘Like?’

‘Well, that time when she lost all her documents and they were in the car all along. And that time when she came back from London and convinced herself we’d locked her out. You can’t deny there was something odd about
that
.’

‘OK. So she can be a bit blonde. There are worse crimes. And as for the other thing, I can’t pretend I know what happened, but I’m sure there’s more than a grain of truth to her story. Sure of it.’

Mary leaves it for a moment. Hears, possibly, the element of challenge in his words. I hear the chink of china on metal. And she just can’t resist starting again.

‘Well, I didn’t want to worry you,’ she says, ‘but there have been other things as well.’

Eh-eh?

Rufus sounds suspicious. ‘Such as?’

‘Please don’t be cross, darling.’

‘I’m not being cross, Mummy,’ he says in a voice that suggests that the situation might not last for ever. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well, the day before, when she was in London, for instance. Hilary said she was rather odd.’

‘Odd?’

‘Said she came in from shopping and launched straight into some sort of attack. Accused him, straight out of the blue, of meddling, said she knew he had it in for her and something along the lines of how she wasn’t standing for it. Hilary said he thought she was quite unbalanced. And I have to say, whatever complexion one tries to put on it, it
does
sound rather paranoid.’

I suck in my breath. Hold on. Hold on just one sec, here.

‘Yuh, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about that,’ says Rufus. ‘About Hilary. Believe me, that’s not the way Mel’s version goes.’

‘Oh, yes? No, well I suppose it wouldn’t be—’

‘No, she said he behaved very weirdly that day, and that was why she left.’ I don’t suppose there was ever a chance that Rufus would talk to his mother about her friends feeling my breasts. He’s far too embarrassable. ‘Seriously, Mummy. I know Hilary’s my godfather, and I know he’s an old friend and everything, but it does sound like he was very, very odd. And to be honest, I’d rather believe what Mel has to say.’

I hear a smile in her voice. ‘You
are
a good, loyal boy,’ she says with more than a hint of patronage. ‘I’m awfully proud of you. How nice a son I’ve managed to produce.’

‘Thanks,’ he says, drily.

‘But you know, your father’s life was practically ruined by marrying someone who wasn’t … well, stable, and—’

‘Drop it, OK?’ he interrupts.

‘Of course, darling, of course. Of course you know best. It’s just that I can’t help—’

I open the door. She clams up. I know she knows I know, but she covers it beautifully. It’s something I’ve come to admire about the English: their capacity to layer on the hypocrisy with charm.

She drops her serviette, leaps to her feet and advances on me, arms outstretched. ‘Melody! My dear! You’re up! I
am
glad! How are you feeling? Come and sit! Have a cup of tea!’

Rufus gets to his feet as well, comes and takes my arm like I’m an invalid, leads me to my seat. There’s only Edmund here, buried in the
Telegraph
. No Beatrice and no Tilly.

‘Where are the others?’

‘Granny has a bit of a cold,’ says Mary, ‘so she’s staying in bed for the morning.’

‘And Tilly went to the new house yesterday,’ says Rufus.

No-one makes a comment. Looks like he’s got his way.

‘Lucky –’ I burst out, correct myself – ‘oh good. Good for her. Maybe I’ll go up and see her a bit later.’

‘Good idea,’ he says.

‘Only if you feel up to it, darling,’ says Mary.

‘I’m not ill, Mary, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ll be fine now. I just needed a couple of days’ peace and quiet.’

Now that Tilly’s gone to her new house, and it’s just me and Rufus, I feel even more exposed than before. I think about her, starting her day in peace, with nothing but Lucy’s squawking to trouble her, and feel a surge of envy. Tilly will be warm, right now. She’ll be sensing that she might have some volition over her own fate. And I’ve got a rock in front of me and nothing but a hard place to flee back to.

‘Of course you did,’ Mary says in the soothing voice of someone who’s secretly dialling the emergency services. ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t just get the doctor to come and give you a—’

‘Quite sure, thanks.’

‘If you’ve been … run down …’

I pretend to check myself. ‘Nope. Tyre marks all healed up.’

‘Cup of tea, m’dear?’ Edmund lowers the paper, raises his eyebrows.

‘That’d be nice. Thanks.’

‘You’re looking a bit pale.’

‘I’m fine, thank you. Just a bit short on food.’

Rufus pours me a cuppa. I help myself to toast. Spread it with butter. Reach for the Marmite. I’ve developed quite a taste for the stuff. It took a while to get used to, but it’s almost as good as Vegemite. I take a sip of tea and make my speech. I’ve been trying to work out what to say on the way down, and now it seems to me that the most important thing is just that I convince everyone of my sanity.

‘I’m very sorry,’ I say, ‘to have had such a pathetic lapse like that. It’s not like me at all. Usually I’m as tough as goat leather.’

‘Oh, darling, don’t even think about it,’ my hypocrite mother-in-law says. ‘We were just worried about
you
.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’ I muster my own hypocrisy. ‘I’m very lucky to have your concern. Especially after the way my family behaved when they were here. I don’t have anything I can say about that, except to offer all of you a heartfelt apology. I can promise you this, as well: it will never, ever happen again.’