Then and Always (4 page)

I had refused Sarah’s offer to stay at her parents’ place. Much as I loved her family, they had always been more exuberant and excitable than my own, and I didn’t think I’d be strong enough to face that particular brand of crazy in the run-up to the wedding. They had seemed to understand and hadn’t appeared offended when I’d declined their offer and had instead booked a room in one of the town’s two hotels. Many of the guests would be doing the same, I imagined, although of course quite a large number probably still lived in the area.

AS THE TRAIN
slipped out of the station for the two-hour journey, I allowed myself to think of the people I would be meeting again that night. My friends from the past. The bonds I had thought would bind us forever had not proved as resilient as I had always believed. And it hadn’t been the passing years that had severed the threads. No, they had been sheared away by a young man’s reckless driving and an out-of-control stolen vehicle.

Sarah had been extremely careful when filling me in on
news of our old group of friends. From visits to her parents and through the town grapevine, she knew that after uni Trevor had returned to Great Bishopsford and was currently living with his girlfriend, whom Sarah had yet to meet, and was working as a branch manager in a bank. I found it hard to imagine the rock-band guitar-playing Trev of my teenage years in such a sedate and respectable lifestyle.

Phil was apparently still living the life of a nomad. He’d taken a gap year after university, which had grown into a second year of bumming around the world. His wandering lifestyle had metamorphosed into a job as a freelance photographer, and although his family still lived in the area, Phil spent little time there between assignments, often electing those that sent him abroad for months at a time. Sarah said that when their paths had crossed, she sensed in him a restlessness that seemed to explain his lifestyle and a reluctance to settle in any one place.

And then there was Matt … and of course Cathy, for now their histories were inextricably linked. I could tell how hard it had been for Sarah to let me know about them. How carefully Sarah had chosen her words, picking just the right phrase, uncertain of the pain she might be inflicting. It was just over eighteen months since she had told me that Cathy and my ex-boyfriend were now an item. As the words had settled down the phone lines between us, I had waited for the shard of pain—but there was none, merely surprise. And not surprise that those two unbelievably beautiful people were together, just that it had taken Cathy this long to achieve her objective.

I pushed this thought away, as I had when Sarah first broke the news to me about their relationship. If I allowed myself to think of Matt, then I would be opening the door to our own
sad little story and breakup, and that would lead to the reasons why … and that would lead me somewhere I never allowed my thoughts to go.

AS THE CLUSTERS
of houses and built-up areas gradually gave way to fields and open spaces, I could feel a palpable tension beginning to rise inside me. I swallowed it back down with a mouthful of revolting, bitter coffee bought from the buffet car and tried to focus instead on the purpose of the visit. This was
Sarah’s
weekend,
Sarah’s
big day; I couldn’t allow myself to ruin this time for her by having her worry about how I was going to cope with being home again.

That thought pulled me up sharply:
home again
. Was it really my home, was that how I still thought of it? I hadn’t lived there for five years, so technically no, it was not. But then, nowhere else felt like it deserved that title either. Dad’s current address in North Devon, where we had moved during the long slow months of my recovery, was
his
home, not mine, despite the fact that I had lived there for almost two years. I suppose my small London flat was home, but it had always felt temporary and transient, chosen for its closeness to the convenient tube line rather than any emotional attachment to the building. Also, it was hard to form a deep emotional attachment to a rental property over a dilapidated launderette in one of London’s less salubrious locations. I should have moved on when I had earned my first salary increase, should certainly have considered it by the next one, but there was a comfort in the known and familiar, however lacking in style it might be. In my more lighthearted moments I would refer to my flat as shabby-chic, but without the chic. That about summed it up.

THE TRAIN’S RHYTHM
began to slow, and I realized that the two-hour journey had passed much more speedily than I would have liked. When the androgynous voice of the loudspeaker announced “The next stop is Great Bishopsford,” I was alarmed to discover I was no more ready to face my return than I had been any time in the last five years. As the train shuddered to a halt, I got to my feet and reached up to retrieve my small overnight bag from the rack.

“Allow me,” a man’s voice offered from behind me, and before I could decline, strong leather-clad arms reached up and lifted down the small case. As I looked up to thank the stranger, I saw the quickly disguised look of sympathy on his face as he took in the jagged scar that became visible as I raised my head. I smiled briefly in thanks and lowered my head, allowing the thick curtain of hair to cover the worst of my marked face. It was a habit I had developed over time; it was easier to hide the scar than to have to deal with people’s reaction to it. Those who weren’t shocked into silence might be tempted to ask about its origins, and I had made a decision many years ago never to speak of it. And perhaps that was what was scaring me so badly about being back home. Because how would the old group of friends get through this weekend
without
speaking of something so cataclysmic that it had in some way altered each of our lives?

I caught a taxi from the station, even though it was only a short walk to the hotel. The walk would have taken me past our old school, and I wasn’t prepared yet for the memories taking that route might elicit. Inside the leather-seated interior of the cab, I kept my gaze firmly fixed on my knees and tried to avoid the inevitable for a little while longer.

The hotel room was clean and impersonal. It took all of three minutes to unpack my small bag. I glanced at the bedside
radio alarm clock. It was nearly lunchtime and I toyed with the idea of going down to the hotel bar for a sandwich, but at the last moment lost my nerve and phoned down for room service. “Baby steps,” I told myself encouragingly. “Just take little baby steps and you’ll be fine.” My reflection looked back at me doubtfully from the dressing-table mirror. If I couldn’t even convince myself, how on earth was I going to get through the next seventy-two hours?

After I’d eaten, I called Sarah on my mobile to let her know I had arrived. I heard the relief in her voice and was dismayed that she had not been certain I was going to come. That strengthened my resolve to be strong, if only for her sake.

“Come over now, I don’t want to wait till tonight to see you.” Her enthusiasm made me smile, but then Sarah always had. I just hoped Dave realized how lucky he was, getting to spend his future with such a special person.

“Maybe in a little while,” I promised. “And you have me at your disposal all day tomorrow, so we’ll get plenty of time to talk before you become an old married lady.” She groaned at my words and uttered a very unladylike phrase in response.

“Actually,” I continued, “I think I’ll take a little walk this afternoon. See if I can face up to some of those old memories after all.”

“Fancy some company?”

I smiled at her offer. She must have a thousand and one things to do, yet I knew she’d abandon all of them in a heartbeat if I said yes.

“No, that’s okay,” I replied, “I think I might do this better on my own, and anyway I’m getting a bit of headache.” I brought my hand up to rub distractedly between my brows as I realized this last was true. “So the fresh air will do me good.”

“Well, don’t walk so far that you’ll be too exhausted for my hen dinner tonight.”

“As if I’d be allowed to miss that! Are you doing the bride-to-be tiara costume bit?”

“No,” came the swift response in mock indignation, “I told you before, this is no tacky girly shindig. This is a mixed, grown-up, and sophisticated dinner with all of my oldest friends, to celebrate my departure from spinsterhood. By the way, you
have
arranged a stripper for me, haven’t you?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, and was still smiling when I hung up the phone.

THE AIR OUTSIDE
was much colder than I had expected, and I was glad of my thick woolen coat and knitted scarf wound tightly about my neck. Without any conscious thought or instruction, my feet found their own rhythm and began to direct me down the twisting side roads that led me to my old home. I didn’t intervene. This was the first stop I needed to make and this should be the easy one. No dark memories there, only happy ones from my childhood.

Someone had upgraded the old picket fence with something much fancier made out of wrought iron, and the front door was now a garish green color, but apart from that it all looked the same. There was a comfort in seeing that the house hadn’t been altered too dramatically, although the garden was better kept, I noticed, but then Dad had never been much of a gardener. Also, fancy wooden blinds replaced the more homely curtains that we had preferred, but basically it still looked like home.

As I lingered on the pavement, I allowed a wave of memories to assault me, a kaleidoscope of images spanning the
years. Yet still there were no dark shadows here. Up until five years ago this was the only home I had known, and it still represented the feelings of safety and sanctuary that had eluded me anywhere else. Standing on the pavement, feeling like I still belonged there, yet at the same time knowing that I did not, I felt a dart of nostalgia pierce me. I realized with a shock that this was the first time I had actually seen the house since the night of the accident.

The decision to move away and the packing up and sale had all been carried out during the long slow months of my hospital stay. Whether it was the right decision or not, who could say? My poor father had been desperate enough to do whatever he could to minimize my pain. Half demented with grief, I had clung to him desperately from my hospital bed and pleaded with him to let us move far away: so move we did.

Suddenly my memories were cyanide-bitter and I turned from the house and began walking briskly away. My eyes started to water furiously as a bitter icy wind blasted my face.

I walked head down against the gusting currents, my stride just short of a run. At the end of the street, I stopped and hesitated. I was standing at a crossroads. If it hadn’t been so heartbreakingly sad, it would almost have been funny. Although the painkillers had dulled my headache to a persistent throb, I
could
use it as an excuse not to make my next stop. But I thought I’d been hiding behind excuses for too long now.

Unlike my old home, Jimmy’s house looked completely unchanged and exactly as I’d remembered it. It was almost as though they had preserved it as a monument to him. My hand gripped tightly on the door knocker as a fleeting glimmer of hope ran through me. Perhaps they too had moved? Sarah had never said, but then we hadn’t spoken of his family
at all in the intervening years. Some wounds just went too deep.

If Janet was shocked by my appearance on her doorstep after a five-year absence, she hid it well. She also hid her reaction to my damaged face, which I knew she must have noticed with the wind whipping my hair about my head in long chestnut banners. I hoped I was as good at masking my own shock when I saw how much she had aged in the intervening years. Although she smiled and reached out to envelope me in a welcoming hug, the grief was so deeply etched into her face that I realized no new emotion was ever going to be powerful enough to erase it. Guilt sliced through me like a knife wound. It was
my fault
she looked like that.
My fault
she had lost her son.

“Come in, Rachel,” she said softly. “It’s been a long time.”

IT HADN’T BEEN
an easy afternoon, and by the time I got back to the hotel, the tension and the emotions of the day had brought my headache to a crescendo of agony. My first action on returning to my room was to blindly fumble in my toiletry bag for the bottle of pills. I ignored the dosage instructions on the label and immediately dry-swallowed two tablets instead of one. As I waited for the medication to kick in, I ran a deep hot bath in the small white-tiled bathroom.

The headache was still with me as I slid under the fragrantly perfumed water, slightly better when I emerged pink and beginning to shrivel half an hour later, and back to a dull but manageable ache when I realized it was already time to get ready for the evening.

I tried to keep my mind away from my visit with Jimmy’s mother, though there was much I needed to consider about
what she had said that day. I couldn’t afford the luxury of thinking of that now. First, we all had to face the night ahead—a night of reunion and a time of celebration—all the while trying to ignore the fact that, for the first time, we would be meeting as six instead of seven.

“Baby steps,” I murmured again to myself as I settled before the dressing table and began to apply my makeup.

SARAH HAD CHOSEN
the location for the dinner well. We were booked at a fancy restaurant on the other side of town. A place far too expensive and sophisticated for us to have frequented in our student days. I arrived early, a good thirty minutes before our reservation, hoping it would give me some sort of mental advantage. Having given Sarah’s name to the maître d’, I declined the suggestion to wait at the bar and asked instead to be seated at our table.

I was ushered to a large circular table in the far corner of the restaurant. I chose a chair facing the doorway, wanting the advantage of being able to see who would arrive next. I could certainly have done without the large mirrored wall directly opposite our table; I’d already spent far too much time stressing over my reflection in the hotel room. I didn’t need the indulgence of another half hour of wondering whether my choice of midnight blue dress with the deep V neckline had been the right one. Having brought no alternative for the evening, there wasn’t really much I could do about it either way. Nervously I kept checking my reflection, each time pulling my hair forward, making sure it swung deeply across my cheek.