Barely Yours (9 page)

Why didn’t you just
say something to her
? Anything? Damn it, man. She looked so alone, so fragile, as she dressed, so unsure of her place in this room, my bedroom. Christ, you couldn’t even look at her when she said goodnight to you, could you? Instead you simply looked away, that coldness sweeping through you once again.

She’ll never want anything to do with you now and to be honest, who could blame her?

She’s a young, beautiful girl – full of life and passion.

A girl who deserves to be loved; who’s begging to be loved fully.

And you can’t give her what she needs. You’re broken. Still stuck on that night. June 16
th
, 2013. The night everything changed forever. The night she was taken from you.

With an anguished sigh, I throw myself back onto the bed, begging for the mercy of sleep to deliver me from these thoughts.

It’s Saturday morning. I hid in upstairs in my apartment until I heard Will and Tabby leave for their trip to the park. Because I still don’t want him to see me. And now here I am in the London Library.

I’ve come here because I need answers, and I’m hoping against hope that there might be some here.

I’ve given the librarian the dates and names I want her to look up for me and I’m waiting nervously by her desk, trying not to chew my fingernails.

As I wait for her to return, I gaze around me at this amazing old room. This place is huge. Floor to ceiling with books, practically every book that’s ever been published – every book you could ever think of is here. Rich dark wood bookshelves, and the companionable silence of people reading. But I can’t enjoy it today. I’m too goddamn impatient.

After what seems like an age, the librarian returns with a pile of newspapers, only a few years old but already yellowing slightly.

“Here you go,” she says in a whisper.

“Thank you,” I mouth in reply, already impatient to begin my investigation, then head over and take my seat at one of the desks.

I scan the pile of newspapers, unsure which one to start with. I decide to go with the
Times
. It seems the most like Will – proper and English and serious. With a deep breath, I begin to scan the pages.

I turn and turn, my eyes darting from images to headlines to stories about politicians, celebrities, climate change, war. And then I see it and my heart stops, and somehow I immediately know this is what I’m looking for.

The headline says:
Talented Young Jewellery Designer Killed in Car Crash
.

I read on:

The up and coming jewellery designer, Emma Cavendish was tragically killed last night in a vehicular accident. Emma, daughter of socialite and magazine editor Victoria Mayhew and prominent technology investor Simon Mayhew, was returning home from a meal with her husband, city executive and heir to the Cavendish industry dynasty, William Cavendish. Their car was struck by another vehicle driven by a man who was later revealed to be three times over the drink driving limit. No other passengers in either vehicle were harmed. Emma is also survived by her infant daughter, Tabitha Rose Cavendish.

I stare at the words for I don’t know how long. But they sink in immediately, because on some level I guess I’ve always known that there was a tragedy just bubbling under the surface – a tragedy that was desperate to get out of him.

And come on, why did I never ask where Tabby’s mother was?

A four year old girl living with her dad and a mom who’s never mentioned?

Come on. It doesn’t take a detective to work that one out. I guess I never asked because deep down I always
knew
the answer and didn’t want to bring it up, the same way he never once told me what happened to her.

Sitting here in this beautiful but solemn and silent library, everything suddenly clicks into place. His coldness. His reticence. The cups of tea on a Friday evening – no wonder he doesn’t drink! And no wonder why he feels he has to spend every minute he can with Tabby.

Oh Tabby. That poor, motherless little girl.

And as I sit there, I let these facts sink in and join up with what I’ve always known deep down. And I forgive him. I forgive him for turning away from me. I forgive him for his coldness. I forgive him for the way he’s made me feel.

Because I know it’s not his fault.

I know he can’t help it.

And I resolve, there and then, to do something about it.

§

I practically run back to the house. There are just too many unsaid things between us. And like always, I can feel them bubbling up inside me like they’re going to burst out any minute – like I’m not even in control of my own words.

My hands are shaking so it takes a little longer getting the door key to work than it usually would, and I finally rush impatiently into the living room, but he’s not there. Next, I check the kitchen. Empty too. I run madly through the whole house, but he’s not in the basement gym or swimming pool and he’s not in the den or even in his bedroom. Where
is
he? He has to be here. I need to talk to him.

Then I push open a door I hadn’t even noticed before. To a room I didn’t know existed. And there he is, at a desk. This is obviously his office. He looks up at me, concern wrinkling his strong brow, and just the sight of this beautiful, strong but broken man breaks my heart all over again. The desk is littered with papers. He’s clearly engrossed with work.

“What’s wrong?” he says, slight alarm in his voice. “Is Tabby okay? I just put her down for a nap.”

I shake my head.

“No, Will,” I reply. “You don’t understand. Nothing’s wrong with Tabby. I’ve been out. But I came straight back here. I need to talk to you.”

The concern on his face mingles with confusion.

“What about?” he says, bluntly.

And then it all comes out in one long stream of emotion. “I
know
, Will. I know about Emma. I know what happened. About the car crash. And I get it. I do. I understand. I can’t imagine what you must have gone through. The pain. To lose your wife so young. And I saw a photo in the newspaper. She was
so
beautiful. And although I can’t possibly imagine your pain, I get it. I understand. I know what makes you behave like you do. I know why as soon as fate brings us together you pull away from me. I know why you hurt me. And I need to tell you that it’s okay, that you can’t hurt me any more, because I
understand
. There’s something between us, and you can’t deny that. I know you can’t. And we need to see what that something is. So I’m not going to let you push me away again. And if you do, I’ll just be here, Will, waiting for you. Waiting for you to be ready. Waiting for you to come back to me.”

As I talk, I watch the emotions flicker across his face. I see shock crash against pain and confusion. And then finally, unless I’m mistaking it, I see a new emotion take hold: understanding.

Slowly he rises to his feet. He walks around the desk, so he’s standing directly in front of me and he takes both my hands tenderly in his. He bends down and leans his forehead to mine and as we stand, finally truly understanding each other, he whispers, “Thank you, Chrissie.”

It’s all I need to hear.

And as our lips meet in a gentle kiss, I just know it’s a new beginning between us.

One Month Later ...

It’s strange, but I’m as nervous as a schoolboy. Because tonight I’m taking Chrissie out. We’re actually going to go out of the house, together, for the first time – just the two of us. Not to the park with Tabby, just us. Two adults, going on an actual date.

Date
.

The word seems strange to me. Going on ‘dates’ is something I’ve not done in so long. Not in years. Not since ...

So of course I’m nervous. But I’m excited, too. I can’t tell you how wonderful it feels, just being with Chrissie. I feel alive again, like I’ve been hibernating for so long, and I’ve finally come out and the sun’s shining, and I like it.

It’s been a month since she came to me in the office. A month since the conversation that changed everything. And the hours, days, weeks have all simply flown by. With Chrissie in my life, it feels like a previously monochrome world is now in full colour.

I can’t quite believe it’s taken us this long to decide to actually go out together. But we haven’t needed to. We’ve just been getting to know each other, here in the house, and out and about with Tabby. And she’s not one of those girls who needs constant reassurance either, who always needs treats and presents to know that somebody likes her.

So she never asked to be taken out tonight. She’d be truly happy to stay in, eat popcorn, and watch yet another Hollywood classic on DVD, of which she’s become so fond lately. But the other day, I caught her reading a
Time Out
review of this new restaurant that’s just round the corner, and I realised that more than anything I wanted to take her out and show her a good time.

Which is why I find myself standing in front of the mirror at seven thirty, agonizing over what to wear. Of course, I know how to dress for a
business meeting
. For work. I know how to look smart. But do I look cool? It’s been so long since I properly paid attention to fashion, I’m just going to hope that my classic style will never go out of date. After all, Top Man might change its stock on a weekly basis, but it took my Savile Row tailor months to cut these suits.

After finishing off with a dash of my signature cologne, I think I’m finally ready, and when I head down the stairs I’m so excited to see Chrissie already waiting for me there at the bottom. She looks stunning, breath taking. She’s wearing a beautiful sleeveless black dress that shows off her figure to perfection. And as my eyes travel over her body, as I take her in completely, I realise this is the first time I’ve seen her in heels. A little pair of black stilettos to finish off her outfit, and god damn, she’s never looked sexier.

I don’t know how I’m going to get through tonight without ripping her clothes off. Sod the restaurant,
she’s
all I want to eat tonight. 

She smiles nervously, suddenly shy, like in one of the classic films we’ve been watching, and I meet her smile. Christ. I feel like a nervous student all over again!

“You look wonderful,” I say, as I join her in the hallway, kissing her on the cheek.

I want her to feel just for one night that she’s being taken out to dinner by a perfect gentleman, suited and booted – the whole nine yards.

She blushes.

“Thank you,” she says with a shy smile. “And you know, you don’t look too bad yourself.”

“I tried to make an effort,” I say, looking down at my navy single-breasted suit cut from a stiff linen, pleased that I made the right choice. “My tailor is one of a kind.”

“My
tailor
,” she teases.

And I’m reminded all over again that if I want to impress
this
girl, I’ve got to work hard. I’ve got to keep my wits about me; because it’s going to take more than a sharp suit and a night out to impress Chrissie.

So I match her tone and with a teasing edge to my voice, announcing that our limo awaits.

She laughs, but all the same, I know that we’re both glad it’s true. Money can’t buy you everything, but it can buy comfort. And I want Chrissie to have a perfect night out tonight.