The Love of Her Life (22 page)

She stood up.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said suddenly. She picked up her bag.

Zoe looked up at her in astonishment.

‘What?’ she said. A curious expression crossed her face.

‘I’ve – conference call,’ Kate said, recent memory giving her inspiration. ‘The Americans. I forgot. Shit I’m late,’ she said, unconvincingly. She met Zoe’s eyes, bent down and kissed her. ‘Don’t get up, darling,’ she said, patting her best friend on the shoulder. ‘Stay there. It’ll be OK.’

‘Kate!’ Zoe was shouting. ‘Kate? Don’t go! Come back!’ Her voice was incredulous, worried. ‘Kate! Listen to me –!’

But Kate ran off, through the cobbled Smithfield lanes, down Cowcross Street, past the boys with tousled fins and the girls in ponchos, past the coffee shops and little restaurants, gathering pace as she went, brushing City boys out of the way, running now as she slammed her pass against the ticket gate and ran onto a train, not caring about work, about Zoe thinking she might have gone mad, just knowing now she had to get back to the flat, to stop them, because she suddenly knew that’s where they’d been meeting, and it was down to her to stop it. Her alone.

Half an hour later, as Kate ran up the stairs at Maida Vale station, panting, and flew across the road towards the flat, she was no clearer about what she would do when she saw them, and doubt was starting to crowd in on her mind. Come on, Steve wasn’t a cheat! He wouldn’t do that to Zoe, to Harry, to the baby. He just wouldn’t!

And then she saw it, outside her and Sean’s building. Steve’s car, a little red MG, which he had bought over Zoe’s protestations, her arguments that they needed a family car. There it was, like a little shiny cliché, parked slap bang in front of the front door. Kate almost gasped at the audacity of it, and rage overtook her, rage and bile. Her clumsy, shaking hands stabbed the key in the lock.

She slammed the door and ran, taking the stairs two at a time.

She slowed down as she got to their flat, caution getting the better of her. Stealthily, smoothly, with murder on her mind and her teeth gritted, she slid the key in smoothly, opening the door so quietly she knew anyone inside wouldn’t have heard her.

Perhaps there was no one in there, she said to herself. I must have got it all wrong, stupid me, and just as she thought that she heard something, heard a noise from the bedroom, the door of which was ajar. Kate took a step forward. The muscles in her throat had closed up.

Steve …

Oh god. No. No no no.

There she was, on the bed, moving slowly up and down, her hair falling about her shoulders, down the creamy pale, skinny back. Kate would know her anywhere. She was moving up and down on top of him. Kate stopped short at the door. But she still didn’t see it. Then he sat up, pulling
her down towards him, his face greedily gobbling between her breasts. He groaned, shaking his head. She moved against him, tilting her head, and Kate saw his face.

It wasn’t Steve.

Steve’s voice came behind her as she stood at the door. He was out of breath, she registered it vaguely. She could hear him, as if he were underwater, or far, far away.

Kate … Kate, it’s
…

It wasn’t Steve in bed with Charly, her best friend.

It was Sean.

Sean’s hands pressed on Charly’s hips as he exploded into her, with a great, bellowing moan. Steve grabbed Kate’s hand and pulled her away, but she wouldn’t move. Why couldn’t they see her, why didn’t they notice, why didn’t they
stop
.

‘Shit.
Shit
,’ Sean said suddenly, and Kate looked at him, realizing he’d seen her, standing in the doorway. ‘Kate.
Kate
.’ He groaned again, as Charly ground herself against him furiously.

‘It’s
Charly
, you
twat
,’ she spat into his ear, as she collapsed again. ‘Charly.’

He pushed her off him – she tumbled backwards, gracefully, onto the bed, turning around and looking lazily up, breathing deeply, her tousled hair falling over her perfect naked body. She stared up at Kate.

‘Fuck,’ she said, her eyes dilating. ‘Fuck.’ And then she
breathed in again, and closed her eyes, shuddering slightly, running a hand through her hair, grabbing onto it. Sean got up, pulling his boxers on.

‘Kate, Kate,’ he said, stumbling towards her. ‘Shit.’

It was so strange, seeing him awkwardly naked, having just come inside Charly a few seconds before, fumbling with himself, his clothes: Kate backed away, like he was an embarrassing drunk on the street. She bumped into Steve, who caught her.

‘Come on,’ he said. She turned around in his arms.

‘I thought it was you,’ she said.

‘I know,’ said Steve, his face red, his green eyes watching the figures behind her. He breathed in, squeezed her arm. ‘Zoe called me. I guessed you must be coming here. I was on the phone to her in the car and you ran past …’ His eyes were full of sympathy. ‘Oh, Kate.’

‘I thought it was you,’ she said again, as Charly pulled the duvet over her body.

‘I know you did,’ Steve said. ‘But there wasn’t much I could do about it, was there?’

She pointed at him. ‘But you’ve been seeing her – I saw you –’

‘I’ve been seeing her to get her to stop doing it, stop both of them,’ Steve said, shaking his head. ‘It’s me, Kate! How could you think I’d do that –’

‘Oh my god,’ Kate said. Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it back, but it choked her. Sean pushed her into the bathroom next door. Her bathroom, with the tiles they were waiting for. ‘Get away from me,’ she said, backing away from him. She turned, and was sick. Sean and Steve stood at the bathroom door, watching her. It was bright and sunny in there, her huge beautiful bathroom that she loved so much. Kate frowned, thinking abstractly to herself, as she heaved and was sick again. Stupid thoughts flew into her mind, silly
questions. Her head spun. What would happen to the bathroom now? She couldn’t come back here again, she was sure of that.

‘Kate, I’m sorry,’ Sean said, when she stood up, a few seconds later. His hair was standing on end, almost comically; he was shaking his head. ‘You – I’m sorry. I love you. This means – oh shit, seriously. I don’t know how it happened.’

How to stand, to face him, to behave in this awful, ungodly situation? She didn’t know, couldn’t work it out. And Charly – she was still in there, in her bed.

She stood up straight. She wiped her mouth, breathing as calmly as she could. Her neck, throat, chest felt constricted, like she might pass out.

‘Get out of here,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘I don’t want to see you again.’ Moving down the corridor, she looked through the door at Charly lying there still, curiously expressionless, and that’s when Kate lost it. She could feel herself as it happened, it was a most strange experience. She marched into the bedroom, aggressively upright, standing straight, and she walked over to the bed. She grabbed Charly by her long hair, wanting to hurt her, kill her. Murderous rage swept through her. She dragged Charly off the bed, screaming, ‘Get out! Just get out, you evil,
evil
bitch!’

She had hold of Charly’s hair and she was shaking it up and down, and Charly’s head, imprisoned by Kate’s steel-strong fingers, was waggling around underneath her. ‘My god, Charly, I always knew you were cheap, but – this! THIS! You COW! Get OUT!’ And she flung her away from her, as far as she could, away. Charly tumbled onto the floor.

‘You fucking bitch!’ Charly screamed, suddenly alive, scratching at Kate, her long talon-like nails scratching Kate’s arm, but Kate felt invincible, suddenly. She marched over and grabbed Charly again, not thinking, not feeling. Charly
was tripping over herself, bashing into the doorframe, as Kate swung her from side to side, wishing she could swing her around the room, rip out her hair, break every bone in her body … Adrenaline pumped into her, coursing through her veins, making her feel light-headed. She could have killed her. She could have killed him … and all the time Charly was screaming at her, screaming torrents of abuse, filthy, black-hearted words close to her ear, as she scratched, clawed like an animal. Oblivious, Kate opened her front door and flung her, still naked, out into the landing and Charly screamed as she banged against the bannisters and nearly fell back, over the stairwell. For a second she hung there, as if she were going to fall, but then she bared her teeth, her dark eyes glittering at Kate, and, righting herself, she smiled.

‘I always knew he was mine, darling,’ she said clearly. Kate shut the door in her face as she rushed towards her and leant up against it, breathing hard. Sean and Steve watched her, in horror, rooted to the spot. Charly started banging on the door.

‘Let me in!’ she screamed. ‘Let me in, you silly, stuck-up, pathetic little bitch! He’s mine! He has been for months — years, if you want to know. I can have
whoever I want
, Kate, you
stupid
little girl, why didn’t you ever see that?’

Sean was slumped in the hallway, his head in his hands. He didn’t even look at her, he didn’t seem to be able to. Kate started shaking. She had to get out of there, but she didn’t know how. Steve pushed her out of the way, gently, and as he opened the door to let Charly in, Kate dodged past her, her feet flying down the stairs, down, away from that flat, away away away. She heard Charly’s hiss, and the patter of following footsteps behind her.

‘Kate!’ Sean shouted suddenly. ‘Come back!’ No, she wasn’t going to catch her up. No, no no. Kate ran into the
hall, flinging the door open. She daren’t pause for breath, had to keep going, had to had to. The steps behind her were getting closer, and Kate ran out on to the street, hair flying behind her, like a crazed, mad woman, like the hounds of Hell themselves were after her. She could feel Charly gaining on her, all the time, and she kept on running, towards the shops, towards safety, she didn’t know where.

She kept on running as she reached the main road, and there were footsteps behind her, pounding, and they spurred Kate on, more and more. The lights were green, she could see them, but the lights were green for the traffic, not for her, and she couldn’t see it.

There was a loud chorus of horns, people jamming their hands onto their horns to stop her, and there was the screeching of brakes, and Kate came to and slowed down in panic, just as someone started shouting.

‘Kate! Kate, get out of the –’

As she turned she could see a great big bus approaching, and someone pushed her with all their force, so that she flew across the road and fell to the ground, on her back, and from there she saw what happened next. She saw the bus driver’s look of horror, heard the desperate braking of the bus right next to her, as Steve, who had pushed her out of the way and saved her life, was hit.

Kate’s leg and arm were covered in blood, where she had fallen to the ground and skidded. She rose to her feet and ran back to him, as people starting piling out of cars, rushing over to the man lying in front of the bus, his neck at an unnatural, strange angle, his body sprawled out in the middle of the crossroads. They watched her, almost not daring to come too close.

‘Steve?’ she croaked, in a hollow voice. ‘Steve? No. No.
Steve
?’

Should Harry come to the funeral, was the question everyone asked. He was fifteen months old. He wouldn’t really understand what was going on, he was simply too little. Would Steve have wanted him there? It was the question everyone asked because it was an issue about practicality and, in those black, horrifying days before the funeral, when there was nothing to do and everything to do, and there were no answers to why this had happened, practicalities were what kept everyone in some kind of sanity.

Zoe didn’t know. She said she wasn’t sure. When Kate asked her, looking into her face for some kind of direction, some sign that she was absorbing this, what had happened to her family, she saw nothing, only a sort of blankness, as Zoe rubbed her pregnant tummy, and shook her head.

‘I don’t know. You decide.’

Kate couldn’t decide that, though. She turned to Steve’s mother Mary, who had arrived that morning. ‘What do you –’

‘I think we’ll think about it later, dear,’ said Mary, in her Edinburgh-accented voice. ‘Zoe, why don’t you go and have
a lie-down? You must be tired, what with all the arrangements this morning.’

Zoe hadn’t slept since Steve had died three days ago. Because even saying Steve had died, it was so horrible, so totally alien, it was words that didn’t go together. But she was docile, easily led now. She raised her hands in silent protest, as if to say, This is pointless, and got up heavily from her chair in the kitchen. Kate followed her through to the sitting room.

‘Do you want some water, a cup of tea?’ she said, looking around the room as Zoe sat down on the sofa. There were photos of them together everywhere, photos of Steve and Zoe on their wedding day, Steve and Mac laughing, their arms round each other. One of his ties was hanging off the bannisters. Kate wanted to make Zoe go outside, stand on the front doorstep for five minutes so she could tidy all of it up, remove every trace of him from the house, so Zoe wouldn’t have to see his presence everywhere, how recently he’d been with them. An ice-cream van trundled slowly by out on the street and Harry, out in the garden, called out in pleasure at the noise. Kate rubbed her eyes, wondering again how things could be so prosaic, how life could be carrying on in its normal way when this had happened. Things kept striking her; like how Steve would never see his new baby. She would never know her dad. Harry would forget things about his father that he knew now, because he was too little to carry them with him. A trail of sweat trickled down Kate’s back. It was so hot, disgustingly hot, it shouldn’t be like this, now. It should be snowing, or raining, winds should be howling. They shouldn’t be wearing vest tops and flip-flops while they discussed what kind of coffin Steve should be buried in. Everything was the wrong way round now, everything, Kate didn’t know where to even begin, and that’s why they focussed on the practicalities. Who was going to make
the sandwiches for afterwards. Should Harry come to the funeral.

Interrupting Kate’s thoughts, Zoe said quietly, ‘Actually, can I have a glass of water?’

‘Of course,’ said Kate hurriedly. ‘I’ll get it, now. Do you want some food? You should –’

‘No,’ Zoe said.

‘But you haven’t –’

‘I don’t want food,’ Zoe repeated, with that edge of steel that Kate had seen in her these last few days. ‘I’ll eat later. Not now. OK? Can you make sure Harry’s OK, Kate?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Kate, going into the kitchen. ‘Just stay there.’

Mary was staring out of the window, into the garden, watching her grandson, playing with his grandfather and uncle on the lawn. She turned as Kate came in.

‘Does she want some food?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Kate. ‘She says she’ll eat later.’

‘Right,’ said Mary. ‘Right then.’ She turned back to the window, her fingers stroking the glass. Kate poured the water.

‘What are we going to do?’ Mary said quietly, almost to herself. Her eyes were hollows, sunken into her face, her skin a pale, papery colour. She looked old, all of a sudden. ‘Tomorrow. After it’s over. What are we going to do?’

Kate nodded, because she didn’t know what to say.

‘Perhaps we should stay down here.’ Mary nodded to herself. ‘Move down and help Zoe. Oh my god. What will she do?’

Kate came over and stood by her side at the window. She touched her arm, gently. ‘Her mum’s here, and I’m here, Mary, I know it’s –’

But Mary wasn’t listening to her. ‘Mac’s saying he should have taken that job. He says he should move back here now,
get a place nearby,’ she said, almost conversationally. ‘Perhaps that would be best.’

Kate watched Mac, out on the lawn, and he looked up as if he could hear them, and stared straight at them. He pointed at them to Harry, who was only just walking, unsteady on his feet. Mac clutched his nephew’s arm and they both looked at Kate and Mary. They were, in that moment, so like Steve, the same quick glance, the same hair colour, shape, that it struck Kate like a blow and she steadied herself, holding onto the kitchen surface. She thought she was going to be sick. A mug rolled over, into the sink, with a clatter.

‘Are you OK, dear?’ Mary said briefly, flicking a glance at her before staring out at the window again.

‘Fine, sorry,’ said Kate. ‘Just – yup.’ Her arm was hurting, the injuries down one side of her swollen, bruised body throbbing with pain.

They were silent again, and then Mary said, ‘I need to talk to Jim. I just don’t know what we should do.’

Kate carried on looking out of the window, swallowing, breathing slowly. She looked down at the sink, full of mugs, and ran some water, as the kitchen door opened.

‘Hi,’ said Mac.

‘Hi!’ said Harry, who was holding onto Mac’s hand. ‘Mum!’ he said, pointing into the sitting room, and he ran off towards her.

‘Hello baby!’ came Zoe’s voice from the other room. She sounded so tired, her voice was cracking. Kate turned the tap on full blast. The hot water hurt her hands.

‘How are you?’ said Mac, turning the kettle on. ‘Need a hand with the drying?’

‘Thanks,’ said Kate, handing him the tea towel. He stood next to her, and picked up a glass, glancing at her as he dried it.

‘You alright?’ he said, nudging her. ‘You’re very pale.’

Kate swallowed again. ‘I feel a bit sick, that’s all. It’s nothing.’

He looked her over, appraisingly. ‘You should take it easy, Kate. Your body’s had a shock. Those are nasty,’ and he gently touched her arm, which was scribbled over with deep, brown-red grazes, bruises, half-bandaged up. ‘Don’t try and do too much.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said, gritting her teeth. She didn’t want any sympathy.

Mac watched her. ‘So, is Sean moving out today then?’ he said, in a low, easy tone.

He uses this tone with his patients, Kate thought to herself. Make them feel secure. Gently, quietly, kindly, make them feel better, even when it’ll never be better. He had arrived early on Saturday morning and she had not seen him cry, had not seen him anything other than composed, organized. He had taken charge of the funeral arrangements, he sat by Zoe and stroked her hair as she tried to sleep, he held his father when yesterday he’d broken down. She didn’t know how he could do it. How can he be asking me things, when his world has fallen apart, completely collapsed. She stared at him.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You probably don’t want to talk about it.’

‘It’s not that,’ Kate said, shaking her head. She moved towards him. ‘Mac, how can you be so –’

Mac looked down at the surface. ‘Don’t ask me about that,’ he said. She bent her head, trying to see his face. ‘I mean it, Kate. Please.’

‘Sure.’ She nodded, and touched his arm, fleetingly. ‘I’m sorry.’

He shook his head back at her. ‘No, I’m sorry. I want to do it this way.’

‘Yes,’ she said. She took her cue from him. ‘Sean, yes. He packed up yesterday. I’m not sure how he’s getting his stuff out.’

It was as if they were talking about getting a wardrobe through a door, down the stairs. ‘You haven’t seen him?’

‘No,’ Kate said. ‘I didn’t want to –’ She trailed off. Sean had called, four, five messages on her phone each time she checked, alongside all the others from everyone else, each one sadder than the last. She had to listen to her messages, it might be friends calling about the funeral, about Zoe. But mostly they were from Sean, imploring her to listen, begging her to see him, crying about what had happened. But what could she say to him? She couldn’t even cling to him, comfort him. He was the one person she blamed more than herself: she couldn’t see him. She shook her head. ‘He’s ringing all the time, he wants to know what’s going on. It’s pathetic of me but –’

‘Hey,’ said Mac softly. ‘It’s OK.’

‘No, you don’t understand –’ Kate began. Tears welled up in her eyes, she could feel something in her chest, a physical pain that hurt her when she thought about why this had happened, how it had happened, and why she was still here when Steve was dead. Steve’s hands, pushing her out of the way, pushing her over hard onto the ground, so that she was alive now, standing here, now.

Why was she alive, why was Sean? Why was he allowed to live, when Steve was dead, his body cold, lying in the morgue in the hospital down the road? She didn’t know. She didn’t know where Sean would go now, where he was. Zoe needed her here – to field the phone calls, make the sandwiches, play with Harry, run to the shops. So that was where she’d be. Kate didn’t need to be at home. After all, it didn’t matter what happened to her now. She shook her head, willing the tears away.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you,’ said Mac.

He was so kind. She wished she could put her head on his shoulder, give in to it, but she couldn’t. ‘It’s my fault,’ said Kate. She cleared her throat and gritted her teeth, before she spoke. ‘Sean’s been in the flat today and yesterday. I think he’s moving in with – with her. He doesn’t have much stuff. He’s cancelling everything, too.’

‘Your wedding.’

‘Yes,’ said Kate. The idea of a wedding now,
her
wedding, seemed farcical. She turned towards Mac. He was holding a mug in his hands, twisting the towel around it, over and over, looking down at her. ‘Can we not –’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I understand. When are you going back there? Later tonight?’

‘Yes,’ said Kate. ‘Zoe’s giving Harry his bath in a bit, I’ll go then. We should get an early night, all of us.’

‘Yep,’ Mac nodded. His mouth was set. ‘It’s going to be a long day.’ He shook his head, smiling at the mundanity of his words. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He put the towel down with the mug.

‘Oh Mac,’ she said.

He gazed at her, his eyes glazed, drunk with pain.

‘I can’t stand it,’ he whispered suddenly, closing his eyes, and he bent over, as if grief was crippling him. She put her arm around him, in the sunny, bright kitchen. He put his hands on his knees, and made a low, choking sound, his body shaking. Kate rubbed his back, not wanting to break the comfort of physical contact, not knowing what else they could do, any of them, now, other than hold each other and try to make it through the next hour, and the hour after that. Then the next day, then the day after.

It was Zoe, calling from the sitting room, who broke the moment. ‘Hey, can you come through? I mean Mac, can you come through?’

‘Sure,’ Mac said, clearing his throat. He stood up, his tall, broad frame blocking out the sun from the garden, and wiped his eyes with the balls of his palms. Kate went ahead of him, to give him a little time to gather himself.

‘Hi darling,’ she said. Zoe was on the sofa, with Harry lying next to her, his eyes wide open.

‘Where’s Mac?’ said Zoe.

‘Just coming. Do you need anything?’

‘I wanted to ask him something,’ said Zoe.

‘Right,’ Kate said. ‘Are you hungry yet –’

‘For god’s sake, Kate, stop asking me if I’m hungry all the time, OK?’ Zoe ran a hand through her lank, lifeless hair. ‘I’ll eat when I want to.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Kate said, stepping forward. ‘Zo, sorry, I just want to make sure you’re –’

Zoe said blankly, ‘Look, Kate. It’s great you’re here, and everything, but you can’t make it better, OK?’ She nodded. ‘So don’t try.’

‘I’m not trying to make it better, I just want to look after you.’

Zoe gazed at her, biting her lip. ‘Especially
you
can’t make it better. Kate.’ She spoke slowly, like she did to Harry. ‘That’s all.’

When Kate walked to the bus stop later, and waited for the bus, as she had done every day since it had happened, she marvelled again at how unreal it was to be doing this, another day gone by like this, dealing with his death, the collapse of everything around them. The bus arrived five minutes later, and she got on and sank into a spare seat. The bus was always full of people at this time, coming back from work, children from school, people heading into town. She wanted to stand up and tell them all what had happened, what grief and pain she had left behind in the little house
down the road. She wanted to ask the people on the bus if they could make sense of any of it, of how it could have happened. But she couldn’t. It was the same route that the bus that killed Steve had taken. On the first day she had walked for a while, she couldn’t bear the idea of getting on that bus. But she realized it just didn’t matter what she did or didn’t do, and no one was going to see or care about it anyway.

She felt as if she were becoming invisible, as if parts of her life were becoming invisible. When she got off at her bus stop, she looked around for a sign, terrified that she might see them again. The trees were still in the evening light. There was no other traffic on the road. She got back to the flat, and climbed the stairs, trying not to feel dread, but praying he wasn’t still there.

He wasn’t. His stuff had gone. Four years together gone in an afternoon. The flat was exactly as she’d left it, no tidier, no messier; it was just that half the things in it were missing. Half the clothes in the wardrobe, half the books and the DVDs and CDs. No toothbrush in the bathroom, no dressing gown on the back of the door. And it didn’t hurt, as Kate gazed round her flat, she tried to make it hurt but it didn’t, not compared to everything else now, in this strange new world they were all coming to terms with.