The Story of Us (14 page)

‘I don't want to wait a long time before rescheduling the wedding,' he had said.

‘But won't people think it's wrong, or disrespectful, if we do it too soon?'

‘Screw what anyone else thinks. This is about you and me. And let's be honest, would it have worried Amy? Well, would it?'

I shook my head, which was a stupid thing to do on the phone, but suddenly there was a tightness in my throat, as I could almost hear her voice saying the very same thing that Richard had done, except perhaps even
more
colourfully.

‘Okay. Let's talk about it when you get back,' I agreed.

I sat at the kitchen table the following morning, turning the small brown package over and over in my hands, cautiously, as though it contained an unexploded bomb. I gave an impatient snort at the ludicrous thought. It was a book. Just a book. I dealt with hundreds of them every day of the week. I was being ridiculous.

If I had managed to figure out nothing else over the Easter weekend, one thing at least was clear: for some reason – and I'm really sure it was due to how we met – I found Jack strangely compelling, and that connection drew and repelled me like the poles of a magnet. So the
last
thing I needed to do was get him even further into my head by reading his book. I should just throw this unopened package into the kitchen bin, have no further contact with him, and allow all these confusing feelings to just fade away. Simple. So why then did I hear a small tearing noise and find that my fingers – following their own separate agenda – had ripped open the parcel?

It was a hardback edition, with a shiny glossy black cover and eye-catching artwork. I flipped it open and read the front blurb, which told me nothing about the novel that I hadn't already gleaned from the internet when I'd ordered it. I went to the back. My breath caught in my throat as I looked at the picture of the man who had saved me. It was a smiling, relaxed, outdoor shot of him leaning up against a tree. Behind him was a ranch-style fence, and his casual clothing of jeans, open-necked shirt and boots all completed the general ‘cowboy' outdoorsy image, which I imagined the photographer had been striving for. Jack looked younger in the portrait, and his hair was a little longer, and possibly the small creases that fanned from his eyes when he smiled weren't quite as pronounced as they'd been the other day when he was looking at me, but otherwise— I snapped the book shut with a noisy smack, as though a coiled serpent had just reared up from its pages. And
this
is why I should just bin the book, I thought grimly, because for whatever reason, being around Jack – even looking at a picture of him, apparently – was as intoxicating to me as a drug. And just about as dangerous. I needed to kick this irrational addiction before it took an even stronger hold, and concentrate on the things that were really important in my life: my family; my fiancé and my friends, and trying to return to some sort of normality after losing Amy.

As though just touching the book was harmful, I carried it across the kitchen holding just one corner, so not surprisingly it slipped from my fingers and landed on the kitchen floor. I stooped to retrieve it, noticing it had fallen open at the dedication page. I must have remained in a half-crouched position for quite some time, long enough at least for the muscles in my calves to begin to protest. Yet still my eyes remained riveted on the three lines of writing on the open page before me.
To Sheridan, my friend, my lover, my inspiration and my wife. For ever, Jack.

I spent the Bank Holiday with Caroline and Nick, and the first thing I noticed when I pulled on to their drive was the smart and shiny brand new car parked next to Nick's. I don't know much about cars, but I guessed this new upgrade must have cost a great deal more than the insurance pay-out on Caroline's old model. I bent down and peered at the interior as I walked past it to reach their front door. I counted at least five airbags embedded into the leather panels. I knew Nick well enough to know this high safety spec would have been at his insistence. And understandably so. It posed one achingly sad question: if
this
had been Caroline's car on the night of the accident, would things have ended the way they did?

I was still looking over my shoulder at the new vehicle when Nick opened the front door and kissed me warmly on the cheek.

‘Very fancy,' I said before the car disappeared from view as he closed the door.

‘Yes, it is,' Nick commented a little bitterly. ‘Shame I can't get her to drive it, isn't it?'

There was genuine concern behind his words, and I automatically dropped my voice to a whisper which I knew couldn't be heard from the kitchen, where Caroline was certain to be waiting. ‘She still won't drive?'

He shook his head, a worried expression furrowed upon his kind face. ‘No. She can just about cope with being a passenger for a short journey. But honestly, Emma, I don't know if I'm
ever
going to get her behind the wheel of a car again.'

He was concerned and frustrated, I could understand that, but I understood even better Caroline's incapacitating fear. I'd experienced just a small taste of it myself on those first few terrifying journeys on the road after the accident – that had to be nothing in comparison to what Caroline was feeling. ‘Just give her time,' was the only advice I could give. It was the one platitude everyone kept offering to me: just give it time. It was, without doubt, the single most well-meaning and useless piece of advice you could give a person.

There was a delicious smell of something cooking in wine coming from the oven as I made my way into the kitchen. Caroline turned to greet me with a wide smile, looking as composed and in control as ever, until I went into her outstretched arms and felt her hold on to me for just a second or two longer than normal. But that wasn't just her, it was me too.

As it was just the three of us, we ate in the kitchen, but even so the absence of two of our regular group was noticeable in the vacant chairs on one side of the rustic pine table. I rearranged the serving dishes as I laid the table, trying to cover the spaces where Richard's and Amy's placemats should have sat.

‘So how is Richard enjoying Easter skiing down a mountain with eighty fifteen-year-olds in his care?'

I could understand Nick's gentle sarcasm. The thought of the extra responsibility Richard had willingly volunteered to take on made me realise even more just how badly he had needed to get away. I only hoped it was the situation he'd needed to escape from, and not me.

‘He's doing much better,' I replied, spooning up the last delicious mouthful of something laden with cream, pastry and about a thousand calories from my plate. ‘He's sounded much more like his old self on our last few conversations. Much less troubled.'

‘That's good news,' said Caroline with a smile, and I thought I saw something in her eyes as she took Nick's plate from his outstretched hand. Perhaps I did, for a few minutes later he excused himself and disappeared into the lounge, muttering something about watching a match on television.

Caroline waited until we were loading the dishwasher before attempting to casually drop in the comment she must have been sitting on for days.

‘So, I heard that you and Jack Monroe had a lunch date last week?'

I paused mid-rinse of a dinner plate, before turning to face her.

‘This town is absolutely
unbelievable
. Where did you hear that?'

She shrugged and chose not to comment on the way I had instantly bristled at her words. ‘Hallingford is a small place. People talk. You know that.'

I could feel my lips drawing together in a tight line. ‘It's things like this that make me really miss living in London, where you don't have to explain everything you do to people who have no business asking about it.'

Caroline continued to study me. My desire to leave our home town had been as much a mystery to her as quantum physics. She had everything she ever wanted in the place she'd lived all her life. To her, moving away was an unnecessary interruption in the rhythm of a perfect life plan. Our views were almost polar opposites.

‘Do you still miss living there? Even though everyone you care about is here?'

I looked at her sadly. Not everyone. Not any more. ‘I just don't like people sticking their noses into things that are nothing to do with them.'

Caroline arched one brow, forcing me to jump in and correct her. ‘Not you. I just meant the town busybodies, spreading tittle-tattle.
And
getting it all wrong.'

Caroline arched the other brow. She really had perfected that one down to a fine art.

‘It wasn't a date, nothing like it,' I corrected.

‘But you
did
go for lunch together?'

She was beginning to sound a little like a prosecutor in a trial. And although I knew I'd done nothing wrong, I instantly felt guilty. ‘Jack showed up at the shop looking for a book, and as it was lunchtime he suggested going out and grabbing a bite. That's all. End of story.' I deliberately omitted the interesting fact that he had sought to find me in each of the town's bookshops, because even I didn't know why he'd done that.

She looked at me carefully, her eyes probing the words out of me.

‘He's happily married anyway, and I'm as good as. But I don't suppose the gossip mill decided to broadcast that little fact, did they?' Offence is usually the best type of defence, except when the other person knows you as well as Caroline knew me.

‘So what did Richard have to say, when you told him?'

‘As it wasn't important, I didn't even mention it to him.'

She looked at me for a very long time, and then reached over and took my hand in hers before saying gently, ‘Be careful, Emma. Be very careful.'

As advice goes, it was almost as useless as
give it time
, and maybe already too late.

Why is it that as soon as you resolve yourself on a course of action, a really sensible and mature, well-thought-out course of action – like severing all contact with Jack Monroe – Fate wades in and upsets all your plans? For me, Fate arrived on the Tuesday morning just as I was leaving for work, in the form of a delivery driver wearing the distinctive red-and-yellow uniform of a well-known courier company. I had no choice but to get out of my car and greet him, seeing as he'd pulled in directly behind me.

‘Emma Marshall?' he queried, consulting a small handheld electronic device.

‘That's me,' I confirmed.

‘Parcel for you. Can you sign here please?' He passed me the scanning device and I scribbled on the small screen. In return he passed me a large square brown paper parcel. I took it curiously, studying the unfamiliar writing on the label. It wasn't heavy, and it felt kind of squishy, as though it contained some type of fabric. I hadn't ordered anything recently other than Jack's book, but as intrigued as I was to find out its contents, it was exceedingly well-wrapped with what looked like the best part of a roll of brown tape, and I was already running late. I tucked the package under my arm and threw it on to the passenger seat beside me.

I was late for work, and Monique already had two customers in the shop, so I dropped the package on the shelf in the back office and went straight into the store to help her serve. It was a couple of hours later before I had reason to go back into the office, and the first thing I saw was the unopened parcel. While waiting for the kettle to boil, I grabbed a pair of sharp scissors and snipped my way into the package someone had taken great care to ensure arrived with me in one piece. The someone was Amy's mother. I knew that almost without having to read the note addressed to me, which was one of two lying on top of a leather jacket neatly folded within a dry-cleaning bag. The envelope on the second note bore no name, I guess because she had never been told it.

I opened my own envelope carefully, perching on the edge of the desk as I read the neatly handwritten note.

Dear Emma, I am so sorry to bother you with this, but I didn't know who else to ask. Among Amy's belongings which the hospital gave us, was the enclosed man's jacket. I think it must belong to the American man who stopped and helped you girls after the accident. I have had it cleaned, and I believe the stains have been removed. Someone told me you were talking to him at the funeral, so I am hoping that you might have his address so that we can return his property to him. I have also enclosed a letter of thanks that I'd be grateful if you could pass on to him.

Thank you, Emma, for all the support both you and Caroline have given Donald and me over this terrible time. You really were wonderful friends to Amy, and she was lucky to have you both in her life.

Please don't be a stranger. With all our love and thanks, Linda and Donald (Amy's Mum and Dad).

I cried at the bit when she thanked us for being Amy's friend, as if that could ever have been a hardship. And then I cried even harder when I read the bracketed words after the signature, because it hadn't been written to identify who they were (obviously, I knew that) but just to reaffirm that even though she was no longer with them, Amy was still their little girl.

‘Did you go to Brazil for the fucking coffee?' Monique began, and then saw the small pile of used tissues and my exceedingly red nose, and was by my side in an instant. I passed her Linda's note and she scanned it quickly, her eyes darting back up to check on me after every sentence. She sniffed, grabbed a tissue and blew her nose loudly after handing me back the sheet of paper. ‘We should put brandy in the coffee,' she declared.

I tried a small smile and found I almost remembered how to do it.

I drove cautiously along the twisting coastal road. Even with the windscreen wipers at full speed, it was hard for them to cope with the torrential downpour that had begun to fall as soon as I reached the village of Trentwell. It didn't help that I had absolutely no idea where I was going, except that Jack had mentioned that his rental cottage looked out over a small cove. There were only a few lanes where the houses met that description, so I had hoped it wasn't going to be too difficult to find. Now, with all the rain, my plan to find his house without an address seemed seriously stupid.