We Are All Made of Stars (36 page)

I walk around the house I have hardly lived in for the past two years and see it with fresh eyes. The wallpaper in the hallway left over from the last occupants: huge blousy red roses we swore would be gone as soon as we'd closed the door. The corner that Vincent ripped off with his thumb, revealing magnolia paint underneath. The box of nonspecific kitchen items, still labelled and sealed in the space where a dishwasher should be. Clearly it's filled with objects that I never use, or need – objects that I can't remember – and so quite why I bothered to wrap them in newspaper and seal them in a box is anyone's guess. They must have seemed important once. A lot of things seemed important once that hardly matter at all now.

On the stairs there's some neatly folded laundry that I left there to take up a few weeks ago, now dusty and creased, and a mug of cold tea. In the bathroom is a desiccated sprig of lavender in a frosted glass vase, its shattered flower heads littering the windowsill like dead flies. In the bedroom, the cold green paint, the temporary wardrobe. And at the bottom of this is Vincent's bag from the hospital – all of his belongings still zipped up in an overnight bag that has never been unzipped since the day he got home. I don't know why neither of us touched it. Maybe we thought that unzipping it might somehow release all of the terror and pain of the first few days of surviving the accident out into this world, our world. Perhaps we didn't realise that had already happened.

It's heavier than it looks; I heft it onto the bed and unzip it to reveal musty, folded clothes on top. Taking a breath, I tip the bag upside down and shake the contents onto the bed. It's clothes, mostly – T-shirts, jogging bottoms with one leg cut off, underwear. But also there's a cheap plastic bag with a necklace in it – a small gold St Christopher, which Vincent had always worn for as long as I knew, but not since the injury, although I don't think I even noticed until now. A long time ago, soon after we met, I remember fingering the fine gold chain and catching the small octagonal medallion in the palm of my hand.

‘Lucky charm?' I had asked him.

‘Mum gave it to me when I joined up. She told me, that day, how proud she was of me. I think it's the only time I heard her say it. It isn't so much lucky; I guess it's just a reminder of that – it's a bit sad, really. You should give me something, too. You should give me something to keep in my pocket, to remind me of you.'

And he'd grabbed a pair of knickers from my drawer and waved them over his head, saying they were going with him back on tour, and I shrieked and chased him around the room until we fell into bed and made love again. I never did see those knickers again, though, but they aren't in this bag.

There is something else in amongst the jumble of clothes: a long white envelope. Perhaps discharge notes from the hospital? I pick it up and sit down on the bed with a bump. It's addressed to me. And it's written in Vincent's handwriting.

Vincent, who hates even having to write a shopping list, or a Christmas card, has written to me. But of course I know why. I know what this letter is; I just haven't ever known that it actually existed.

It's his last letter.

I hold it lightly, seeing how it trembles in my fingers. And even though it somehow feels like a betrayal – no, more like tempting fate – I force my thumb under the seal and rip it open. I take the letter out and unfold it. There it is, his handwriting, neat and boyish, a little laboured, but carefully written, thoughtful. Somehow I know that this wasn't the first draft; that'd he tried and tried again to get this missive exactly right. I see my name, but the other letters swim on the page – out of focus as tears blur my vision for a moment and I blink them away. I was only ever meant to read this if he died. And yet, once I am able to start reading, I cannot look away.

Dear Stella,

If you are reading this then I am gone. And it will be hard for you. When I think about it, you being alone, having to deal with what's happened, it feels like it will be hard for me too. It hurts to think about. But it won't be – I will be gone. It's not me I have to worry about – it's you.

We never talked about this, the possibility that I might be killed in action. Maybe we didn't want to tempt fate. Maybe we didn't want to acknowledge it. We always did like to believe, you and I, that together we are indestructible.

So, there are some things you must do to remember me. Don't change, Stella. Don't stop being brave, fierce, funny, sexy as hell and too clever for your own good. Don't stop reading all those books, or saving all those lives, or making people smile just by smiling at them. Don't lose the joy you have in living, which has made me want to stay alive more than anything I know.

Don't be lonely, not for me. Make sure your friends take you out at least once a week, even in the beginning. Make sure you go out and party. You love to party. Don't stop flirting. It hurts me to write that, but I want you to be happy. And one day, maybe in about a decade or so, you can try and meet someone new – though just make sure they always feel like they are living in my shadow.

Remember that, for you, I have been the best man, and the best soldier, that I can be. Since you became my wife, I grew up, I cared, I tried. I lived the best way I could, in every moment. And I will die the best way I can too.

Think of me, remember me. But never change who you are because of me. Always be you, perfect and happy. And somehow, some way, I will always be with you. If you are reading this letter, all that it means is that you and I were never meant to have our happy ending. But you can still have yours.

I love you,

Vincent

And all at once I see for the first time what both of us have failed to realise all along. We have been separately mourning the life we used to have, missing what can never be returned to us, but it doesn't mean that we can't still be the people we were before. He told me, here in this letter, that if the greatest tragedy happened, I shouldn't change. And yet, it didn't happen – I got him back – but somehow we both changed. We both let it change us. And yet, it doesn't have to. We can be the same people; we can still love each other the same way, simply living life differently. And, above all else, simply living. We have both been ghosts, ghosts haunting an empty house. Ghosts made not by death but by our own lack of will to live, to fight for the life that made us happy.

I look around this bleak, empty building full of shadows and cold corners, and I know that without Vincent in it, without the man that I love it in, it is an empty shell. It's exactly as Hugh said: what is love if you don't have to fight to keep it? What is life if you don't fight every second to live it? We can still have our happy ending, together. Only it won't be an ending, it will be a beginning.

I know where Vincent is, right now.

I lace up my shoes, let myself out of the front door, glance up at what's left of the night, and I run.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

‘Are you OK?'

Ben is leaning on me; he sounds a little out of breath. The doctor at Marie Francis checked him out and said everything seemed fine, other than severe soft-tissue damage and some cuts, but to keep an eye on him and get him to A&E if anything changed.

‘Am I OK?' Ben laughs. ‘I don't know. Am I? You tell me.'

I know he wants me to do or say something – the next thing that will move us on from where we are now to being more, to being lovers. And I'm terrified; to make someone that is so vital to me, so important, suddenly so … significant is scary. This isn't some boy I met at a summer festival; this matters. Right now, this matters more than anything else.

‘I think you are OK,' I say, pulling him a little tighter to me. ‘You've got me now. You've always had me, you just didn't seem to know that.'

The market is busy, bustling with cool kids and tourists, harassed-looking mums, people of all backgrounds and faiths jostling with each other for elbow room. I glance sideways at Ben; his head is down, his hair, minus all the product he usually shoves in it, is falling in his eyes. It makes him look younger, somehow – softer, sweeter. Without all the bravado and front that I love about him so much, and yet, somehow, without it, I love him even more.

‘The thing is,' I say, ‘I want it, what you want. But, Ben, I have to say it, because it wouldn't be fair not to. What about the whole CF thing? Because, apart from the fact that I am needy and desperate and moody, I might go and die on you. Possibly even before you get bored of me. And I'm not sure … should I let you put yourself through that?'

He stops suddenly. ‘That's not your choice to make. And, anyway, if it happens, it won't make a difference if we are together or not, because if it happens, then … well, it's not going to happen.' He grabs the lapels of my coat and draws me closer to him. ‘Hope, I love you. You don't get to decide how much I love you or not; that's a done deal. All you get to decide is whether you want to benefit from my masterly skills as a red-hot lover. That's really all you have to think about.'

I gasp and laugh at the same time. And I am about to kiss him when he releases me so suddenly I stumble back at little.

‘Look where we are!' he says. ‘It's a sign!'

We are standing outside the Market Tavern, and I remember that tonight is the night we were supposed to be on stage, in there, singing our song. There is this rush of horror, excitement and adrenaline all at once. I get the horrible feeling that I am about to be impulsive.

‘Let's do it now!' he says, tugging at my sleeve and nodding at the sign. ‘Come on, let's go in and do our song!'

‘Now?' I am uncertain.

‘No, next Tuesday. Yes, now!' Ben tugs at my hand. ‘Yes, come on, this is what we need, isn't it? We both need to get our blood pumping and our hearts beating. To scare the shit out of ourselves and remember that we are young and alive and in reasonably good health, considering. Don't we? Well, what better way than doing this? This is what we said we would do.'

‘I can't even breathe properly, at the moment, never mind sing,' I say.

‘You can never sing,' he says. ‘You just think you can and people don't seem to mind.'

‘Cheeky git. I'll show you!' He laughs, but then his face stills as he sees something in my expression. ‘You actually want to do this now?'

‘Yes, I do. I'm tired of waiting; my life is in limbo. I'm tired of being stuck inside my own head all the time, so much that I missed the fact that the boy I love is in love with me. I might have been dealt a crappy hand of cards, but I don't have to let it determine what kind of person I am. I want to get out there, and live, and be … well, like you.'

‘We don't have guitars,' Ben says, a little cautiously.

‘It's a room full of wannabe musicians; I think there will be a couple lying around.' This time I grab his lapel and drag him towards the door.

‘Wait.' He stops me. ‘I wanted to say something.'

‘Um, is it something about grabbing life, going for it, not standing about in the street talking instead of doing something exciting?' I say, recapping.

‘No,' he says. ‘I want to say that I can't wait to kiss you again. Oh, and try not to sing out of key.'

The pub is full to the rafters, noisy and beery, and there are three dudes with beards on stage, singing something surprisingly folksy. It's five-deep at the bar, and a man with a suspicious-looking hat is sitting next to the stage with a clipboard.

‘Hi, can we put our names down?' I ask him. ‘I know we are a bit late, sorry.'

He looks me up and down, and definitely judges the toggles on my duffle coat, then glances at Ben.

‘We're full, love,' he says. ‘You have to get here when we open if you want a slot.'

‘Can't you just squeeze us in? We only want to do one song.'