Dead Romantic (35 page)

I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and take a deep, shuddering breath. I know I have to take control of myself. The train will be here in a moment and I can’t get on looking like a hobgoblin; I’ll scare the other commuters. I can’t sit here blubbing in public.

But it’s no good. No matter how many pep talks the logical part of me comes up with, none of them makes any difference. This feels a million, million times worse than having my ideas stolen or resigning from the job I adore. I love Rafe Thorne far more than any of these things.

There’s an abrupt screeching of brakes in my mind and I sit bolt upright with shock. What did I just say? That I love Rafe? I’m horrified that my heart skips a beat just at the thought of him. A montage of images flickers through my mind: his lips, the silky texture of his hair when I run my hands through it, the rasp of his stubble against my throat, the scent of him when I bury my face in his neck, the teasing eyes and one-cornered smile, the way he’d once wiped my tears away with his thumb…

Rafe Thorne. My past, my present and, I’d started to hope, my future too. Dig deep enough in the archaeology of my heart and you’ll find Rafe right there, as much a part of me as my curly red hair or my freckles. I’d just never realised it until a bang on the head brought me to my senses.

I’m in love with Rafe Thorne, and knowing this makes me cry even harder. I saw him just now with Natasha, and whatever strange game he’s been playing I want no more part in it. I just want to be left alone to piece myself together. Maybe I’m overreacting but I don’t think so. He hasn’t been straight with me and that isn’t merely my opinion – it’s a fact. As I dab my eyes I bitterly regret handing in my resignation: I should have taken the sabbatical instead. A year in Egypt no longer feels long enough or far away enough for me.

Snow-pregnant clouds have been building slowly, billowing in from the north, and now fat flakes begin to fall softly. The colour has leached out of the world and I watch mesmerised as the snowflakes whirl and spin in the beam of the lamplight. My fingers and toes are numb with cold, but I hardly notice because I want to be frozen. I don’t want to feel anything ever again.

“What’s the matter?” The voice comes out of nowhere, making me jump. In the gloom it’s hard to make out the tall figure standing next to me, and for a moment I think it’s Rafe. My treacherous heart leaps gladly, only to plummet again when I see that this is Alex. The same lean frame, strong wide shoulders and long dark hair, of course, but these are green eyes looking at me with huge concern, rather than those thrilling violet ones. He steps forward.

“Cleo? Are you crying?”

I turn my face into the shadows. I don’t want to talk to Alex now, let alone explain myself to him.

“Go away.”

“You
are
crying.” He’s sitting next to me now and I’m not sure what’s colder – the flurries of snowflakes landing on my face and hands, or being close to him. “What’s wrong?”

I round on Alex, the stresses and strains and disappointments of the last few weeks rising up inside me like an emotional Vesuvius. When I erupt it’s with such force that he recoils.

“Everything! Absolutely everything! You’ve lost me my job, my sanity, my professional reputation–” My voice cracks because there’s one more thing I’m not adding to the list: my heart. “My life’s in a mess because of
you
!”

Alex stares at me – one beat, two beats, three beats – then I look away. I hate myself for lying to him. My life’s not a mess because of Alex: my life’s tumbling down around my ears because I was stupid enough to fall in love with Rafe Thorne. That happened long before I ever met Alex and I know I’m being unfair, but right now I just want to lash out at somebody. Besides, until Alex showed up and turned my world upside down I was happy, wasn’t I? I had everything on an even keel and beautifully ordered, and if it wasn’t always exciting at least it was safe. I went on dates, I wrote papers, I delivered lectures and I rarely cried. Now I’m afraid that I’ll never stop.

“Cleo, I’m sorry,” Alex says helplessly. “I thought everything was going so well.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “That was why I stayed away. I can’t explain it but everything felt good. You were happy. Rafe was happy–”

“Of course Rafe’s happy! He’s back with Natasha!” I can’t help myself; the words fly from my mouth to land a verbal double whammy and Alex reels.

“What? That’s absurd,” he says, looking utterly astonished. “Of course he isn’t! Rafe’s crazy about you. He’s always been crazy about you.”

“So crazy about me that he’s with his ex right now,” I tell him bitterly. “Don’t look at me like that, Alex. It’s true. I’ve just seen them together.”

Bemusement is written across his face. “No way. You’re wrong, Cleo. I know my brother. He loved you from the minute he first saw you. There’s no way he’d get back with Natasha. She was never important.”

“She’s with him now. I saw them, Alex. He told me he was busy and now I know why!”

There’s a whispering along the tracks and in the far distance two lights shine, throwing beams of brightness into the night. My train is coming. Thank goodness. I’ll step back on it and return to London and Rafe Thorne will never be any the wiser. I might go home and weep until I look like a frog, but at least I’ll have kept my dignity. Imagine if I’d told him how I felt about him. Just thinking about this makes me feel sick.

“There’s got to have been a mistake,” Alex is saying desperately. I rise from the bench to walk to the far end of the halt, where the single-carriage train will pull in; Alex tries to grab my arm, but his fingers slide straight through me. “He’s loved you for ten years. Why would he risk everything now by seeing Natasha? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“There’s no mistake.” I shoulder my bag and raise my chin. Ten years of missed opportunities tighten my throat with loss. The memories Rafe and I might have shared, the adventures we could have enjoyed, the children we could have had… All are gone now, along with the chance of ever making up for that lost time.

The train draws into the station. Brakes squeal and the signal turns red.

“There has to have been a misunderstanding,” Alex insists. “Let me find out what’s really happened. Cleo, please!”

“Just go away, Alex,” I say, pressing the button to open the carriage doors. I can’t even summon the energy to be angry any longer. “You’ve destroyed my career; isn’t that enough for you? Rafe is writing again, he’s not drinking and he’s back with his girlfriend. He’s sorted. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No!” Alex cries as I board the train. “I wanted him to be with you! That’s what I promised him and that’s what needed to happen.” His face is anguished and he’s starting to fade, melting into the shadows with every second that passes. “Tell me what I can do to put it right.”

So I tell him. “You can leave me alone if you really want to help. If you want to do the right thing you’ll go away. You’ve done enough damage. I wish you’d never come looking for me in the first place.”

“You don’t mean that. I know you don’t.”

“I do! Just go away, Alex! I never want to see or hear from you or Rafe again, do you hear me? Leave me alone!”

The signal turns green and the doors hiss closed. As the train winds its way out of the small station I close my eyes to stop the tears from falling again, but even though I can’t see him I know that Alex is watching. I sense his despair in every rattle of the vehicle and in every whistle of cold air that blows through the carriage, but as the miles stretch out between me and Rafe, Alex’s grief is nothing to my own. I turn my face to the window and watch the snowflakes waltzing by in an endless dance, and then my tears hide them for the rest of the journey.

It’s feels as though I’m drowning in misery here in my London bedroom. I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling and listening to Susie moving around the flat. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to summon the energy to sit up, have a shower and rejoin the real world. My mobile’s been ringing at regular intervals and beeping with text messages, which I’ve ignored. I’ve texted Dawn to say I’m working from home today. I really don’t have the will to talk to anyone else.

I hardly know what I’m crying about anymore. The tears just won’t stop. Is it Rafe’s betrayal? Or my row with Alex? Simon’s theft of my work? Mum’s death? My accident? Everything has rolled into one big knot of grief and I can’t seem to find a way of unpicking it. It’s ridiculous! Until recently I’d prided myself that I hadn’t cried for years, but suddenly I’ve lost control and nothing seems able to pull me back from the chasm of despair I’ve toppled into.

My logical part of my brain is patiently telling me that this is an overreaction, that Rafe’s somebody I barely know and that these feelings for him are just another manifestation of my head trauma. There’s an illogical part of me though, which is saying quietly that I’ve always been in love with Rafe Thorne and have been since the day I first met him – even though I did my best to put him firmly out of my mind.

I turn my head to the wall. I want the old me back again, the Cleo Carpenter whose life was full of certainties and who was supremely confident she had all the answers. Without any warning I’ve jumped from having life neatly figured out to being lost in the pitch dark without even a single match to strike a light and guide me. It’s terrifying. For the first time since my accident I’m truly scared that I’ve done myself serious damage. Paranormal experiences? Falling in love with strangers? Handing in my resignation? These things don’t belong to my real life. What if they’re symptoms of something far worse?

I sit up and reach for my iPhone. By the time I’ve finished Googling
signs of serious brain injury
I’ve convinced myself I’m ill. I’m behaving extremely out of character – one of the indicators on the checklist, apparently – and I need help.

Just as I’m reaching this conclusion, the bedroom door flies open and Susie sails in, armed with a mug of tea and with the biscuit tin wedged between her chin and chest. She places these down on my bedside table and then rips open the curtains, flooding the room with bright wintery light, while I recoil like something from
Twilight.

“It’s snowed!” she exclaims excitedly. “Have a look. It’s really pretty.”

I know it’s snowed. My train journey home was delayed for ages thanks to the white floaty stuff, and I had to walk back in it too because the buses weren’t running properly. By the time I finally arrived home I was a Cleo ice pop and feeling even more wretched, if that was possible. I think I can be forgiven for not being in raptures about the snow.

She tugs at my duvet. “Come and have a look, lazybones. Up you get!”

I pity Susie’s patients if this is an example of her bedside manner. Can’t I just be left alone to be maudlin in peace?

“I’m not feeling well,” I croak in a hopefully genuine way. My throat is sore from crying and I do have a headache too, so I’m not exactly faking.

“Bollocks.” Susie hurls herself down on the bed and fixes me with a knowing look. “I’m a medic, remember? I know when somebody’s genuinely ill and you, Cleo Carpenter, are as fit as a fiddle. Granted, you look like shit, but you’re not ill. I know a bad case of
man trouble
when I see it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’ve spent more hours than I care to think about bawling my eyes out over some tosser who didn’t deserve a nanosecond of my time and I’m telling you, girl friend, that lying in bed is not the answer!”

It isn’t? It had seemed like a pretty good solution to me. Still, Susie is an expert on these things and in spite of myself I’m intrigued.

“So what is the answer?” I ask curiously. “Not that I’m having man trouble, of course. I’m just wondering.”

“Getting out there and showing him what he’s missing! Victorian melodrama is so over!” She looks worried. “This really isn’t like you, Cleo. In fact, I’ve never known you lie in bed this long. He must be somebody really special.”

I’d thought so too. As it turns out I couldn’t have been more wrong. I try to conjure up Rafe’s face, but all I can see is him deep in conversation with the gorgeous Natasha. Did he kiss her? I feel the urge to be sick. I can’t share any of this with Susie though. It’s too painful – and we’ll still be talking about the fact that I’ve slept with a rock star when we’re sucking our suppers through straws in a care home.

“It’s not man trouble anyway,” I fib, crossing my fingers under the duvet. “It’s work stuff.”

Susie’s hand flies to her mouth. “I’m such a dimwit. Of course it is! That bloody Simon! Oh babes, there has to be a way you can prove what he did. Come on, Cleo. Use your giant brain!”

“My giant brain isn’t working so well lately,” I confess sadly. “I’m starting to wonder if I really did myself some harm when I was knocked down.”

“Double vision? Loss in taste or smell? Problems with balance? Headaches?” Susie demands and I shake my head to each of her suggestions, but if she adds
seeing ghosts
or
falling in love with damaged unsuitable men
I’ll be off to the hospital before you can say poorly.

“You’re probably okay then. In fact I think your bang on the head did you some good,” Susie says thoughtfully. “You certainly seem to have had a lot more fun since, and your taste in clothes has improved too. You’ll be out clubbing with me before you know it! No, babes, I think you’re fine.”

Even though I’m miserable I can’t help laughing. My life is in ruins but as far as Susie’s concerned wearing Topshop fashions more than makes up for this. It’s one way of seeing the world, I suppose.

“I’m emotional, I’m losing sight of my priorities, I have feelings for unsuitable men and my work’s gone pear-shaped. I’m hardly fine!” I point out.

“Real life’s just caught up with you, that’s all,” Susie concludes. “It had to happen sooner or later, Cleo. You’ve been hiding away in your work for far too long.” Then I see a sudden spark of excitement illuminate her face. “And anyway, who are these unsuitable men?”

“It’s just a figure of speech. There was somebody I liked but it was never going to happen. He wasn’t for me.”