Folly (34 page)

‘I've put one of the other partners in charge.'

He carried on talking but I didn't take in a word of what he said. What he'd already told me had filled my mind and made it impossible for more information to penetrate.

He was leaving … not for weeks or months, but for years.

This was the end, then, for us.

The end.

I felt utterly bereft.

Jan's warning rang in my ears. Don't get involved. Physical means emotional.

I had disregarded her words and now I was paying the price.

The discussion I'd been planning to have with Simon, my effort to explain the truth, was redundant now. There was no point to it at all.

I realised he'd stopped speaking.

‘How wonderful for you,' I said, hoping my voice sounded normal and that he couldn't hear the tremor in it. ‘That is an incredible opportunity. I wish you all the best there … I'll really miss you.'

‘Likewise,' he said, but without enthusiasm.

‘I'm sorry for what happened,' I said. It was all I could get out. He didn't so much as acknowledge my words.

This was the stuff of nightmares. I wished he'd leave now, so I could start to deal with it all. And then Bob jumped off the desk, landed awkwardly, yowled unhappily and limped off towards the heater.

‘What's up with Bob? Is he ok?' Simon asked.

‘No,' I said. ‘I don't know what's wrong with him. He didn't eat this morning and he seems very sore. I would have taken him to the vet earlier but my car's bloody gearbox has packed up.'

I risked glancing up at him for just a moment and saw he was frowning down at the
Yellow Pages
, still open at C for Cab Services.

‘Do you want to take him now?' he asked, more gently.

‘No, no. Of course not. You go on. You must have so much to do. I'll be fine.'

And I don't want to spend a moment longer in your company. I'd rather have a stake driven through my heart … it would be less painful.

Simon gave a small nod. He turned away and walked out of the door, and I heard his footsteps retreating and the soft snick of the central locking as he opened the car.

I stared blindly down at the directory on the desk, my shocked brain struggling to put some sort of triage system into place.

Taxi first, or
AA
?

Both might take a while to arrive in this out-of-town area. Perhaps I should phone the aa and see what the waiting time would be. Then I could make a decision about getting my poor cat to the vet.

I picked up the phone and dialled the
AA
, rooting through my bag to try to locate my credit card, because I knew I'd have to renew my membership before they would come out. With the phone sandwiched between my ear and shoulder, listening to the ‘please hold' music playing as I scrabbled inside my wallet, I was suddenly aware of movement at the door.

I looked up sharply, causing the phone to slip from its precarious position and clatter onto the floor.

Simon was standing in the doorway.

‘Come on,' he said, in a tone of quiet command. ‘Come with me, Emma. I can't leave you like this and I can't leave Bob. It's not right. Quick, let's get going. Bring him along.'

‘I … ok. Thanks so much. Thank you.'

I picked up the phone and stuffed it into my bag, which I slung over my shoulder. I was quivering like a jelly, although I would have been stumped to say exactly why. I hurried to the bathroom and grabbed a clean towel. When I came out, Simon was already carrying Bob the Cat and heading for the open passenger door of the car.

Despite the fact this was his second encounter with cars in one morning, Bob was lying quietly in Simon's arms. Perhaps being in the sun had relaxed him. More likely, though, it was the kindness he felt in Simon's touch, so gentle and yet so sure.

I scooted into the passenger seat, put the towel on my lap, and Simon handed Bob to me and closed the door, trapping myself and my cat in the new-smelling leather interior while I wrapped the towel around him.

Simon climbed in the driver's side and started the car.

‘The vet is on the other side of the main road. You turn right when you reach it, drive to the next light, and then left,' I told him.

Thankfully, Bob the Cat was no longer struggling, and when I scratched his cheek he rubbed it against my finger.

‘Thank you very much for doing this,' I said.

‘No problem,' Simon said.

I wanted to talk, just to break the tension. I wanted to tell Simon exactly where I'd found Bob the Cat, who'd been taken in by a rescue organisation after being discovered skinny and flea-infested, roaming the streets. I wanted to explain to him how much Mark had loathed Bob, and how they'd had a love–hate relationship for years and how I always suspected that Bob was pleased that, in terms of presence in the household at least, he'd managed to outlive his arch-rival.

Instead we just drove, in a silence that was becoming deafening, on a journey that seemed like the longest trip of my life.

‘Is that the vet clinic up ahead?'

‘Yes, that's it.' At last.

I glanced down at Bob the Cat to make sure he was still securely wrapped in the towel and unable to make a bid for freedom when my door was opened. And it was at that moment, looking closely into his beautiful pale green eyes, that I saw it.

In the corner of one of his eyes, actually behind the eye itself, was a bulging pinkish growth.

‘Oh, Jesus,' I said, and my hopes of this being a simple, routine vet visit were swallowed up in the chaos of my fear.

‘What?' Simon's voice came back immediately, sharp with concern.

‘Look at his eye. There's … there's something in it. That wasn't there before.'

Simon bent closer to look and I heard him catch his breath.

‘Let's get him inside,' he said.

Ten minutes later, the vet had examined Bob and asked about his history and how old he was and I'd answered as best I could, aware with a sick finality that Bob's age didn't really matter, that whether he was twelve or fourteen or older was not going to change the outcome of this train smash of a morning.

And then he had given me the news I'd known ever since I'd seen that awful growth intruding on the perfect green of Bob's eye.

The growth was a tumour. The lameness and soreness was not limbrelated, but originated in his back. The fact that his back was in so much pain indicated the presence of more tumours. The fact he was not eating was the final nail in the coffin.

‘Put him down,' I said. ‘I don't want him to suffer. Please.'

I held poor, worried, sore Bob, looking down at him through a blur of tears while the vet shaved an area above his paw and put the syringe in and then, in just a few seconds, his body relaxed in one swift rush, and he laid his chin down on his paw as if gratefully slipping into the most blissful, pain-free sleep he'd ever had. And then he was lying on the towel, dead, while I cried uncontrollably into his fur and stroked his lovely, long tabby coat, consumed with a grief so intense I thought my lungs were going to burst from the effort of trying to breathe.

And then I was staggering outside holding his towel-wrapped body, with Simon guiding me back to the car and me saying, through sobs, ‘Wait a minute, I still have to pay,' and him saying, ‘Don't worry, I've sorted that out.' Before I knew it I was home, not at the gate of the folly but going down the long driveway to the main house. I fumbled in my bag for the remote and buzzed the gate open and then Simon drove in and parked his Jaguar under the tree next to my fucking undriveable Renault.

He walked round and opened the door for me.

‘Are you going to be ok?' he said, as I clambered out and put my dear, dead cat carefully on the grass in the shade.

‘I'll be fine,' I whispered, swiping with the back of my sleeve at the tears and snot that were flooding down my face. ‘Thank you so much. Goodness … Goodness will help me bury him.'

That was it for me. I couldn't walk. I couldn't stand. I knelt down and bent over the body of my cat, my most affectionate, oldest and dearest friend in the world, and I sobbed so violently that for several minutes I could not speak.

And the next thing I knew, he was kneeling down beside me, rubbing my back gently, handing me a tissue, talking to me and telling me that it was ok, that I must cry, that Bob had been a great cat, that he could understand why I was so sad.

Eventually I got control of myself. Helped by Simon, I clambered up on boneless legs, brushing dirt from the palms of my hands and my knees.

‘God, I'm sorry. I didn't …' I gasped for breath. ‘I didn't mean …'

‘I think you need a cup of tea,' he said.

‘I'll get one. No, wait. You don't need to come inside.'

‘I'll make you a cup of tea,' he insisted.

He walked me to the front door and I unlocked it and there we were. Inside the cold, lonely and half-finished house. With the detritus of my life, my shame, my lies, all open and exposed for him to see. The gap where the sink should be. The smaller gap where the stove was no longer. The minimalist furnishings. A cd rack with just a few of the unsellable cds left at the bottom and no sound system. The few remaining cheap, sad cat ornaments staring down at me with an all-knowing expression that said, ‘You dug your own grave here, didn't you?'

I collapsed onto a chair at the plastic dining-room table, staring out of the window at the horses grazing nearby and Cat Four, shiny and healthy, prowling along the wooden fence on some sort of hunting mission.

I did my best to make conversation but for once my voice and my wit had deserted me and I had no idea what I was saying or whether it was making any sense.

By the time he brought me the tea I was hugging myself and shivering as well as sobbing.

Simon took his jacket off and slipped it around my shoulders. It was roomy and comfortable. It smelled of his aftershave and it was still warm from having been on him.

‘Where can I find a coat or something for you to wear?'

I struggled to think where one might be, feeling thrown by this simple question.

‘Um … upstairs in the bedroom,' I said without thinking and then, in panic, ‘No, don't …'

Too late. He was already on his way.

I wrapped my fingers around the hot cup and sipped at the tea. Tried to breathe in and out evenly. Tried not to think about what Simon would think when he saw my miserably minimalist bedroom with its crappy futon and the half-empty cupboards with clothes for one.

A few minutes later he came downstairs again carrying the warmer and older of my two jackets. He slid his own off my shoulders and helped me put on the faded blue, padded garment.

My world looked watery and narrower than I was used to seeing, with my eyes having swelled half shut from all the crying, but in spite of these handicaps I could see that the hard, distant expression had gone from his face and in its place was a look of the deepest worry and concern.

He sat down next to me and gently prised my chilly left hand away from the cup to hold it in both of his.

‘Are you going to be ok today?' he asked. ‘Shall I drive past the folly on my way out and ask Goodness to help you with Bob?'

‘I'll be … I'll be fine. And I'll call Goodness just now. I just need … I just need some time …' That was it. I was doing again what I seemed to be doing best that day, which was collapsing face down in uncontrollable sobs while Simon rubbed my back.

‘I'll call you tomorrow,' he said after I'd scraped myself off the table.

I got up and walked with him to the front door and then he left, after making me promise I was going to remember to close the gate and lock the door behind him.

I watched him go, and all I could think, beyond the pain of the loss I'd just experienced, was that at least I was going to speak to him one more time before he flew overseas.

At least we had not yet said our final goodbyes.

Chapter 34

T
hat afternoon, Goodness and I buried Bob the Cat under the wild olive tree in the corner of the property where he'd always loved to lie. Then I drank four glasses of water to replace all the tears I'd shed, and went to bed and cried it all out again.

I knew the anguish I felt was not only for my cat. I'd never cried properly, never had time to mourn over what had happened to my husband, nor had I allowed myself to grieve over my recently discovered betrayal. And certainly, another cause was the fresh, raw hurt I felt at the fact the man who meant so much to me was leaving the country.

I must have slept at some stage because I woke just before dawn feeling muzzy-headed, with my eyelids firmly glued together by dried tears. I climbed out of bed feeling as if every cell of my body was depleted from exhaustion, and I spent the morning not doing very much at all.

Simon phoned at midday and I stared at his now-familiar number on the screen, letting it ring four times, then five, before picking up and answering. It wasn't that I didn't want to speak to him, I did … it was just that yesterday's sharp, intense agony had been replaced with a more bearable feeling that nothing really mattered.

‘How are you doing today?' he asked.

‘I'm fine,' I said. Even to my own ears, my voice was stuffy and nasal and not sounding in the least like me. But, to my surprise, I realised he didn't sound much like himself either.

‘I know this is a terrible time for you. But I need to talk to you, Emma, because of what I saw in your house yesterday and what I didn't see there … Are you at home tomorrow morning? Could I come round and see you?'

The day he leaves …

I took a deep breath. ‘I'm at home all day tomorrow. I've got nowhere to go, or rather, nothing to go anywhere in.' To my surprise, I managed a small laugh. ‘The Renault has gone to the dealership to have a complete gearbox overhaul and clutch replacement. I'm under house arrest for the next few days.'