The Beauty of the End (14 page)

26

 

A
fter the wedding was called off, after I got over the initial shock enough to stay sober, I began to look for April. It was reflexive, just as I couldn't help reliving our past, holding on to the pain that was my only link to her, as I trudged around the places we used to go.

I didn't so much as catch a glimpse of her hair or the turn of her cheek. It was as though she'd vanished. I gave up in every sense of the word. It wasn't long after, I felt myself shut down. By locking away my most painful emotions, I was able to face the next stage, as I thought of it. I moved out of the flat—which, at the time, symbolically meant moving on. Closing the door on our old home, oblivious to the knowledge that what was in my head would be harder to shift.

My new flat was a studio, its minimalist interior entirely different from the home April and I had shared, which at the same time both soothed and troubled me, its emptiness a statement only of how little I cared.

In a life that was barely recognizable, I focused on work, putting in progressively longer hours as casework filled my head and took my life over. Even walking along the street, my mind would be on the latest case I was working on, to the extent that I'd reach my destination without any memory of how I got there. Days blurred into each other while alcohol blurred my nights.

It was six months later, on one such mindless walk late at night, that I stumbled, literally, into Bea.

“Watch out. . . .” A woman's voice jolted me from my thoughts. Then she looked up. “
Noah
! How are you, darling!” Her annoyance gone as she reached up and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Hello, Bea.” Catching a faint whiff of something I thought was brandy on her breath, I was relieved that after my outburst the last time I'd seen her, she appeared to hold no grudges. “You look fantastic.”

She did. Her fair hair was elegantly swept up, and she wore a print dress nipped in at the waist and matching red heels.

“Thank you.” She smiled, her eyes lighting at the compliment.

“You've obviously been to quite a party.”

I was dusting off social skills that, these days, I had little use for. But as I spoke, I watched her smile vanish and a look of pure shock replace it. She stared at me, and I knew whatever she was going to say, it wasn't good.

I heard it under the gloom of a street lamp, to a soundtrack of passing cars, while Bea took one of my hands. “Oh, Noah . . . What I have to tell you isn't going to be easy.”

“It can't be worse than the last few months,” I joked feebly, hoping I was right. “I imagine it's something to do with April.”

Bea nodded, then looked away, and in those few seconds, I realized I'd far from given up on April. I felt a cataclysmic sense of the earth shifting under my feet. Then she turned back, meeting my gaze.

“Noah, you should know, she's with someone.” Even as I glanced around at the passing cars, I could feel her eyes on me.

I shrugged. “It was inevitable. Sooner or later.” I'd hoped just not sooner—or for a long time. Preferably never.

“Are you okay?”

I shrugged again. “Of course. It's over between us. I know that.”

She hesitated. “The thing is, it's a bit more than just
with someone
.” Her eyes darting anxiously. “They're engaged. That's where I've been tonight—to their engagement party. Well, not really a party. It was small, just a few of us. For drinks, and dinner.”

“Great.” I nodded, feigning enthusiasm, determined not to show the truth, that I was still heartbroken and that this news, drip fed, piece by agonizing piece, was devastating.

“Oh, Noah.” Bea looked desolate. “You wouldn't say that if you knew. It isn't great. She says it's what she wants, but I don't see how it can be. . . .”

I felt myself shiver, but I had to know.

“Who is it?” I demanded. “Who's she marrying?”

I didn't need to hear her whispered answer. Bea's stricken face said it all.

* * *

I don't know how many miles I walked that night in total darkness, unseeing of every face and building I passed, seeing only April with Will, imagining them together, searching for elusive answers to impossible questions. I couldn't understand how she could even consider it. Then I thought of Will's way with girls. Had they been having an affair all along? Had April ever truly loved me? Feeling an unsurpassed hatred toward Will, who I'd believed for so long was my friend, who'd told me April was a whore, then proposed to her.

He'd broken all the rules, intent on getting only what he wanted—no matter who was in his way. Good old Will, who was everybody's friend, all the time playing me for a fool.

It was as the last vestige of my love for April was snuffed out that a new understanding dawned on me. Life wasn't fair or caring or just, nor did the good guy get the girl—that was a myth, too. Life was a bastard. As for the girl, she belonged to the double-crossing, lying, cheating weasels of the world—like Will—and always would.

27

 

I
hadn't known that Will's betrayal still cut far deeper than April's. That I'd forgiven her, but not him. That not only do I dislike Will, I don't trust him.

But as long as April's in a coma, as long as he's voicing his opinions of her, because he's a famous surgeon and because status is power, people will listen to him.

Back in my room, I try to ignore the whisky bottle, putting the kettle on instead, wishing I had access to April's mobile, which is impossible, because, as I already know from Will, the police have it.

Then drinking my tea, I pick up her diary again, starting all over again at the beginning of January. By the time I reach the end of March, a routine's emerging, with the same names cropping up each week at their usual appointment times. For example, Daisy Rubinstein favors Thursday mornings and Caitlin Merrow does every Friday at midday without exception. Sadie Westwood's name is there, more often than not crossed out and penciled in again, which, after speaking to her, doesn't surprise me at all.

Every fortnight or so, usually on a Tuesday, she's written
clinic
. There are other, more random entries related to dental appointments, or reminders to herself. Then two weeks ago, an entry that's simply the letter
B
, written beside the North Star.

I stare at it, feel myself frown. My first thought is of Norton.
Bryan
Norton. Could she have seen him more than once? Or had she gone there for some other reason? Could the
B
stand for Beatrice? Are they still in touch? Even occasionally, maybe, because they'd been close, for so long. If they are, Bea might know something.

Once again, I wish I had April's phone. But with most of the world connected by the Internet, as I've found out, it's not easy to disappear. When it comes to social networking, I'm not a natural, but for the first time in about three years, wondering why I hadn't thought of it before, I click onto Facebook—and I'm in luck. When I search for her name, I find April uses it, too. In just seconds, I'm looking at a list of her friends.

As I scroll down the brief list, the only Beatrice is a Beatrice Fairchild. I don't recall Bea's surname, but I recognize her face. Like us all, older, but when I click on it, still the same glamorous Bea I remember.

From the looks of it, Bea isn't someone who splashes her life across the Internet either. Her profile is private, which seems somewhat out of character for the Bea I remember, who was highly sociable, with a flamboyant, devil-may-care streak. But, as I know too well, things happen. People don't stay the same.

Curious to know more, I google her, but the only B Fairchild is unlisted, and without more to go on, such as a place or occupation, she remains unremarkably, obstinately invisible.

But at least with Facebook, I can ask.

I hesitate, then add my mobile number—I'd rather have a verbal conversation than a digital one—then hit send.

* * *

Out of the rest of April's Facebook friends, I recognize no one, but, I figure, it would be more surprising if I did. I turn my attention to her clients again, but when I continue making calls down the list, it's clear the relationship April has with them is professional only. Everyone I speak to knows little of her personal life.

But later that afternoon, when I call Daisy Rubinstein, April's regular Thursday morning appointment, she invites me over to talk to her.

April clearly had a following—the Rubinsteins' house is twenty miles away, which strikes me as a long way to drive just to talk. It's a modest house in a quiet neighborhood. Ordinary. But as she shows me in, I start to see she's anything but.

“I don't know April well, but if there's anything I can do to help?” Daisy has long straight hair, and even with the huge dark circles under her eyes that tell their own story, she's pretty.

“Before, I didn't tell you the whole story. April's on life support. She took an overdose. The police suspect she may have killed someone, then tried to kill herself, only they broke in before the pills had done the job”

“God.” Daisy looks shocked. “So, what does this have to do with you?”

“We were friends,” I tell her briefly. “A long time ago. And I'm . . . well, I was, a lawyer. I knew her very well.” I hesitate, wondering how much to tell her. “Would you agree that there are some people who are incapable of harming others? I believe April's one of them, but I need to prove that.”

“I see.” I watch her twist and turn the facts I've given her, trying to make them fit with the April she knows. Then she frowns. “I'm sorry, but I'm having trouble with this.”

“So am
I. I
suppose what I'm asking for is any insight you might have, as her client—professionally or personally.”

Daisy frowns. “I can tell you how I met her. It was my GP who suggested contacting April. He said that she might help a little, that she was a good counselor. Anyway, when I met her, I was seven months pregnant. My unborn baby had been diagnosed with an incurable condition.” Her voice is low and accented, and suddenly she looks tired beyond belief.

“It's a long story—but my baby had an infantile form of Tay-Sachs disease. You may have heard of it. . . .” She glances at me.

I shake my head.

“No,” she says, as if to herself, then looks at me. “Don't worry. A lot of people haven't. Basically, it's a progressive disease of the nervous system. And incurable. Even when you know it's there, it's invisible—to start with. And so you wait, watching, knowing that over the course of just a few months, it will slowly and cruelly take your child's life. Just as they start to know your face, they lose their sight. You want to talk to them, reassure them, and then you realize they can't hear you.” Her voice falters. “Their sense of taste goes; then they can't feel when you touch them. Eventually they become paralyzed.” She breaks off, looking at me, stricken. “That's when you know you don't have long.”

I'm shocked, trying to imagine how it is to be presented with such a diagnosis. To have a sick child you can't comfort. To always know the torment that lies ahead. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

She goes on. “There is no treatment and I was faced with the remaining two months of my pregnancy, carrying my baby, knowing he would suffer, then die—or having a termination.”

“I'm so sorry,” I say humbly. “I can't imagine.”

“You can't. I couldn't. Not until it was happening to me. I would go and see April. Do you know her house? We'd sit in those chairs in her study, by the window that looks out onto her beautiful garden. I'd scream and cry, and she'd just sit there. I swear. . . .” She pauses again. “I knew nothing would change, and I can't explain it, but she knew, deep inside, how I felt. Not just that, though. It was like she took some of the weight of my hideous burden. God. I've often wondered how many burdens she must have carried, because not many people could do that.”

I know nothing about parenthood, but I know about loss. Even so, I can only glimpse the hell Daisy has suffered. Is still suffering, for all I know. But it's only a glimpse. And Daisy hasn't told me if her pregnancy went to term; if her baby is still alive. Then in her next breath she answers both of my questions.

“Losing a child changes you forever. . . .”The silence is broken when she gets up.

“I'm sorry,” she says suddenly. “I'm not sure why I'm telling you all this. I didn't mean to burden you. I think I can only tell you that April's extraordinary. There isn't a name for what she does, but I truly believe she shared my pain and, in doing so, made it more bearable. Will you let me know? How she's doing?”

Feeling her eyes on me, I find myself nodding. “Of course. And thank you—for talking to me.”

Outside in my car, I sit for ages, in silence, humbled by such honesty, thinking about how impossible Daisy's choices were, how cruel the reality for her and her child. How fine the line between life and death.