The Beauty of the End (4 page)

“So when are you going? To see the girl? In a prison, is she?”

“No. Actually she's not. That's another thing. She took an overdose. She's on life support.”

Clara looks at me as if I'm insane. “So you're going back to do the job you hated to defend an old girlfriend who's killed someone then tried to kill herself.”

“It's not like that,” I tell her obstinately, irked that she's read between the lines.

* * *

Having extracted what she wants from me, Clara doesn't stay long. Pouring another whisky, I take it into my office, where I power up my laptop and look up the address of the hospital where April was taken. Then I go upstairs and run a bath, and in the glare of the lightbulb above the mirror scrutinize my appearance, forced to see myself through Clara's eyes. It's far worse than I'd thought. I knew my hair needed cutting, but as I examine my reflection, I realize I've aged, my eyes dulled and skin puffy, the appearance of sharp cheekbones making me gaunt. All the more shocking, because until now I hadn't noticed.

I pack enough clothes for a few days, including my suit, before deciding that with a long drive ahead of me in the morning I should probably have an early night. I'm suddenly tired just at the thought of it.

Only my mind is too wired, sleep impossible. I toss and turn, restless, listening to the bark of a fox, then a lone owl and the last, bloodcurdling death throes of its prey, until in the early hours, eventually my eyes close.

But even when it comes, sleep brings no relief and I'm flung into a vivid dream of a burning woman, her dark shape featureless, her face silhouetted against an orange sky. In the midst of the flames, she's holding something out to me.

“This is my gift,” she keeps saying over and over, her voice urgent, as she thrusts what she's holding toward me.

But each time I reach to take it, the flames force me back. In the end, I'm forced to watch, powerless, as the fire consumes her, only realizing when I awaken, my heart pounding and my skin coated in sweat. She never told me what it was.

7

 

“M
an, I need to get out of this dump.” Will was prone to exaggerating. He'd already packed, leaving his large bedroom empty except for the pile of boxes and suitcases. I was putting off my own packing as long as possible, but then I wasn't leaving for another week. I felt exactly as he did, though. Since my father had died, my mother's anxious, neurotic ways were driving me mad.

“You'll miss having your meals cooked for you,” I reminded him. “And your washing done . . .”

“I won't. I'll be too busy partying and schmoozing with all those girls. . . .” Will closed his eyes and sighed lasciviously. “Maybe I'll find one who can cook.”

“I wouldn't count on it. Students are all rabid women's libbers,” I warned him, thinking he was going to be disappointed. “Pub? Or is that too boring for a budding Cambridge student such as yourself? Remind me, why are we both committing to some of the most complicated subjects known to man?”

“So we'll be rich and famous. Come on, let's get out of here.”

We walked the half mile to the North Star, with the easy self-centeredness of being eighteen years old and on the brink of breaking away—from loving, but nevertheless constraining parents on Will's part, and on mine, from my increasingly overanxious mother.

“This is it, mate.” Will couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. “After this, it all changes. I know we'll come back, but we'll have our own places. No one looking over us. And
girls
,
think of all the girls.
. . .” He held up his hands to the heavens and pretended to sink to his knees.

Bizarrely, while I seemed caught in a stage of perpetual lankiness, Will had grown from a short, spotty kid into a babe magnet, but then Will had never lacked confidence. Even round here, he was never short of female attention, though his activities were somewhat inhibited by living at home. But all that, he was convinced, was about to change.

“It probably won't be quite how you're imagining,” I told him, as we walked up the steps.

“It probably will.” He pushed the door open and I followed him in.

I was going to miss him—for about a week—until I headed off, too, to Bristol.

“There'll be lectures,” I reminded him. “And you'll have competition. There'll be other guys hanging around. . . .”

“Yeah, but none with my charm and charisma. Watch and learn, buddy. Watch and learn.”

He ambled over to the bar, where a blond-haired girl stood with her back to us, buying a drink. I watched as he exchanged a few words, his head bent toward her. I didn't need to see his face to picture the self-deprecating smile that girls seemed to find irresistible; the seemingly instant fascination with them he adopted, as if they were the only girl in the world. He knew all the tricks. I was still watching, a little enviously, when, from behind me, I heard my name.

“
Noah?
”

As I turned round, I felt the smile plastered on my face, even before I saw her.

“April! I don't believe it!”

So many times, I'd dreamed of such a moment. Struck by adolescent clumsiness, I felt the years peel away. Three years to be precise, since I'd last seen her. I didn't know what to say. I just looked at her, dumbstruck. Still lovely, her hair in long, red waves down her back, her eyes lit by secrets.

“You look . . .” She paused, her eyes teasing as she looked at me.

“Taller?” I said it jokingly; hopefully, too, wanting her not to remember the awkward schoolboy, and instead see someone altogether more worthy of her. Then as we stood there, in seconds, it was back. The old magic, its tendrils tightening around my heart.

“Look, can I buy you a drink or something?”

Or something
. . . I took a deep breath. What was I thinking?
Get a grip, man. You're not Noah the nerd, you're cool
.

I bought her a vodka and Coke, glad that I really was eighteen and no longer had to worry about John the owner challenging me about my age, and hardly believing how shit the timing was, seeing her there, just when I was about to go away.

“So, what are you doing here?” I placed our drinks on the table, trying not to spill them, and pulled out the chair opposite her.

“I came to stay with Bea,” she said, nodding over to the blond girl at the bar still being chatted up by Will. That sophisticated creature was Bea? In the two years I hadn't seen her, she'd changed beyond belief.

“So where do you live?” All of a sudden, I had a million questions. “What are you doing?”

“London.” Her eyes wore a slightly guarded look. “I have a flatshare. I just got a job in a restaurant there. Cindy's Diner. Nothing special but Cindy's really nice and it pays the bills.”

“Who do you live with?” Avidly trying to picture this new life she had, about which I knew nothing.

“Her name's Edie. She works at Cindy's, too. . . .”

As she talked, I hung on her every word, wanting to love what she was telling me, but in truth, what I felt was disappointment. She'd been so clever, so smart. And I knew there was nothing wrong with it, but she was destined for greater things than being a waitress.

“Tell me about you.”

Her smile made my heart turn over. “There's not much to tell. I'm off to university next week. To study law.”

She sat back and folded her arms. “Wow, Noah! That's brilliant. But I guess you were always going to study something like that. I'm pleased for you.”

Her voice was quiet, her eyes bright as they held mine. Suddenly, it was there. Right in front of me. The chance I'd been waiting for, all my life.

“I have a week,” I said quickly, feeling a sudden heat in my cheeks, seeing Will and Bea coming over and knowing the time to do this was now, before it was too late. “Before I leave. Can I call you?”

A look of surprise crossed her face; then she nodded.

* * *

Hastily I wrote down the number she gave me. The rest of the evening passed in a blur, as did a long night in which sleep evaded me. I ended up lying there, gazing at the ceiling, hardly daring to believe my luck, wondering what tomorrow would hold, until eventually I must have slept, waking the next morning, my heart hammering in my chest as soon as I remembered.

The house quiet, I leapt out of bed and called her. In the seconds the phone rang, before she picked up, I imagined a million reasons why this wasn't going to happen. I could have written down the wrong number or she could have changed her mind, found any number of excuses. But then she answered and the same smile I'd seen last night was there in her voice.

We arranged to meet in town early that afternoon. Having chosen my clothes with care, I took enough money to buy lunch, from the precious supply I'd earned over the summer and carefully saved, to take to school. But then April was worth every penny.

I got there early, waiting on the bench outside the shopping center, checking my watch every few minutes, feeling the same fear I'd felt when I'd called her, still half expecting her to stand me up.

But my worries were unfounded. And as she walked toward me, her hair falling softly down her back, her frame small in loose-fitting jeans and leather jacket, I felt myself fall in love all over again.

“Hi.” I stood up, suddenly self-conscious.

“Hi.” She looked up at me, smiling like there was something amusing her. “You look nice.”

Awkwardly, I glanced down at my cotton shirt and neatly ironed trousers, which suddenly felt wrong but were all I had. “Thanks.” Then I added hurriedly, “So do you.”

“Thank you.” This time, her eyes smiled back at me. “So, what did you have in mind?”

“I don't know.” I felt foolish. “We could have lunch—if you haven't eaten? Or go for a walk? Or see a movie, if you like. Only I don't know what's on, but we could find out. . . .”

As we walked across the street, I babbled on, until I felt her hand slip under my arm, and the softness of her skin on mine stunned me into silence.

We settled on Cornish pasties in brown paper bags, bought from a small corner shop, then made our way toward the park. We shouldn't waste such a beautiful day, April said, her hair glinting in the sun. So we walked, away from the parched flower beds, the chatter of the people sitting in groups on the grass, toward an empty bench under the shade of a tree.

I'd waited so long for this. Dreamed that it would be as if we were soul mates, who, because of the bond each of us recognized, would instantly confide our innermost thoughts. But it wasn't quite as I'd hoped. The easy and relaxed banter of old friends, as I thought of us, was absent, conversation stilted, skirting around the one subject that in the end I had to ask her about.

“I was really worried about you,” I said eventually, referring to the last time I'd seen her, just before she moved away. “Before you left, you said you'd write.”

Her face was a picture of astonishment. “But I did. Several times, Noah. When you didn't reply, I gave up. I couldn't see the point.”

“I never got any letters.” I was filled with relief that she'd written, but also anger that her letters had never reached me, as I imagined someone, who could only have been my mother, intercepting them.

“My mother.” I frowned. “Since my father died, she does crazy things.” Which was true, but if I thought about it, she'd been strange before he'd gone. Today, however, was not about my mother.

“Well, I wrote to tell you I was fine. And to thank you for finding me that time.” She broke off, gazing into the distance, as if remembering. “Anyway, then I wrote another letter when I moved again, to give you my new address.”

Which made two, at least. Possibly more, their contents to remain forever a mystery to me.

“I never got any of them,” I said hotly.

“It doesn't matter.” She shrugged, but her face was turned away from me and I couldn't tell if she meant it.

“But it does.” I was quietly furious.

“Really, Noah. It's okay.” I felt her hand on my arm.

It wasn't. So much time had been wasted, time during which I'd believed I meant nothing to her, because someone who thought she's known what was best for me had taken the decision out of my hands. That it was behind us, in the past, made no difference.

I continued eating, not tasting the rest of my pasty, only the bitter tang of resentment, in silence until April spoke.

“Tell me about your classes.”

I was still angry, but not wanting to waste the day, I let myself be distracted. It was the last time we spoke of it—for many years. I went on about the course options I'd chosen, the work experience I'd done that summer, the reading list I was ploughing my way through, thinking she'd find it boring, but she listened intently.

“So, when you've qualified, you'll be a solicitor? Hey! That's impressive.”

But I didn't want to talk about myself. “I always thought you'd continue studying. You always did well—in school. Before. . .” My voice died away.

I wondered from her silence if I'd pushed her too far.

“If things had turned out differently, then maybe I would have. But now, I don't have time,” she said. Her voice was bright, but I liked to think there was regret there, too. “Now that I have rent to pay, I need to work.”

“It doesn't mean you never can,” I said more gently. It seemed so unfair that someone so talented should go to waste. “You should think about training while you work.”

But she'd shaken her head and placed her small hand on my arm. “You don't get it, Noah. It isn't always that simple. Not for everyone.”

* * *

We met the following day, lapsing into an easier familiarity, then again, the one after that, on a glorious late summer afternoon, the sun hot and the air still, when we walked up Reynard's Hill.

Her cheeks were flushed, from the climb, the sun, and I wanted to believe also from being with me. Then as the path leveled out, it was like standing on top of the world, the jagged edge of it softened by bleached grasses and the tiny pale stars that were dried scabious flowers. As we stood there, I felt the last three years fall away. The disappointments, the broken dreams, the hurt, so that I was alone at last, with my goddess.

“I love it here.” Her voice was wistful. And as she spoke, I forgot all about my earlier anger. None of that mattered. She was here, now. It was suddenly so simple.

“I used to think you were a goddess,” I said humbly. “That you were from another world.”

She turned to me, her eyes huge with astonishment.

“You didn't know?”

“I had no idea. No idea at all.
Oh, Noah
. . .”

In that exact moment, as I looked into her eyes, saw the flicker of her pulse in the skin of her neck, I knew that I hadn't imagined it, that she felt it, too, the magic between us that I had always known was there. Then she stepped toward me.

That was when I leaned down and kissed her. A long, sweet kiss that was everything I'd dreamed of and much more. Her lips were soft, her hair like silk between my fingers, and when she kissed me back, my heart became hers forever.

“For years, I've dreamed of this,” I murmured into her hair. “Only if I'm dreaming now, I never want to wake up.”

“It isn't a dream,” she said, reaching a finger to my lips, as we stood for several moments, not moving. Then she took my hand and placed it against her heart.

But all I could feel was her warmth through her clothes, the soft swell of her breast. My fingers moving, searching, questioning. She didn't stop me.