The Beauty of the End (7 page)

13

A
s I wondered at how fate had once again brought us together, I didn't once consider that events, April herself even, had conspired equally as hard to keep us apart. For the rest of that week, I tried not to think about Sunday. Not to obsess, fantasize, read into it more than I should. It was just brunch, I told myself. I had no idea if she was with someone, yet imagined that since it was her idea that we meet again, she probably wasn't.

When I arrived at Alberto's, April was already there, at a table in a corner where the doors had been folded back and the café was open to the street. Engrossed in the book she was reading, she didn't look up and I had enough precious time to take in the faded blue dress scattered with flowers; the sun catching the side of her face; her hair, partly pinned up but mostly trailing gloriously down her back; her composure as she read. She was still reading as I walked over and pulled out the chair opposite her.

“Morning.”

She looked up. “Noah! Hi! I was early.... It's a good place to read.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, hating how self-conscious I suddenly felt. “Shall I, er, order coffee?”

“They'll come over. Sit down.” Her eyes laughing at me, as still awkward I did as she said.

“So what's the book?”

But she'd already closed it and slipped it into her bag. “Course work. I'll tell you about it sometime. But tell me about you. I'm guessing you're a fully fledged force in the rage against injustice? With a big, swanky warehouse apartment overlooking the Thames?”

My grimace was involuntary. “You're right about the flat. But the rest . . . It's not exactly like that.”

“Oh?” She leaned forward, her eyes bright as she rested her chin in her hands. “So tell me. What is it like?”

“Oh, you'll wish you hadn't asked. Lots of paperwork, of the most laborious, tedious kind. Listening to your colleagues mouthing off about some deal or other they've pulled off or some colleague who's pissed them off, or about their massive, er, converted warehouse flat, or new car . . .” I stopped then, surprised by my own cynicism, realizing that I was talking about myself and that my dream career wasn't quite what I'd hoped it would be.

“It's how people are, Noah.” April spoke softly. “Are you surprised?”

I frowned. “Yeah. But when these guys boast about their deals, they're talking about people. Their future, their families' futures . . . And to some of the people I work with, it's like a game. With winners and losers, not always for the right reasons, either.” Was it naïve to want more?

April shook her head. “Same old Noah. But isn't that what life is? With winners and losers—a game?”

She said it lightheartedly, but a shadow crossed her face, as though she knew something I didn't. I opened my mouth to ask her more, but we were interrupted by the arrival of a waitress.

After we ordered, I sat back and looked at her. “So, tell me about your life, starting from when you left me that letter four years ago. What is it with you and letters?”

I was trying to make it sound humorous, but I saw a flush of pink tinge her cheeks.

“That was quite bad,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I'm sorry. Just so you know, I did regret it. I should have met you, at least. Told you face-to-face.”

“It doesn't matter.” Under the table, I clasped my hands together. “Sorry. I couldn't resist that. But where did you rush off to?”

She sighed. “When I saw you that time, I'd just got a waitressing job, and moved into my own flat. I felt great about it. It was the first time I'd ever felt in control of my life. And then when we spent those days together . . .”

She glanced away as she remembered. “It got complicated. I liked being with you, but I needed to feel in control of my life. So I ran.”

“Then what?”

She shrugged. “I worked. Really hard. That was about it. I had bills to pay. I had to make it work.”

It was the first time I realized the magnitude of how important that was to her. The unspoken line:
so that she never had to go back
. Ever since she'd escaped from the family she didn't talk about, April had been fighting to keep hold of her own, very different kind of future, in the real world—while I was at school, where I'd never been truly on my own.

“It must have been hard,” I said cautiously, struggling to imagine fending for myself at that point, remembering that if she hadn't left the letter and gone without me, it was exactly how it would have been for me, too.

“Sometimes.” A shadow crossed her face. “But it was okay.”

“You know, for a first date, this is one serious conversation,” I told her.

Her eyes widened and I saw uncertainty flicker in them. “Is that what this is? A first date?”

I held my nerve, her gaze. “I was hoping so.”

* * *

As it turned out, it was. For once, it seemed that I was right. Time was on our side. When April wasn't either working or studying, we went on more dates. Movies; crowded bars; cold, crisp nights when we walked and talked under the stars. There was no hurry, nothing to prove, just a blissful inevitability that this was right.

Then in November, for the first time in months, I met up with Will again.

“You've been bloody elusive, mate,” he joked over the rowdiness of the bar where he'd suggested we meet. “It has to be a girl, right?”

I nodded, feeling something welling inside me that perhaps was pride. “Not just any girl.”

Will looked at me with more interest. “Who is she? Come on, man. Spill.”

“You'll never believe this, but it's April.” I wasn't going to tell him how I'd trekked the streets of Soho determined to find her.

I didn't understand the look that crossed his face. It was the only time I'd ever seen him lost for words. He just blinked. “You're kidding me. I knew you had a crush on her. But that was kids' stuff. You've moved on, surely?”

“It's not like that,” I told him, my head nodding, feeling the smile plaster itself on my face. “We're good friends. We see a lot of each other . . . that's all. It's great. How about you?”

“There are girls, plural,” he said shortly. “That's what you should be doing, mate.”

But despite his best attempts to persuade me, I knew I was happy as I was.

* * *

I learned things about April I hadn't known before. Her need to escape London for open fields and trees; that she had dark days that would come out of nowhere, sapping the joy from life, painting it a noxious black—until they passed, leaving in their place a need that was almost desperate for beautiful things. But not for April the jewelery and clothes that other girls coveted. There was a black feather with white spots, from a woodpecker, she told me. A small heart-shaped stone. A piece of bark covered with different shades of lichen. And poetry, in particular a tiny, leather-bound volume that had been her grandmother's, where she said the font was as beautiful as the words described on its pages.

There were other things, including letters, but she didn't share them, locking them away in a small battered chest, another thing of beauty in itself, because the aged wood was inlaid with brass and mother of pearl. I never knew exactly what she kept in there and saw nothing wrong with that. Even though I wanted to share my every thought, every dream with her, I didn't expect her to do the same.

Before long, for the first time since we'd been together, April had the weekend off. We spent it mostly in her old brass bed under the sloping roof of her attic flat, rather than in the sparse expanse of mine, waking to watch the sun come up, wrapped in her bedcovers, the window thrown open on a soft-lit London I didn't recognize, with empty streets and majestic buildings and almost silence. Then at night, we'd gaze up at the darkness, watching the stars.

I could have stayed like that forever, and that was when it crept up on me, quietly at first, until I felt it in every fiber of my being. In the way even our thoughts seemed in tune. She was the woman I wanted to spend my life with.

Of course I was wary. Of moving too fast, of feeling too much too soon. I didn't want to lose her again. I didn't want to get hurt again, either. But as we lay in bed, April must have been aware of it, too. I awoke hours later to find the bed empty, the flat silent.

I got up to look for her, wandering out to her small sitting room, where she sat, huddled on her sofa, a cardigan over her shoulders, staring into the darkness.

“April?” I spoke softly so as not to startle her. “Are you okay, honey?”

When she didn't move, I sat on the edge of the sofa behind her, then put my arms around her, sensing the blackness that had her in its grip again.

“You're cold.” Pulling her against my own body, still warm from sleep.

For what felt like ages, we sat there, neither of us speaking, until eventually April spoke.

“Do you ever think . . .” Her voice was a whisper. I felt her shudder against me. Then she added, “That you can be too happy?”

“Nope.” Ignoring the shiver running down my own spine as through her hair I kissed her neck. “Sorry. Not possible.”

But when she turned to face me, her eyes were troubled. “I'm serious, Noah. It never lasts, does it? Happiness?”

Her words held the ghost of fear. I reached out, stroking the fall of hair off her face.

“Hey, what is this?” I said more gently, watching for the smile to flicker momentarily on her lips, wanting to reassure her. “Nothing's going to happen; you know that. We're allowed to be happy.”

She didn't smile. Looking away from me, she shook her head. “It isn't always that simple.”

I held her against me, knowing her despondent mood would pass, until her voice came out of the darkness. “Do you ever think, Noah? About life—and death? Because nothing's certain, is it?”

“Except love,” I said, pulling her closer, ignoring the flicker of disquiet I felt. Doing what I always did, believing what I wanted to believe. Turning from the shadow of the past.

14

W
as April right? For a while, were we too happy? A lifetime's worth of happiness condensed into a few months, until its quota had been exhausted so that after, there could only be sorrow? It was a cloud that hung not just over April. This time I felt it, too.

April spent a lot of time out walking, alone. But then it passed, as it always did. Christmas came. Apart from a brief visit to the care home that these days my mother rarely left, we spent it together. Laughing at the Christmas tree I'd bought, which was tiny yet dwarfed April's flat and was ludicrously hung with the bling of lights and shimmering baubles; opening the many presents we'd bought each other; eating and drinking far too much.

Even then, every so often her question came back to me. Was it possible to feel too much happiness? I watched the fairy lights flicker, then spark brightly again, as I thought of Will's last-minute invitation for New Year's Eve, back in Musgrove at his parents' house. It would be some party, I knew that. I'd been to many over the years, all with free-flowing champagne and mountains of food. I pictured it—the grand, lavishly decorated house with the enormous tree just inside the front door, towering above the equally glittering guests.

When I mentioned it to April, far from showing the enthusiasm I thought she would, she hesitated. “We could, if you want to. To be honest, I thought we were going to spend it here. Just the two of us.”

It was how we spent most of our time—just the two of us, in the moments we weren't working, still caught in that blissful state that didn't need other people. Like April, I was content to spend them with her.

When I awoke on Christmas morning, I lay there, listening to April's quiet breathing beside me as a fleeting memory came to me, of that Christmas with my parents after I'd just met April in school. Their idea of Christmas was a quiet, traditional affair. In my wildest schoolboy dreams, I wouldn't have been able to imagine this. Yet, just lying there, with April sleeping beside me, I was the happiest I'd been my entire life.

That word again.
Happy . . .
I'm not sure if it was the magic of Christmas, but this time, it didn't haunt me. All day, the rare sense of peace, of at last being where I was meant to be, stayed with me. The rest of the world barely existed, bar the muffled sounds from the flat above us, the distant strains of church bells, the rumble of a passing car far below.

Having already given April my presents, I felt in my pocket for the last one, which I'd thought so long and hard about but had yet to give her. It was quick, I knew that, but I couldn't see the point in putting off what I believed was inevitable. I was waiting for the right moment, which never seemed to present itself.

I found it that evening, when she finished her phone call to her old friend Bea. Grabbing her hands and twirling her over to the sofa, where she sat down, I took a deep breath and fished in my pocket.

Her answer was in her eyes. Even before I went down on one knee in front of her and asked.

The ring was a perfect fit. I persuaded April we should go to Will's party—not least because I wanted to show her off and tell the whole world we were going to be married, already imagining a country house wedding with April in a beautiful dress and all our friends crowded around us.

“We should check out some venues,” I told her. “Places get booked up.”

“Hey! I've only just said yes! There's no hurry. . . .” She was laughing, but I could see her excitement in her eyes. “We're young, Noah! We have our whole lives ahead of us!”

“Oh, but there is . . .” I was impatient, aware of ten long years of waiting condensed into this one moment.

* * *

I'd called Will to tell him, expecting a cool reaction and a lecture about being too young to tie myself down, but, to my surprise, I was wrong.

“Congratulations, mate. Happy for you—both. Put her on will you? So I can tell her myself?”

In my bubble I handed the phone to April. “Here, honey . . . it's Will. He wants to congratulate you.”

As she took the phone, I saw her lips tighten. “Thanks.”

Then she listened, in silence, before adding, “I'm not sure.”

She turned away from me after that, so I couldn't clearly hear what she was saying, before a minute or so later hanging up.

“What aren't you sure about?” I said.

She looked blankly at me.

“You said something about not being sure,” I said, curious.

“Oh.” A frown flickered across her face as she glanced away. “He said he's looking forward to seeing us. You know, on New Year's Eve. He was talking about announcing our engagement.”

“Wouldn't that be something! He's a good mate, isn't he?” I pulled her into my arms, thinking of Will's party again. How unexpectedly great life was. So much had changed this last year, I couldn't help but wonder what the next would bring.

Then I felt her sigh against me, as her eyes sought mine.

“I'm so happy, Noah. But sometimes . . . Don't you wish we could run away? From everything? Go somewhere it's just us . . .”

Her voice was quiet—and wistful. I felt a sudden flash of disquiet.

Gently I pulled away from her, looking into her eyes. “Hey, if that's what you want, we'll do that. We can go away, get married on a beach somewhere. Anywhere. Just us.”

I meant every word. It could have been a small-town registry office for all I cared. I thought she was talking about our wedding, but she could equally have been talking about our future. And I'd have moved to the other side of the world with her. All that really mattered was being together.

* * *

Over the next few days, we told our friends, then lightly sketched the outline of our wedding day, April at last conceding that a country wedding somewhere not too flash or ostentatious, now she'd thought about it, would be amazing.

Then early on New Year's Eve, before breakfast, she went out, alone. “I just need to get one or two things,” she said, reaching up to kiss me, before pulling on her big coat, then winding a scarf around her neck.

“I'll come with you. I could do with a walk.” I looked around for my jacket, then hesitated, remembering I'd promised to call my mother.

“I'll just make a quick call. Two minutes—okay?”

But she shook her head. “It's okay. You stay here. I won't be long.”

Though she didn't say, I guessed it was one of those times she wanted to be alone. After calling my mother for the briefest of conversations, I switched on the television, picking up the end of an old film, then watching the one that followed, only at the end realizing April still wasn't back.

I was starting to get anxious when I heard her key in the door. When she came in, instead of flushed from the cold, her face was pale.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Still in her coat, she came and sat on the sofa, staring at the carpet, before pulling off her boots.

“Not really. I don't know. I was walking I think I got cold.”

I took her hands in mine. They were like ice. “You should have called me.”

She shook her head. “It's my fault. I should have come back—but I went and sat in the park. I thought it would pass, but it hasn't. I just feel really sick, Noah. And I ache.”

“It sounds like flu.” I watched as she slipped her coat off and curled up on the sofa. Then I fetched a throw from her bed and gently covered her.

She didn't protest, just closed her eyes. A few minutes later, from the rhythmic sound of her breathing I guessed she was sleeping. An hour later, she hadn't moved.

Much later, as it was getting dark, gently I woke her.

“You've been asleep for hours,” I told her softly. “I don't think we're going to get to Will's.”

She lifted her head. “Oh, Noah . . .” Her head sank back onto the sofa. “I'm so sorry. I know how much you wanted to go tonight.”

“It's okay. It doesn't matter. It's just a party.” I'd been looking forward to it, but it wasn't important. There would always be other parties.

“You should go. I'll be fine here on my own.”

“I'm hardly going without you,” I told her, imagining walking into Will's alone. “And we can see Will anytime.”

It was true. I called him and explained. Then we saw the New Year in, just the two of us, April curled up against me, revived enough by midnight to share the champagne we'd been planning to take to the party.

The next day, she felt better. In just a few days, she was herself again. And then the holiday was over and it was back to work.