The Night That Changed Everything (38 page)

Oh my God. He realized I was flirting and thought this is what I wanted.

Maybe it is what I want.

His arm stays round me as we walk up the stairs. He waits for me to unlock the door at the top, then leads me straight into the bedroom. This boy does not mess about.

We pause by the bed and I look up into his face, trying not to feel shy. Our eyes lock and I need to go for it before the moment is gone . . .

When my lips touch his, his face freezes.

‘Rebecca,' he whispers, lifting his head back slightly to break contact, ‘what are you doing?'

‘I thought . . .' Oh God. GOD. My hands fly to my cheeks as mortification seeps in.

‘You thought what?'

‘I thought that . . . why are you here?' I say. ‘Why didn't you stay in the taxi and go home? Why did you practically carry me upstairs?'

‘Because,' Jamie says evenly, gripping my arms and peering at my face, ‘for want of a better phrase, you're shitfaced.'

‘I'm not!'

‘You are.'

‘I am not.'

‘OK,' he says, nodding and dropping his hands. ‘You are, though. Now get into bed, and I'll get you some water.'

‘God, Jamie, I'm so embarrassed.' I flop face first on to my bed and bury my face in the pillow.

‘Don't be. You'll have forgotten all about this by morning,' he says, and I gather from the way the mattress sinks that he's sitting down next to me.

‘You're right, I must be drunk, or I'd never have thought you would go for me.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘You could have had any girl in there tonight. Tidy Tania was definitely hanging back for you. If you wanted to go home with someone, as if it would have been me.'

‘It's not that at all. Look, let's not have this conversation, eh?'

‘It's OK, I'm not blaming you. I'm not your type – I know that. We're friends. Let's just forget this ever happened.'

‘Rebecca.' He lays a hand on my back, then seems to think better of it because it's gone again. ‘The way you've been acting tonight? It isn't you.'

‘Well, look where being me has got me.' My words are muffled by the pillow and I don't know if he hears.

‘To say I'd never go for a girl like you is bullshit. If you want the truth, I used to think I might end up with a girl like you. Well,
with
you, actually.'

What?
I turn my head slightly to peer at him. He's staring up at the ceiling.

‘If you must know, I had feelings for you pretty much from the day I met you. I wasn't ready for a relationship, though.' He lowers his head and looks at his hands. ‘I loved being single and away from home – I'd have been a shit boyfriend. But for a while, I kind of thought that one day, after I'd had my fun, we might, well, you know . . .'

No, Jamie, I don't know. I feel my heart thumping in my chest. This isn't making sense. Me and him? I'm glad he can't see my face, because I don't know how I'm supposed to be reacting to this.

‘You're the only girl I could ever see myself ending up with. I never get bored of you, the way I do other girls. I love your company. I value your opinion. And obviously, you're beautiful.'

The mattress shifts as he stands up, and I feel like I should be saying something but still I can't think straight, and he continues: ‘But how I felt changed when you got with Ben. You guys were great together, and made each other so happy. So I was happy for you both. You deserved each other. And I knew that we would only ever be friends from then on. And that will never change now.'

He stops. ‘Are you still awake?' he whispers.

I don't answer. I don't know what to say. His words are lovely, and they're melting my heart, but they're also scaring the shit out of me.

‘Be yourself, Rebecca,' he mutters, as he pulls my duvet over me. ‘When you're yourself, you're the best girl I know.'

He turns out my light and a few moments later I hear the front door click.

Thursday, 12 March

I didn't have to think long about where to come.

When Rebecca suggested I go somewhere for the day and not come back until I'd decided what to do with my life, it was the first place that came into my head.

It was only three or four months ago that I was here last, approaching the edge of the cliffs, but it seems so much longer. Remembering it now, it's almost as though I'm looking back on another life, a different person.

Jamie dying has made life seem both far more valuable and far less important all at once, if that's possible. All that stuff that happened with Rebecca, it seems trivial now.

I step closer to the edge, the lines of a map made real. Maybe it's that the air is still, and I'm more in control, but I no longer feel scared.

I walk along the cliff, and because it's a weekday I am alone with my thoughts. There is barely a cloud in the sky and the sunlight sparkles against the sea like a million camera flashes.

I feel nervous approaching the hut. There must be a whole team of people who do his job, I realize now, so the chances are he won't be on duty today. And even if he is, he must talk to dozens of people every day; he's probably not even going to remember me. But when I knock on the door it is Brian who opens it, and he holds his arms wide in surprise before stretching one of them for me to shake.

‘Ben!'

I take his hand, pleased and a little bit relieved, then give him the bottle of wine I bought to say thanks for last time. It's only what they had on offer, because, well, I'm broke. Mum has even offered to give me some of her redundancy money, but I couldn't do that. I've told her she should invest it.

‘What a lovely surprise,' he says, moving aside to let me in.

Only then do I see one of his colleagues is also here, though he's in the process of putting on his luminous jacket. Brian introduces me like an old friend, and tells him how I came here before Christmas. He doesn't explain why.

‘He's a Mancunian,' adds Brian. ‘But City, not United, so we won't need to fumigate afterwards.'

The man laughs before making his excuses, leaving Brian to usher me towards the Paisley chair. He draws two paper cups from a stack next to the kettle but waits for me to nod my assent before unscrewing the bottle.

‘So,' he says, pouring the wine, ‘did things work out between you and . . . ?'

‘Rebecca. They didn't. But it's fine, you know?'

He hands me a cup and eases himself on to the stool.

‘We're friends now,' I say.

Brian nods happily. ‘So what brings you here?'

I laugh, at the sheer scale of the question and possible answer, and then, encouraged by occasional nods and questions, I tell him what has been happening: how Jamie and I had been planning to open a business together, about seeing Rebecca with Michael, and the call from Danielle and everything that followed.

When I'm done I almost feel out of breath.

‘Life is so fragile,' says Brian. ‘I know that more than most, working here.'

I look around the place, still recovering from telling my story, which is Jamie's story, really. Everything is just as it was last time except for some kind of device on the table that looks like a cross between a camera and a large torch.

‘Ah, you'll like the story behind this,' says Brian when he sees where I'm looking.

Apparently it's a heat-seeking device, so they can locate potential jumpers after dark.

‘The ring you found at the pub,' he says. ‘Nobody came to claim it, so after a few months the landlord sold it and donated the money towards this.'

‘A happy ending,' I say.

I'll have to tell Rebecca. Although maybe I'll leave out the bit about the happy ending I'd
originally
hoped for.

‘You seem to be in a place where you're able to cope a bit better?'

I give him a conditional smile. ‘Now I just need to decide what it is I'm doing with my life.'

He takes a sip of the wine and then his mouth crooks at some inner thought.

‘What?'

‘I don't think many people
decide
what they want to do. It's like supporting a football team – you don't consciously decide, it just happens.'

‘For most people, maybe,' I say. ‘That was another thing I dithered over. In the end Jamie scribbled down the words to Blue Moon on a piece of paper, shoved it in my pocket and told me to meet him outside Maine Road at quarter past two the following Saturday.'

Brian laughs, then downs the rest of his drink. He tells me there is somewhere he needs to be, but insists on swapping numbers before I go.

As I'm walking back I remember what he told me last time – about being able to see clearer once the rain has stopped. I hadn't foreseen exactly how hard it would come down.

But now, finally, it does feel like I can see everything more clearly, and as my feet find the chalky path that leads down to the bus stop an idea comes to me about what I might do, but straight away I dismiss it.

I'd never be able to pull it off, would I?

I keep walking, and maybe it is the brilliance of the horizon, the almost cloudless sky, but gradually in my mind the idea doesn't seem so ridiculous at all.

Sunday, 29 March

I wake early with the sun pouring through the window, my bed drenched with sweat. I was dreaming about Jamie again.

In the dream, I was walking past Arch 13 and there was a van outside, and someone was loading it with red booths. I walked over and sat on one that was waiting to be moved and slid my hand down the side of the booth, finding a folded piece of paper with my name on it. I unfolded it and found in Jamie's handwriting,
You're the best girl I know.
And I cried. I'd missed my chance to speak to him about New Year's Eve. I'll never be able to tell him that he was the best boy I knew. And that although what I felt for him wasn't romantic, it was love and I assumed he'd always be in my future too.

It wasn't the worst dream I've had about Jamie since he died, though. The worst are the ones when he's still alive. They're brutal. Because then I wake up and have to lose him all over again as I remember that night that changed everything. Rowing with Ben, us almost kissing, the call from Danielle.

My breathing eventually returns to normal and I sit up in bed, gulping the water on my bedside table.

Dad is taking me for lunch today and I've a few hours before he's picking me up so I have a long shower and tidy the flat. I cancelled the cleaner; it started to feel a bit extravagant, especially after I paid Ben his share of the furniture. I'm just putting my duvet cover back on – having finally got the knack of doing it by myself – when I hear a beep outside. Dad has pulled up to the kerb outside the house, right on time as always.

When I reach the front door I find Natasha from downstairs also on her way out and trying to get her pram up over the step.

‘Here, let me give you a hand.' I pick it up at the front, while she takes the back and we carry it through the door.

‘Thank you so much,' she says, breathing heavily once we've put it down.

‘No worries,' I say, peering into the pram at the yawning baby dressed in a pink and yellow striped Babygro, before heading for the door.

I pause.

‘What's her name?' I ask, turning back around.

‘Amy,' says Natasha with a grin, pulling her daughter from the pram and on to her shoulder.

‘She's gorgeous.' I smile back. ‘See you later.'

The restaurant is busy, and the waitress who greets us at the door seems stressed, but she manages a wide smile for Dad. ‘Would you like to sit inside or outside?'

‘Outside, please.' He smiles back. ‘It's a lovely day.'

He looks handsome in his sunglasses and his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and I catch the waitress looking me up and down when he pulls out a chair for me.

‘Thanks, Dad,' I say pointedly.

‘Can I get you some drinks?'

‘Small beer for me, please,' Dad replies. ‘Rebecca?'

There's a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket by the next table, condensation dripping temptingly down its sides. It was Jamie who told me that you can never go wrong with a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.

‘I'll have a glass of the Oyster Bay, please.'

The couple drinking the wine are about Dad's age and though neither of them are speaking, it looks like a comfortable silence.

‘Did you ever think you might want to meet someone else after Mum died?' I ask Dad once the waitress has left. I don't know where it comes from.

If he's taken aback, he doesn't let on. ‘I've neither ruled it out nor searched for it,' he says evenly. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘No reason.' I shrug. ‘It's just that everywhere you go women love you. And I wondered whether it's that you've never met anyone else you wanted to be with, or if you felt like it's wrong. You know, because of Mum.'

Dad laughs. ‘I've not lived the life of a monk. You remember me having various friends from time to time as you were growing up? Not all of them were just . . .'

‘All right, Dad,' I groan. ‘I don't need to hear any more.'

Dad chuckles, then his face goes serious. ‘Is this about you and Ben?'

‘Nah,' I dismiss.

Well, not really anyway. It's been five months since Ben and I split up, and apart from that one date with Michael, there's been no one else. But I know now Ben wasn't my One. Not like Mum was to Dad – something unique and magical that can't ever be replaced.

‘How's Stefan?' I ask to change the subject. ‘I haven't seen him since the funeral.' He's called loads of times trying to get me out, but I've thrown myself back into work to make sure that by the time I get home each night, I'm too tired to even think.