The Story of Us (49 page)

That thought pulled me up sharply:
home again.
Was it really my home, was that how I still thought of it? I hadn't lived there for five years, so technically no, it was not. But then nowhere else actually felt that it deserved that title either. Dad's current address in North Devon, where we had moved during the long slow months of my recovery, was
his
home, not mine, despite the fact that I had lived there for almost two years. I suppose my small London flat was home, but it had always felt temporary and transient, chosen for its closeness to the convenient tube line rather than any emotional attachment to the building. Also, it was hard to form a deep emotional attachment to a rental property over a somewhat dilapidated laundrette in one of London's less salubrious locations. I should have moved on when I had earned my first salary increase, should certainly have considered it by the next one, but there was a comfort in the known and familiar, however lacking in style it might be. In my more light-hearted moments I would refer to my flat as shabby-chic, but without the chic. That about summed it up.

As the train's rhythm began to slow, I realised that the two-hour journey had passed much more speedily than I would have liked and when the androgynous voice of the tannoy announced ‘The next stop is Great Bishopsford', I was alarmed to discover I was no more ready to face my return than I had been any time in the last five years. As the train shuddered to a halt I got to my feet and reached up to retrieve my small overnight bag from the overhead rack.

‘Allow me,' a man's voice offered from behind me, and before I could decline, strong leather-clad arms reached up and lifted down the small case. As I looked up to thank the stranger I saw the quickly disguised look of sympathy on his face as he took in the jagged scar that became visible as I raised my head. I smiled briefly in thanks and lowered my head, allowing the thick curtain of hair to cover the worst of my marked face. It was a habit I had developed over time; it was easier to hide the scar than to have to deal with people's reaction to it. Those who weren't shocked into silence might be tempted to ask about its origins and I had made a decision many years ago never to speak of it if at all possible. And perhaps that was what was scaring me so badly about being back home. Because how would the old group of friends get through this weekend
without
speaking of something so cataclysmic that it had altered each of our lives in some way?

I caught a taxi from the station, even though it was only a short walk to the hotel where I would be staying. But the walk would have taken me past our old school, and I wasn't prepared yet for the memories taking that route might elicit. Inside the leather-seated interior of the cab, I resolutely kept my gaze firmly fixed on my knees and the floor and tried to avoid the inevitable for a little while longer.

The hotel room was clean and impersonal. No memories here as I'd never set foot in the building before, so that was fine. It took all of three minutes to unpack my small bag. I glanced at the bedside radio alarm clock. It was nearly lunchtime and I toyed with the idea of going down to the hotel bar for a sandwich, but at the last moment lost my nerve and phoned down for room service. ‘Baby steps,' I told myself encouragingly. ‘Just take little baby steps and you'll be fine.' My reflection looked back at me doubtfully from the dressing-table mirror. If I couldn't even convince myself, how on earth was I going to get through the next seventy-two hours?

After I'd eaten, I called Sarah on my mobile to let her know I had arrived. I heard the relief in her voice and was dismayed that she had not been entirely certain I was really going to come. That strengthened my resolve to be strong, if only for her sake.

‘Come over now, I don't want to wait till tonight to see you.' Her enthusiasm made me smile, but then Sarah always had. I just hoped Dave realised how lucky he was, getting to spend his entire future with such a special person.

‘Maybe in a little while,' I promised. ‘And you have me at your disposal all day tomorrow, so we'll get plenty of time to talk before you become an old married lady.' She groaned at my words and uttered a very unladylike phrase in response.

‘Actually,' I continued, ‘I think I'll take a little walk this afternoon. See if I can face up to some of those old memories after all.'

‘Fancy some company?' I smiled at her offer. She must have a thousand and one things to do, yet I knew she'd abandon all of them in a heartbeat if I said yes.

‘No, that's OK,' I replied, ‘I think I might do this better on my own, and anyway I'm getting a bit of headache.' I brought my hand up to rub distractedly between my brows, as I realised this last was true. ‘So the fresh air will do me good.'

‘Well, don't walk so far that you'll be too exhausted for my hen dinner tonight.'

‘As if I'd be allowed to miss that! Are you doing the L plates and tiara costume bit?'

‘No,' came the swift response in mock indignation, ‘I told you before, this is no tacky girly shindig. This is a mixed, grown-up and sophisticated dinner with all of my oldest friends, to celebrate my departure from spinsterhood. By the way, you
have
arranged a stripper for me, haven't you?'

‘Absolutely,' I replied, and was still smiling when I hung up the phone.

The air outside was much colder than I had expected, and I was glad of my thick woollen coat and knitted scarf wound tightly about my neck. Without any conscious thought or instruction, my feet found their own rhythm and began to direct me down the twisting side roads which would lead me to my old home. I didn't intervene. This was the first stop I needed to make and this should be the easy one. No dark memories there, only happy ones from my childhood.

Someone had replaced the old picket fence with something much fancier made out of wrought iron, and the front door was now a garish green colour, but apart from that it all looked the same. There was a comfort in seeing that the house hadn't been altered too dramatically, although the garden was better kept, I noticed, but then Dad had never been much of a gardener. Also, fancy wooden blinds replaced the more homely curtains that we had preferred, but basically this was still my old home.

As I lingered on the pavement, I allowed a wave of memories to assault me, a kaleidoscope of images spanning the years. Yet still there were no dark shadows here. Up until five years ago this was the only home I had known and it still represented the feelings of safety and sanctuary which had eluded me in any subsequent accommodation. Standing on the pavement, feeling like I still belonged there, yet at the same time knowing strangely that I did not, I felt a dart of nostalgia pierce through me. I realised with a shock that this was the first time I had actually seen the house since the night of the accident.

The decision to move away, the packing up and sale had all been carried out during the long slow months of my hospital stay. Whether it was the right decision or not, who could say? My poor father had been desperate enough to do whatever he could to minimise my pain. Half demented with grief, I had clung to him desperately from my hospital bed and pleaded with him to let us move far away: so move we did.

Suddenly the memories coming at me were cyanide-bitter and I turned from the house and began walking briskly away. My eyes started to water furiously as a bitter icy wind blasted my face; at least I thought it was the wind doing that.

I walked face down against the gusting currents, my stride just short of a run. At the end of the street I stopped and hesitated. I was standing at a crossroads; in a physical as well as a spiritual sense. If it hadn't been so heartbreakingly sad it would almost have been funny. The headache, which the painkillers had dulled to a persistent throb, now threatened to go into overdrive. I
could
use it as an excuse not to make my next stop. But I thought I'd been hiding behind excuses for too long now.

My hand gripped tightly on the door knocker, as a fleeting glimmer of hope ran through me. Perhaps they too had moved? Sarah had never said but then we hadn't spoken of his family at all in the intervening years. Some wounds just go too deep.

If she was shocked by my appearance on her doorstep after a five-year absence, she hid it well. She also hid her reaction to my damaged face, which I knew she must have noticed with the wind whipping my hair about my head in long chestnut banners. I hoped I was as good at masking my own shock when I saw how much she had aged in the intervening years. Although she smiled and reached out to envelope me in a welcoming hug, the grief was so deeply etched into her face that I realised no new emotion was ever going to be powerful enough to erase it. Guilt sliced through me like a knife wound. It was
my
fault
she looked like that.
My
fault
she had lost her son.

It hadn't been an easy afternoon, and by the time I got back to the hotel, the tension and the emotions of the day had brought my headache to a never-before-experienced crescendo of agony. My first action on returning to my room was to blindly fumble in my toiletry bag for the bottle of pills. I ignored the dosage instructions on the label and immediately dry-swallowed two tablets instead of one. As I waited for the medication to kick in, I ran a deep hot bath in the small white-tiled bathroom.

The headache was still with me as I slid under the fragrantly perfumed water; slightly better when I emerged pink and beginning to shrivel almost half an hour later, and back to a manageable dull ache when I realised it was already time to get ready for the evening ahead.

I tried to keep my mind away from my visit with Jimmy's mother, knowing there was much I needed to consider about what she had said that day, and knowing too that this night was not the time to do so. I couldn't afford myself the luxury of thinking of that now. First, we all had to face the night ahead; a night of reunion and a time of celebration, all the while trying to ignore the fact that, for the first time, we would be meeting as six instead of seven.

‘Baby steps,' I murmured again to myself as I settled before the dressing table and began to apply my make-up.

Sarah had chosen the location for the dinner well. We were booked at a fancy restaurant on the other side of town. A place far too expensive and sophisticated to have been visited by us in our student days. I got there deliberately early, a good thirty minutes before our allocated time, hoping it would give me some sort of mental advantage. Having given Sarah's name to the maître d', I declined the suggestion to wait at the bar and asked instead to be seated straight away.

I was ushered to a large circular table in the far corner of the restaurant. I chose a chair facing the doorway, wanting the advantage of being able to see who would arrive next. I could certainly have done without the large mirrored wall directly opposite our table though. I'd already spent far too much time stressing over my reflection in the hotel room, I didn't really need the indulgence of another half-hour of wondering whether my choice of midnight blue dress with the deep V neckline had been the right one. Having brought no alternative for the evening, there wasn't really much I could do about it either way. Nervously I kept checking my reflection, each time pulling my hair forward, making sure it swung deeply across my cheek.

Phil was the first to arrive, looking tanned and much more muscled and broad-shouldered than I had remembered. He crushed me to him in such a bear hug of an embrace, I felt sure some ribs were going to give way in the process.

‘OK, need to breathe now.' He laughed and released me, sliding into the chair beside me.

‘You're looking good, Rachel,' he began, and I had to almost sit on my hand to stop myself from automatically reaching up to check my hair was still hiding my face. If he noticed, he was too polite to say. ‘It's been way too long. How have you been? Are you still living in Devon?'

We filled in the gaps in our histories, keeping it light, and his story was sufficiently varied to take us through until the next arrival: Trevor and his partner Kate. I didn't know that Sarah had invited partners, but as I introduced myself, after receiving a lift-you-off-your-feet hug from her boyfriend, I realised that Sarah had been wise to have included outsiders at our group's reunion. Somehow new faces would take the pressure off.

For the first time I counted up the place settings at the table, and wondered who the extra seat was for. I didn't have to wait long to find out, for Sarah burst into the restaurant with an infectious grin, a bundle of
Getting Married
helium balloons and her fiancé Dave in tow.

‘Who brings their fiancé to their hen night?' joked Phil, standing up to shake Dave's hand warmly in greeting.

‘What can I say? He just can't bear to be apart from me.'

I gave her my warmest smile and then nodded my head towards the balloons.

‘Classy.'

‘I thought so.'

‘Well this is a really nice place,' pronounced Dave, pulling out a chair for Sarah before settling himself closely beside her. ‘Very posh.'

‘Uh-huh,' she confirmed, and then stage-whispered across to me, ‘Better get on the phone and cancel that “
entertainment
”, Rach.'

By this time, Trevor had been approached by the wine waiter and while a discussion ensued over what to order, Sarah took the opportunity to lean over and whisper in my ear.

‘How are you doing, hon?
Really
.'

‘Hanging in there,' I whispered back, and when I saw the concern cloud her brow, I knew I had to try harder. ‘I'm fine, stop worrying about me.' She gave my hand a quick squeeze and leant back in her chair.

The first awkward moment occurred shortly after our chosen drinks were delivered to our table.

‘So who are we missing then?' asked Trevor blithely and an uncomfortable silence ricocheted between us as the double-meaning of his innocent remark hit home.