Written in the Stars (22 page)

Chapter 32

I am brushing my teeth, trying to avoid looking at my phone resting on the side of the sink. I tell myself firmly that I’m not going to obsessively wait for him to respond. He might not see my message for days. He might have forgotten all about the one he sent. It’s been months after all . . .

It’s been years since he left, we didn’t forget about each other . . .

I look in the mirror. Time seems to slip away as I realise how similar I look now to when Kieran left. I’m much leaner (break-ups do that to a girl), a fact offset by the short haircut I gave myself the day after I ran out on my wedding and which I know makes me look younger. I’ve acquired a light tan from afternoons spent in Milly’s garden and a generous sprinkling of freckles, the like of which I haven’t seen on my skin since I left Norfolk. I may not look as polished as when I was with Adam, but I look more like me.

I pick up my phone and, holding it between my chin and my chest as I tie up my towel and pick up my clothes, I head out of the bathroom, every step feeling like a tread back to the past because I can’t stop myself thinking about Kieran. Suddenly I feel like the last few years haven’t happened and when I close my eyes I can see us together, Elliot sitting between us as we drove along endless expanses of country roads, free to go wherever we liked, do whatever we pleased, our whole future ahead of us. I drop my clothes and phone on the bed in the spare room. It is still yellow – the colour I painted it when I first moved in. It wasn’t really in keeping with Milly’s minimalist style, but she understood I needed to wake up to brightness. Suddenly I have an idea. I throw open the little suitcase I’ve kept here all these years, pull out my old Monet prints, and grab the Sellotape from downstairs. Then I spend a happy hour covering one of my bedroom walls with them. When I’m done I step back and fold my arms, looking at them happily.

I glance at my phone to see what time it is. My heart thuds as I notice a red icon over my Facebook app. I have a message. No, he couldn’t have . . . not already. Could he?

With a trembling finger I tap the blue icon with the white F.

Bea, I’d really love to meet up as soon as possible. I’m here in Norfolk if you’re planning on coming here soon? Just say and I promise I’ll be there. Now I’m back, I can’t bring myself to leave . . . K

I read the message over and over again, trying to quell the fear and excitement and sickness that I’m feeling just by having this briefest of contacts with Kieran.

Oh God, I can’t do this. I shouldn’t do this. It isn’t right, is it?

Suddenly all my decision-making skills have deserted me again. I sit on the bed and stare at my phone and my eyes naturally settle on certain words: ‘really love’, ‘I’m here’, ‘I promise I’ll be there’.

He is saying everything I dreamed he would for the entire year I waited for him. Yes, it’s seven years later than expected but better late than never, right?

With my heart beating a dance anthem in my chest I write his name:

Kieran

I stop, hovering over the letters. I delete his name and add another word:

Hi Kieran

I delete it.

Dear Kieran

I’m trying not to seem too keen but at the same time I feel that, having waited years for this, I can’t wait a moment longer. Don’t think about it! I tell myself. Respond to him with the same spontaneity that you did half an hour ago!

Kieran, I’d love to see you, too.

I just want to get some answers, I tell myself. I’m not still in love with him.

I’m coming back to Norfolk at the weekend.

Another pause. I wasn’t planning to, but he isn’t to know that. And I
did
promise Loni I’d visit soon.

Shall we meet up then? Bea

Is there a please in that question mark? A plead? Kiss or no kiss after the name? STOP OVER-ANALYSING!

I hit send and within seconds a reply appears:

I’d love to. Where shall we meet? Saturday is the anniversary of . . . well, you know. K x

How could I ever forget? Part of me feels that the stars have aligned to bring us back together eight years to the day that we were torn apart by his brother’s death. There is a beautiful symmetry to it that seems in keeping with the two versions of my life that always seem to be running alongside each other. Before and after Dad left, before and after Kieran – and now before and after Adam.

With a jolt I look back at the phone and realise that Kieran’s waiting for my reply. I cling on to my phone tightly, feeling this renewed connection to him. He’s back, and he’s been waiting for me a long time.

And I think I’m finally facing up to the fact that I’ve been waiting for him, too.

Chapter 33

I arrive in Norfolk two days later to a half-hearted welcome from Loni, who opens the door looking very tired and on edge.

‘Oh Bea, it’s you.’

‘You could try and sound a bit more pleased to see me,’ I say, kissing her lightly on the cheek and stepping inside. There’s lots of chat and laughter coming from the conservatory. ‘Guests?’ I ask.

‘Of course! Did I not mention that my latest retreat group would be here? It’s their last night tonight. We’re just about to have dinner and set fire to our inhibitions that we’ve written down on pieces of paper. Come on through.’

I follow her reluctantly, trying not to step on the long silk scarf that has unwound from her neck and is trailing behind her on the floor, and doing my best to disguise my disappointment. All I wanted was to get in my PJs, have a glass of wine and a catch-up with Loni. Not share her with ten other people and be given the third degree. Not to mention third-degree burns, judging by her latest crazy therapy game. However much I want to be annoyed that Loni didn’t tell me there’d be a house full of people, I don’t allow myself to be surprised or upset. Even though she is technically on her own, it is rare to find Loni by herself.

The house is a mess and Loni seems very distracted, nervous almost, as she leads me through to the conservatory.

‘This is such a nice group, darling, I’m so glad you’ll get to meet them. There are a few old faithfuls but also some rather nice new faces that I’ve really loved getting to know . . .’ She lets her sentence drift away and she looks over her shoulder at me. She seems on edge about something but I can’t work out what. It’s not like Loni at all. She’s usually so calm and laid-back. I do sometimes worry that she may be finding her relentless workload too much. She’s definitely lost weight, and whilst I admit she looks good on it, it is rather worrying. Cal has voiced his concerns recently, too. I know she looks good for her age and we all think of her as much, much younger. But she’s nearly fifty-five now – she’s not invincible . . .

‘Come on through and meet everyone,’ Loni says and when she smiles at me I decide I have nothing to worry about. The same sparkle is still there, the brightness in her eyes, the same spirit and determination – even more so perhaps. Loni is tougher than all of us. She isn’t ill and I’m sure she doesn’t need help. She’s made her living out of needing no one. But I resolve to keep a careful eye on her anyway . . . just in case.

I hover by the doorway as she flounces into the conservatory. The room has been lit by a circle of tea lights, her guests are sitting on the floor in the lotus position and there is a low Moroccan coffee table in the middle upon which sits a big earthenware casserole dish with the lid on but which, from the smell of it, holds something spicy and exotic. Everyone is clasping little earthenware cups of red wine, or sangria or something, and a distinguished-looking older gentleman is handing out vegetable crisps and houmous.

‘Welcome to our last supper,’ he says and I roll my eyes when I realise that Loni’s guests are all passing around bread and breaking it between them. ‘I’m Roger, a friend of your mum’s.’

‘Don’t be shy, come and join us, darling!’ Loni says quickly, her eyes flickering to him and then back to me. ‘Let me introduce you to
all
my friends.’

She and Roger sit down next to each other, almost at the same time, in the lotus position like everyone else. She adjusts her knee so it isn’t touching him and I see him glance at her. I should let him know he doesn’t stand a chance. Loni never goes for anyone who has paid to come on a retreat. She says it sets a bad precedent. And besides, he’s way too old for her. The last time she was with someone her own age was . . . well, Dad. And he was actually fifteen years older than her. He left her when he was forty-seven and she was thirty-two, which means he’d be seventy now. I do this sometimes. Work out his age, try to guess where he might be in the world, if he’s remarried, how many children he has, what he does for a living. If he’s still alive. Sometimes I’m struck with this deep-rooted fear that he is miserably lonely, ill, or even worse dead, but then I can equally imagine him being alive and blissfully happy and with a family he dotes on.

Two versions of his life, and both are equally painful to me.

‘Well, thanks so much for the invite, Loni, but I’ve just got here so I think I’ll, you know, just leave you to it.’ I smile. ‘I just wanted to say hi really. So hi! I hope you all have fun . . .’

I start backing out of the room, desperate to escape. I’ve seen enough of Loni’s retreats over the last twenty years to know that these events mostly involve aged divorcees spouting Buddhist quotes about life paths and making your own journey and being happy to be on your own, until an occasional devotee – who hasn’t quite found peace with their single status yet – starts slagging off their ex saying what a shag-a-round, money-stealing, soul-sucking life form they were. And then the whole thing turns from some hippie Zen-like experience into an anger-management session. I don’t want to be here when Loni explains that I’m her runaway bride daughter. I’ll probably be mobbed.

Having made my excuses, I gather up my things and make for the caravan in the garden. It’s been parked there for years. We used to take holidays as a family in it, and then, after Dad left, there weren’t any more holidays. It just sat here, abandoned, until I adopted it as my own. The house was always so full of people that as I headed into my late teens I found it harder and harder to share Loni and her worshippers. Here in the caravan I could find peace to think, dream, and design. And then, when I met Kieran, I used it even more.

I need some space to think about my first proper meeting with Kieran tomorrow. As I try to drift off to sleep on the bunk bed, Kieran is in my mind. He is all I can think about. I need to see him again, to move on from where we parted. I feel myself drifting back . . .

‘Kieran, there’s something I have to tell you.’ My voice is carried up on the wings of the seagulls’ cry and then dropped in the ocean. ‘I need you to understand what happened that night between Elliot and me.’ He’s followed me here to Holkham beach where I’ve run to after the funeral to get away from the scent of lilies, of death. I’m standing on the sand dunes being blown by the unseasonal winds that have continued to batter the coast since Elliot died in the storm two days before. I’ve come here because I want to be battered too. I want the sea to swallow me, just like it has Elliot. I deserve it.

I look at Kieran who is standing with his hands in his pockets, gazing out to sea. His eyes have clouded over like the sea froth at the shore and his long hair is framed by a halo of sea-lavender that now, suddenly, looks more like a wreath. Never again will I think of this coastline and be able to see anything other than a dead young man and a lost love.

Kieran doesn’t have to look at me – or speak – for me to know it’s over. I haven’t told him the truth about what happened with Elliot and me. I can’t. But I know that something died between us when Elliot did. Kieran’s leaving me. And it was nobody’s fault but my own. Please don’t leave me, I know you blame me and I understand, I do . . .

He grasps my arm tightly and pulls me to him. ‘This wasn’t your fault, OK? You tried to save him . . .’ I brush my face against his neck, inhaling the scent of him. ‘It’s my fault he died – and that’s why I have to go.’

‘I don’t think I can live without you . . .’ I gasp, barely able to breathe.

‘Don’t say that,’ he says, his breath warm against my hair. ‘Don’t ever say that. Of course you can live without me. I’m no good for you. Not right now.’

‘So let me come with you,’ I beg, my fingers clawing his back like I’m trying to cling on to a rock face.

‘No!’ He breaks away and turns his back on me. He looks like a lost soul again, a broken being, in his black suit, his hair blowing out like entrails. And I want him more than ever.

‘You’re better off without me. I don’t want to drag you down, like I did Elliot. This was my fault.’

‘It wasn’t!’ I cry. But he isn’t listening to me.

‘I know the doctors said it was the impact of his skull on the pier that killed him, but I as good as dragged him under those waves by encouraging our crazy lifestyle . . . and dragging you into it too.’

‘Kieran.’ I dart forward and clutch his arm. ‘Listen to me, please.’

He turns to me again and I see that tears are streaming down his face, falling from his cheekbones like bodies from a cliff edge. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do without him, Bea . . .’ It’s like he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. He doesn’t want to face up to the fact that I’m the one who did this. I should have died that night on the pier. Not Elliot. I don’t deserve to be here.

I sob as I gaze at him and then up at the dark, dark sky.

He envelops me in his arms, comforting me when it should be the other way round. We cleave to each other as the wind swirls around us, as if we’re in the eye of a storm. Kieran pulls away at last and holds me by my shoulders.

‘I’m not going forever, you have to know that, OK? But I need to become a better man before I can be with you.’