Written in the Stars (7 page)

‘Have
you
cheated on him?’ Cal had asked, and both Lucy and Loni had admonished him.

‘What? It’s a fair question,’ he said, eyeing me suspiciously. I looked away. We hadn’t talked about Kieran since we both saw him in the congregation.

‘No! There’s nothing, no one . . . I just . . . I just couldn’t. I c-can’t . . .’ I’d broken down again then and they’d been unable to get any more out of me. I’d spent two hours crying in bed with my head buried in my hands, during which time they served me tea and sympathy whilst whispering worriedly to each other. The phone had rung every two minutes and they’d taken turns to answer until they’d eventually taken it off the hook. When I’d calmed down a little, I’d picked up my phone and checked for messages but there was no reception in Loni’s house, so I put it in my bedside drawer. I realised I didn’t actually want to hear from Adam’s family or our wedding guests, anyway. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what terrible things they were saying about me.

I stare at the drawer and suddenly open it, grab my phone and, clutching it tightly like it’s a portal to another life, I try to get out of bed. I don’t want to stay in this room a moment longer than I have to. My cosy little childhood attic room should be a comfort, a blanket of warmth and security. But after the year I spent here, barely getting out of bed, it has become simply a painful reminder of a time I’d rather forget. Oh, it’s nice enough with its Velux windows looking down on the rambling garden below, my bed tucked cosily under the eaves, sloping walls painted primrose yellow and covered in a patchwork of Monet garden prints:
Water Lilies
,
Nymphéas
,
Reflections of Weeping Willows
,
Roseway at Giverny
. The prints – better than any sleeping tablets – had been Loni’s idea that year; most things that worked were. I would only have to stare at them, allow my vision to go hazy, and no matter how much I’d been crying, no matter how low, how desperate, how guilty and hurt, how confused, heartbroken and paralysed with regret I felt, those pictures would carry me to a calm and safe place where I could lose myself in sleep. Until I met Adam.

Adam.

I swallow back fresh tears, wriggle out of my dress and find a pair of newly laundered fuchsia-pink silk pyjamas of Loni’s that she has laid out for me. They are rather big, but I slip them on anyway, roll over the waistband several times and, wrapping my arms around my body, I shuffle towards the door. I run my fingers along my bookshelves as I pass. They are still groaning with the books of my childhood, as well as my garden diaries, the ones I started writing after Dad left, noting down every change, every growth and death, every bud and weed, so he could see how well I was following in his footsteps. The garden was our bond and I thought as long as I kept that I wouldn’t lose him. Not completely anyway. I pick up one of the diaries now and gaze at the cover with its flower doodles and my name and age scrawled in bright, bold bubble letters. I quickly flick through the pages. He’d only been gone two years and I clearly still harboured a belief that he would come back because there are so many references to him.

Four years later, in the notebook marked ‘Beatrice Bishop aged thirteen’, there is barely a reference to him. Just intricate diagrams and notes, tips ripped out of gardening magazines and paragraphs copied from my treasured Royal Horticultural Society books and encyclopedias. I continued writing the diaries until I met Kieran. And then I left them all here when I moved in with Milly – as well as the reference books bought for my degree course in Garden Design that I was in the middle of studying for at UEA. Books on small gardens, landscaping, garden colour palettes, planting, and designing roof terraces and urban spaces – the module I was studying just before I dropped out. I didn’t need any reminder of my past life.

Feeling I might suffocate if I stay in there much longer, I walk out of my bedroom and head downstairs.

The noise and chatter in the kitchen stops abruptly when I appear in the doorway. Loni, Cal, Lucy and the kids are momentarily frozen; quite a feat, particularly for Neve and Nico who seem unable to stay still – even when asleep. Loni moves first, her round, beautifully fleshy and expressive face morphing expertly from shock into delight as she steps forward, and with the sleeves of her bright kaftan fanning out, she opens her arms wide to me like an ebullient butterfly.

‘Bea, darling! It’s such a JOY to see you up and about.’ Her arms close around me and I shut my eyes. She smells reassuringly familiar, a scent of patchouli and sweet orange wafts under my nose. Her hair is tied into a messy mermaid’s plait and hangs over her shoulder like wisteria, her plump face is free of make-up and glowing with vitality. Under her kaftan she’s wearing a pair of bright silk patterned trousers. On her feet are gladiator sandals and gigantic bead earrings dangle noisily from her ears. ‘We were just saying, weren’t we, Cal, that you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. No need to hibernate in your room!’ This line is delivered in a high-pitched, sing-song voice. She knows better than anyone how capable I am of hiding myself away. ‘What you did was very brave, Bea, very brave indeed. It’s much better to make a decision like that now rather than six months into the marriage. You can walk with your head held high, darling. After all, if there’s one thing that Buddhism has taught me it’s that the secret of life is to have no fear. There’s this saying—’

‘Never fear what will become of you, depend on no one. Only the moment you reject all help are you freed!’ Cal and Lucy chorus. I don’t join in. It is Loni’s motto. One she delivered for months after Dad left. My motto is: Not the bloody Buddha quotes again.

‘Well, I’m definitely free now . . .’ I blink up at the ceiling, trying to stop the tears.

‘Oh Bea . . .’ Lucy instantly darts around the table and gives me a cuddle.

I wriggle out of her embrace and go and stand in front of the Aga. I don’t deserve comfort.

‘H-have you heard from anyone? Milly maybe?’ I ask. I want to see her but at the same time I’m petrified of what she is going to say. I know that she more than anyone won’t hold back. I don’t think she saw Kieran at the wedding – if she had she’d probably have disowned me – but she’s been waiting for Adam and me to get married for years. I can’t bear the thought of letting her down, and though I want to believe she’ll support me, I know that Adam is as much her friend as I am. I can’t rely on her support. And besides, I don’t deserve it.

Loni shakes her head. Even though I can’t face Milly, I can’t help feeling hurt that she hasn’t come round, or at least phoned. She’d know her’s is the first place I’d run to. ‘Marion?’ This comes out as a mousy squeak, displaying more fear than I’d intended. Cal shrugs and nods. I groan. I can’t bear to think about what Adam’s family and friends think of me. I’m sure I heard the phone ringing in my dreams last night. Part of me wants to know. The other just wants to get back in bed and pull the duvet over my head. Maybe it’s a blessing that Loni’s house is in the middle of nowhere and has such shockingly bad Wifi and no phone signal so I don’t have to find out. I pick up my phone again nonetheless. I need to know what everyone is saying. Or maybe even tell them how terrible I’m feeling. Surely that’s the right thing to do in this situation?

I open up Facebook. I see my profile says ‘In a relationship with Adam Hudson’ and I wonder if I should change it. I start manically tapping out a status update in the vain but optimistic hope that I will get one magical, fated spark of a signal.

Bea Bishop has made a terrible mistake.

My thumb hovers over the post button but even as I’m writing, I know that what I’m saying isn’t true. I delete the message and tap out a different status.

Bea Bishop is so so sad.

This
is
true but I frown as I stare at it. It looks too self-indulgent written in black and white like that. I delete it, biting the inside of my lip, rolling the flesh between my molars, enjoying the sharp pain. I close my eyes for a moment and think. Then I write another update.

Bea Bishop is so so sorry.

This one feels right because I
am
sorry. Terribly, awfully sorry and this seems like the best way to apologise without having to deal with seeing anyone. Cowardly, maybe, but why change the personality trait of a lifetime?

I hit post but nothing happens. I hold the phone out, swearing under my breath as I fail to get a signal. I try kneeling up on the window seat and holding the phone up to the ceiling, standing on one leg over by the back door and crouching by Loni’s Welsh dresser. But there’s nothing. Cal wanders over and crouches down next to me.

‘Hey . . .’ he says, gently prising the phone from my hand and rubbing my back. ‘Do you think that’s such a good idea?’ His face is pulled into a frown and suddenly I see how tired he looks. His shock of curls has always made him look childishly cherubic – both at school and at home he seemed to get away with anything, which used to drive me mad – but recently his responsibilities seem to be drawn on his face like marks on a map. The frown line between his eyes is Loni. He’s constantly worrying about her being on her own. The group of lines stretching out from the east and west of his eyes are all Neve and Nico, a combination of laughter and exhaustion that they’ve brought since they were born two years ago. And the faint lines across his forehead are his job; they tell of each emergency he deals with and how he does it with humour, patience, urgency and passion.

‘What else am I meant to do, Cal?’ I ask desperately. ‘I need to let everyone know how sorry I am. I need to apologise for this mess . . . I need to . . . I – I need to . . .’ I start crying again and Cal rubs my shoulder.

‘Just give it some time, sis. Sort your head out in private. And more importantly, let Adam sort out his.’

I look at the screen. My unsent status is blinking accusingly at me. I’m torn because although part of me is desperate to make contact with the outside world, to pour my heart out with apologies, I also know that Cal’s right.

Why is it that every decision I try to make is always the wrong one?

Suddenly I’m aware of a doorbell piercing the silence. In a panic, I look at Loni.

She comes over, strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. ‘Let Loni deal with it.’

As she walks out of the kitchen, I pick up my phone and rush back upstairs. I run down the corridor that is painted a lurid purple and covered with photo montages of Cal and me. Dozens of them are packed into various clip frames. In every single one we are outside, on beaches, in pine forests, in the garden. Our skin is nut-brown, our noses covered with freckles, the sunlight shining through the lens in a warm filtered glow that comes from happy memories. There are a lot of Cal standing, hands on hips, dimpled chin stuck out, proudly wearing one of his Superhero costumes. I remember the Christmas after Dad left. Cal was five and he dressed up as Superman every day of the school holiday. It became a standing joke – not so funny when you realised his reason for it. Outfit aside, I think it’s what he’s been pretending to be ever since.

I pause at the end of the corridor in front of a display of recent family shots. There are more of Lucy, Cal and their kids than of Adam and me, mainly because – as Cal and Loni have never failed to remind me – we hardly ever come,
came
, past tense, home.

I can hear a faint murmuring of voices downstairs, but I can’t even make out who it is. I stare at the one photo of Adam and me and I remember it was taken six months ago. We’re sitting in the garden leaning into each other, my arms threaded around Adam’s neck, his lips resting on my cheek and eyes smiling into the camera. We’d just got engaged, and he’d insisted we drive to Norfolk and tell Loni and Cal in person. We were so happy. We look so perfect together. No one could ever have guessed that just six months later, on our wedding day, it would all have fallen to pieces.

The front door slams shut and footsteps sound on the stairs. I dart behind my door and lean against it. Just then my phone begins to vibrate and buzz with message after message, one voicemail after another. It must be a weird Wifi hotspot. I stare blindly as they keep coming and then, without listening to a single one of them, I switch the phone off and slump down to the floor.

Chapter 12

Bea Hudson: is off to gay Paris!
With Adam Hudson
.

48 likes, 17 comments.

‘
Come ON, mon grand
hunk of
jambon
, stop being ze slowcoach!’ I grab the sleeve of Adam’s jacket and attempt to drag him down the platform at St Pancras. I glance at the clock and see we have just a few minutes to board our train. He’s being as cool, calm and collected as ever. Nothing ruffles Adam. He glides through life as if everyone and everything will just wait for him. Which, to be honest, they kind of do.

‘ALLEZ ALLEZ ALLEZ!’ I grab his hand and try to run down the platform. But he merely strides alongside me, every step of his matching several of mine. He is smiling wryly, eyes on his phone.

I pull him harder, but he’s too busy tapping away at his phone to respond. If that’s a work email I’ll kill him. It’ll be like an Agatha Christie novel:
Death on the Eurostar.

‘Don’t worry, Bea. We’ve got plenty of time.’ I automatically relax and slow down. If he says so, it must be true. Adam never panics. He expects everything to work out his way. It’s not his fault. He had everything bestowed on him as a kid and so is unpractised in the art of disappointment. I am so lucky that he didn’t take no for an answer with me. I told him so last night as we were lying in each other’s arms, limbs entwined, breath mingling, hearts pounding against each other.

‘Didn’t you ever tire of waiting?’ I asked, curling my fingers through the criss-cross of dark hair on his chest, marvelling at how perfect my engagement ring and my wedding ring looked on my finger.

He’d leaned up on his elbow and gazed at me as he shook his head; a sexy, teasing smile had danced across his lips. ‘I didn’t mind
when
you came to your senses,’ he’d replied, ‘I just knew that you would . . . eventually.’