Because She Loves Me (3 page)

‘Good. What do you want to do now? Actually, I want to get out of these clothes.’ She laughed. ‘You should see your face. I mean, I want to get changed, Andrew. These are Charlotte clothes. I need to get into some Charlie stuff.’

She hailed a black cab and instructed the driver to take us to Oxford Street. She led me into the huge Top Shop and immediately started rummaging through the clothes racks.

With arms full of tops and trousers and skirts, she strode over to the changing rooms. For a moment, I thought she was going to ask me to follow her in, but she looked me up and down and said, ‘Do you want to get some new stuff too? Have you got any money?’

‘Yeah. OK.’

This was fun. I rode the escalator to the next floor and found a new pair of jeans and a party shirt. I paid for them then went into the changing room where I tore off the labels and put them on. With my scruffy old clothes in a carrier bag, I went back downstairs to find Charlie, who had done the same as me. Now, she was wearing a tight-fitting snakeskin dress that shimmered gold and green.

‘Not bad,’ she said, looking me up and down.

‘You look . . . amazing,’ I said.

‘Thanks. Actually, you look better than not bad, but I didn’t want to stroke your ego.’

‘I don’t have an ego.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Everyone has an ego, Andrew.’

She was right. It thrilled me to hear her say I looked good.

She grabbed a bottle of perfume and gave herself, and me, a quick squirt as we left the shop. We headed up Oxford Street and into Soho. I wanted to take her hand but didn’t dare. Actually, what I really wanted to do was grab her and push her into a shop doorway, pull her against me and feel her mouth on mine.

Instead, we went into a bar where we drank cocktails, then another bar, and then a walk through air so cold it almost sobered me up, to Leicester Square and a club, the name of which escapes me now but which was so loud it made my ears ring for a day afterwards, the drinks ludicrously expensive, the dance floor crowded and sticky underfoot, the toilets full of wankers snorting coke . . . But none of that mattered. I was drunk, I was high on Charlie’s company and I felt as if I was floating through the crowds of revellers.

There was a moment on the dance floor that will stay with me forever. A Calvin Harris track was playing, and Charlie was dancing in front of me, holding my gaze and smiling as she swung her hips and shoulders, the lights pulsing and throbbing, and I was aware, even as I lived it, that this was going to be one of the highlights of my life. When I was old this song would come on the radio and I would be thrown back in time to this golden moment, when I was young and dancing with a beautiful woman in the greatest city in the world and all my troubles were behind me and my life stretching in front of me. Then I stopped analysing the moment and melted into it.

We tumbled out of the club at two a.m. into the bitterly cold night. I put my arm around her and she didn’t protest. Her hip was bony and solid in my palm. I still hadn’t kissed her.

‘That was fun,’ she said. She yawned. ‘And now I’m pooped. I have work in the morning. The last day before the Christmas break.’

There were still a lot of people around. As we walked towards the taxi rank, Charlie flicked her thumb over her phone, texting someone.

A tall man was walking along the pavement towards us. He had a great mop of blonde curly hair. He had his head down, shuffling his feet. Then he looked up and the moment he saw us he crossed the road.

‘That was weird,’ I said.

‘Huh?’ Charlie looked up from her phone.

‘Some guy just crossed the road like we were a couple of terrifying would-be muggers.’

‘Ha – really? Well, you are scary looking, Andrew. I didn’t want to say, but . . .’

The tall curly-haired man had vanished into a side street.

‘Do you want to share a taxi back to south London?’ I asked. ‘I mean, it can drop you at yours first . . .’

‘You’re sweet. But I’ve just arranged to stay with a friend who lives around here. I’m sorry. I just can’t face having to make the journey back in tomorrow morning.’

‘No worries.’ I felt gutted.

‘Give me your number,’ she said, handing me her phone. I tapped it in and she saved it to her address book, then looked up at me. ‘I’ve had a great time helping you celebrate, Andrew Sumner.’

‘Me too, Charlie Summers.’ I didn’t want to say goodbye to her.

‘I’ll call you in a couple of days and we can do it again. Or something more sedate. How does that sound?’

My good mood returned immediately. ‘That sounds awesome.’

‘Like, totally, dude.’

‘Don’t tease me,’ I said, smiling.

Which was when she kissed me. Slipping her arms around my waist, she tilted her face upwards and we kissed. It seemed to go on for a long time. Someone wolf-whistled as they passed us in the street. It was the best kiss of my life.

She strode away, leaving me standing by the taxi rank, completely smitten. And the amazing thing was, she seemed to like me as much as I liked her.

Three

‘
What’s the matter, bruv? You seem distracted.’

It was Christmas morning and, as always, I was spending the day with my sister, Tilly, in her purpose-built apartment in Eastbourne.

She manoeuvred her wheelchair closer to my armchair, the glass of Buck’s Fizz on her tray sloshing dangerously. The room was full of presents and discarded wrapping paper; the fairy lights on the plastic tree flashed on and off and a boy band mimed to their biggest hit on
Top of the Pops
.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Feeling a bit sick after that huge dinner.’

‘You’re so full of compliments.’

I laughed. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, sis. Come on, let’s go out, get some air.’

It had been six days and Charlie hadn’t called or texted, and no matter how many times a day I fiddled with my phone, making sure the volume was turned up, that I had reception, that I hadn’t missed a call, it didn’t ring or chime. Why hadn’t I taken her number? I didn’t even have an excuse to go to the hospital now I’d been discharged, though that would have been pretty sad anyway. I had to face it. She wasn’t going to call. We’d had one great night out together, a single kiss and that was it.

Time to move on.

The day before Christmas Eve I was sure I’d seen her near my flat. I’d been out to buy some last-minute presents and wrapping paper, feeling glum, willing myself to forget about Charlie and embrace the Christmas spirit. As I turned into my street, a long road with a mixture of Victorian and Edwardian semis and converted houses not far from beautiful Brockwell Park, I saw a red-haired woman turn into the alleyway opposite my building. Weighed down by shopping bags, I broke into a slow run. The alleyway led through to a new development which bordered the park. There was no sign of her. I walked down the alley and over the fence into the park. Some kids were stomping in a pile of leaves and a man was talking enthusiastically to a cocker spaniel, but there was no red-headed women.

I shook my head.
Great, now I’m hallucinating her
, I thought.

‘You’re definitely not with it today, are you?’ Tilly said as I pushed her along the promenade.

The sky was battleship grey and the wind whipped in from the English Channel. There were some crazy people swimming in the foamy sea, their skin tinted blue as they emerged from the water onto the pebbles. The seafront was busy with children trying out their new bikes, families taking a post-lunch stroll and couples walking arm-in-arm, unwittingly making me envious.

‘I met someone,’ I said. ‘But I think she’s got away already.’

‘Ah,’ Tilly said. ‘She must have received my warning note.’

I told my sister about Charlie and about how she hadn’t called.

‘Her loss,’ Tilly said.

I sat on a damp bench beside Tilly and we looked out to sea, silence settling over us.

‘Do you miss them?’ she asked.

My eyes filled with tears and I clenched my teeth hard, swallowing the bruise in my throat. ‘I do on days like this. They’d be happy that we’re spending the day together, though.’

‘Undoubtedly. Pleased my big brother’s here to look after me.’

‘You do all right on your own, though, don’t you?’ I needed her to say yes.

‘Oh, of course. I’m an independent woman.’ She started humming the Destiny’s Child song.

‘You should audition for
X Factor
.’

‘Go for the big sob story vote, you mean? There’d be a shot of me talking about the car accident. They could show photo-montages of us when Mum and Dad were alive while I sang “Tears in Heaven” in my wheelchair. There wouldn’t be a dry eye in the country.’

‘You’d win for sure.’

‘Nah, I’d get voted out in disco week.’

A couple wearing matching purple fleeces walked by, giggling like they were heading straight back to bed for some mutually satisfying sex.

‘So this girl . . . Want to talk about it?’ she asked.

I sighed. ‘No. There’s no point.’

‘I always thought you and Sasha would get together. She’s lovely.’

‘Sasha? She’s my best friend. Neither of us would want to ruin that. Plus we don’t fancy each other.’

‘What?’ She expressed mock outrage. ‘How could anyone not fancy you? That’s crazy talk.’

‘Well, yes. How about you? Is everything all right?’

‘I thought you were going to ask about my love life for a moment there.’

‘Oh?’

She smiled. ‘There’s nothing to tell, unfortunately. Though there is a very cute guy in the apartment next to mine. Biceps like grapefruit. Plays basketball . . . I might have to go along and watch him. Also, there’s this guy at work who I’m pretty sure has got the hots for me.’

‘I’m sure he has.’ Tilly was gorgeous. Light brown hair, almond eyes, cute like a children’s TV presenter. She had a lot more success with the opposite sex than me. She worked as an editor for a children’s publisher who was based here on the south coast.

‘I just wish he’d do something about it. It’s been months and I’m horny as hell.’

‘Tilly!’

‘Sorry.’ She held her hands up. ‘Big brother leaves his comfort zone. Well, if you know anyone who wants some hot sex with a girl who can’t run away, send him my way. As long as he’s hung like . . .’

‘Oh God, please.’ I covered my ears.

‘I do miss them, though,’ she said, lurching back to the original subject.

‘Just you and me, kid,’ I said, and I took hold of the back of her chair and walked on before I had to start pretending to have something in my eye.

The accident had happened when I was sixteen. The four of us were heading home after a weekend away at Center Parcs. I hadn’t wanted to go, thinking it was for kids, but we’d had a great time swimming, playing badminton and riding around on bikes all week. Dad had even let me drink, though Tilly wasn’t allowed, to her disgust.

‘It’s not like I’m an alcohol virgin,’ she’d muttered to me when our parents were out of earshot. ‘In fact . . .’

‘Tilly, shut up.’

She had always embarrassed me and made me smile in equal measure.

Mum and Dad had been arguing a lot before the holiday; she seemed irritated with him all the time and I’d been worried they were heading for divorce. But, apart from a couple of episodes related to his forgetfulness, they seemed happy and relaxed together and had even, to my teenage horror, kissed and held hands. Yuk.

‘I hope you’re lucky like me, Andrew,’ Dad said out of nowhere while he barbecued sausages behind our cabin.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, fixated on the sizzle of the meat, my stomach gurgling.

‘I hope you find a woman like your mum. Someone who really loves you and is good to you.’

I grunted.

‘But make sure you sow some wild oats first, eh?’ He winked at me and I shuffled away in search of the ketchup.

On the way home, a huge thunderstorm cracked the sky open as we hit the M25. Rain bounced hard off the windscreen and all the cars put their lights on as the world darkened around us. Dad was driving, leaning forward in his seat like being a couple of inches closer to the windshield would help him see through the torrents running down the glass.

Despite leaning forward, he didn’t see the lorry that swerved in front of us out of the slow lane until it was too late. All I remember is Dad yelling, Mum trying to grab the wheel, Tilly screaming and a great jarring screech of metal and smash of glass as the car flipped over like a toy.

Dad was killed instantly.

Mum died in the ambulance on the way to hospital.

Tilly was crushed beneath the overturned lorry, her legs shattered beyond repair.

The lorry driver emerged with a single scratch, a bead of blood tracing a line from his forehead down to his lips.

And me: somehow, my corner of the car escaped the lorry. I suffered some bruising, mild whiplash, and I pissed myself with terror. But physically I was all right.

The lucky one.

On Boxing Day, which we spent eating leftovers and staring at the TV in the traditional manner. I went on a bit about my money worries and my need to find more work, but Tilly appeared preoccupied. She kept drifting off and though she smiled when she was talking to me, a couple of times I caught her reflection and saw she was frowning, anxiety creasing her brow. But she denied that anything was wrong so I left it.

Shortly before I was due to leave, Tilly’s personal assistant, Rachel, arrived at her flat. Rachel was the woman who helped my sister do the things she couldn’t manage by herself, a person who helped her live an independent life. There had been times when I had wondered if that person should be me and had even volunteered. Tilly had point-blank refused, saying that it would ruin our relationship, that she wanted me to be her brother, not her carer. I was relieved in a guilty way.

Rachel rode a huge black and silver Harley Davison and, according to Tilly, treated it like her baby, taking it to conventions, spending every spare minute polishing and tinkering with it. She was tall with sharp cheekbones and short black hair. She looked a little like she should be the guitarist in an early-eighties all-girl rock band and had well-developed arm muscles, from lifting Tilly, that I was envious of.

She came into the flat and dropped her crash helmet on the side, handing Tilly a wrapped bottle before noticing me.

‘Hi Rachel,’ I said. ‘Good Christmas?’

She half-smiled, her hand moving towards her lips. She had a habit of concealing her mouth when she spoke, like she was ashamed of her teeth, not that I could see anything wrong with them. ‘Pretty boring, actually. Mostly sitting around listening to my mum and dad bickering. Parents, they’re such—’

She went pink as she realised what she’d said. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Tilly said and I smiled in agreement.

Rachel looked at my bag. I was going home by train. I wouldn’t drive on motorways. I didn’t really like driving at all and avoided it wherever necessary.

‘Do you need a lift to the station?’ she asked.

‘What? On your bike?’

Behind me, Tilly made clucking noises. ‘You’re such a chicken.’

‘I’ll need a helmet,’ I said and Rachel smiled behind her hand. ‘There’s one here. I got it when I took Tilly out for a ride.’

‘It was awesome,’ said Tilly, grinning at my surprised expression.

‘I guess I’ve got no excuse then. Actually, I’ve always wanted to ride a Harley.’

I bent to kiss Tilly’s cheek and said goodbye.

‘Relax, Andrew,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll enjoy it.’ She waved me goodbye. ‘Good luck finding work. You can always come and stay here if you can’t pay your mortgage.’

‘Thanks, sis.’

I straddled the monstrous Harley, all gleaming silver chrome and black rubber, and held on to the sides of the seat. The bike accelerated away without warning and for a moment I thought I was going to fly off the back, so was forced to cling on to Rachel as she roared through the traffic, heading into town, breaking every speed limit like the rules were designed for other, mere mortals. My heart was in my mouth, my mouth was dry, but it was exhilarating and strangely sexy, even if it was Rachel I was holding on to. I imagined what Charlie would look like wearing the leather outfit Rachel had on; pictured us racing along American highways with Charlie’s arms wrapped tight around me, the wind whipping her hair . . .