Guilt Trip (9 page)

But no - I was being stupid. Paranoid. Just
because Paula thought I reminded her of someone didn’t make it a fact. And Luke
had never said anything, had he.

And the spark between us? I thought back to
the fluttering in my stomach, the tingling of my skin at his touch. No - that
was definitely real.

But then my thoughts were rudely interrupted
by loud voices: two women having a lively discussion about the photo before
them.

“A cuckoo chick,” one of the women read out
loud. “Apparently the mother bird lays her egg in someone else’s nest, and
flies off. Then when the cuckoo is born, it gets rid of any other eggs by
pushing them over the side, thus getting all the surrogate parent’s food for
itself.”

“How awful!” her friend shrieked.

I looked at the photo vacantly: a big fat baby
bird stuffed into a rather small nest, being fed by a smaller bird, clearly of
a different species.

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there,” said
an overly-dramatic voice so close to my ear that I prickled with pleasure. Luke
was back. He’d obviously heard the women too. “It’s not all buttercups and
fluffy bunnies in nature you know. Ask any country boy.”

I nudged him with my elbow, delighted that he’d
returned. I’d been worrying about nothing. Let’s face it: his girlfriend had
been dead for at least five years. And now he had moved on. And he liked
me
. I was sure of it.

He had a bottle of beer for himself and an
orange juice for me. He handed it over, swapping it for what was left of my
wine which he placed on a side table out of the way.

We moved on to another photo: a bee next to
some kind of honeycomb structure full of a milky white substance, a maggot-like
larva floating at the centre.

Luke looked at his pamphlet. “‘A queen cup
full of royal jelly’,” he read. “‘…Excellent food for creating queen bees’.”

“That sounds more like it,” I smiled. “Much
nicer than the cuckoo story, anyway. So, Royal Jelly is therefore seen as a …”
I put on a dramatic voice, “…
force of
nature
?”

“Well, not quite.” Looking at the pamphlet,
Luke began to chuckle. “Actually, it says here that the first queen bee to
hatch will sting the other larvae to death so that she can rule alone. I think
she
is meant to be the…” he put on an
equally dramatic voice, “…
force of
nature
.”

“What
is
this exhibition?” I cried. “Some kind of chamber of horrors?”

While we were laughing, Dad appeared with a
plate piled high with finger food from the buffet.

“Ah, bees,” he said. “Should have known I’d
find you
here
, Melissa.” He handed me
the plate which I took in my free hand, but both hands now full, I was unable
to feed myself. Laughing, Dad started to feed me, popping little bits of flaky
pastry directly into my mouth. “Worker bees will stuff larvae full of royal
jelly,” he said, “but I’ll stuff
my
little queen bee full of delicious cheese straws.”

“Dad…!” I shrieked, mortified, while beside
me, Luke guffawed.

“So,” Dad said, smiling at us and gesturing
around him. “What do you think?”

“Impressive,” Luke said, nodding.

“Gruesome,” I mumbled trying to wash the
pastry down with a gulp of juice.

“Gruesome?” He looked around him. “The forces
of nature - gruesome?”

“Some of the animal ones are,” I said. “They’re
all about killing.”

“Maybe to
our
sensitive human souls, yes,” Dad mused. “But not to them.
They
don’t think of the moral issues -
the rights and wrongs - they just follow their instincts. The force of nature. Whether
it’s weaving an intricate web, or smashing a few eggs, or bellowing across the
fields in order to attract a mate: it’s all just about instinct. The instinct
to survive. To live. To go on.”

I tried to stifle a yawn. This was all a
bit deep and serious for a party. And I think the wine was starting to affect
me.

“You tired again?” he asked, concerned. “Ready
to go home?”

I shook my head. “No, no - this is your big
night,” I insisted.

“Yes - and one that looks like it might go
on for quite a bit longer,” Dad said, looking at his watch. “But you need your
rest.”

He turned to Luke. “I wonder… Do you think…?”

“Say no more,” Luke said. “I’ll make sure
Melissa gets home okay.”

Dad smiled, relieved. “Thanks. Got to look
after my sweet little drowsy honey bee.” I rolled my eyes in despair as he and Luke
laughed.

<><><>

The rain had let up by the now, so, leaving
the umbrella for Dad, I stepped out into the cold, night air.

At first it felt refreshing after the
stuffiness of the crowded gallery, but soon I started to shiver. Lecturing me
on my lack of jacket, Luke took off his own, wrapping it round my shoulders.

It was still warm from his body, and I
nuzzled into the collar which smelled deliciously of his musky aftershave.

“Thanks for walking me home,” I said. I
felt strangely happy and carefree.

“No problem,” he shrugged.

“No, it’s
really
kind of you,” I insisted.

He looked at me from the corner of his eye.
“Not that kind, Melissa. I mean, I live there too.”

“Well, obviously!” I said. “But you’d have
walked me home even if I’d been staying miles away, wouldn’t you.”

“I don’t know about that,” he laughed.

I should have shut up, then. I knew I should.
I mean, I was talking utter drivel. But somehow I just couldn’t control my
stupid mouth.

“Oh yes you would,” I heard myself blurt
out confidently. I willed myself to stop, but my brain just wasn’t working
properly. “You’re like my knight in shining armour.”

He paused for a moment and looked at me. “Melissa,”
he sounded a little concerned, “how much of that wine did you have?”

 
“You are,” I said, ignoring him, and then
I continued in my new cringe-worthy fashion: “You’re always lovely to me.”

“Yes, well,” he laughed, embarrassed. “What
can I say - I’m a great guy.”

“Yes you are, Luke. You’re lovely.” What
was the matter with me? Since we’d come outside my head had started spinning
and I had lost total control of my mouth. I vowed to myself never to drink
again, but no sooner had the thought entered my head than it was gone, and I
heard myself continuing: “And you like me too, don’t you.”

“Melissa,” he said patiently. “You’ve had
too much to drink.”

“But you do,” I stated simply. “You like
me. It’s nice.”

And so we lapsed into silence.

<><><>

It was Luke who spoke next. “So, what did your
Dad say when you told him about last night?” he asked.

I blushed as my mind pictured the scene:
sitting on the bed, nestled in his arms, me having a total meltdown.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Nothing?”

“No. I didn’t tell him.”

Luke was silent.

“It’s complicated,” I tried to explain. “He
has his own worries. I don’t want him worrying about me.”

Still, Luke didn’t say anything, so I
continued. “I… I have to be strong for him.”

At this, he halted, taking my arm and
gently turning me to face him. “But who’s being strong for
you
?” he whispered.

Anger suddenly flared up in me, my emotions
swinging wildly from one extreme to the other. It was as if Luke was
criticising Dad for grieving. How dare he! I turned from him, suddenly determined
to get away, but his hand on my arm tightened, preventing me from leaving.

“You know I’m here for you, Mel, don’t
you,” he whispered.

I looked back at him. At his face, all
screwed up with concern. And suddenly all the loneliness deep inside me welled
up in my throat, choking me.

“I…” I pulled myself free, unwilling to
face up to my unhappiness, only to trip clumsily over a paving stone so that Luke
had to grab me again, to stop me falling.

“Come on,” he said, putting his arm round
my shoulder as the rain started again, “Let’s get you home.”

Entering the reception area, Luke escorted
me to the bottom of the stairs where I reluctantly took off his jacket and
handed it back to him. Behind him I could see Sandy in the bar clearing tables,
the barman calling last orders.

Then came a pause. I clung on to the newel
post to keep myself steady.

Luke looked at me and shook his head. “Promise
me that you won’t be in such a rush to drink wine next time,” he said.

I hung my head, feeling very sorry for
myself. I’d made such a mess of the evening.

Then he gently tucked a stray lock of my
hair behind my ear, and, leaning forward, he kissed me lightly on the forehead.
“Drink plenty of water before you go to sleep,” he advised, giving me one of
his secret winks. “You’ll be okay.”

And then he walked across the reception
area and off to help behind the bar, while I stood at the bottom of the stairs
watching him leave.

<><><>

In my room, I took off Mum’s dress and put
on a big old comfy T-shirt which had once belonged to Dad, all washed out and
sloppy, the neckline so out of shape that it hung off one shoulder. Then I
padded along to the bathroom.

I looked at myself in the mirror, and let out
a gasp: my eyes were red and unfocused, my mascara smudged into dark rings and
my rained-on hair in complete disarray. I looked terrible. What must Luke have
thought?

Too tired to deal with my face, I released
my hair from its grips, rubbing my aching scalp and trying to untangle the
knots with my fingers. But on seeing my reflection again, I groaned loudly. With
my hair all bushy now I looked even worse. Untamed. Wild. A perfect candidate
for the loony bin.

And sure enough, as I bent down to take a
drink, my madness was confirmed. Déjà vu. The same old thing: a hand reaching
for the tap. A figment of my twisted mind.

I shook my head at it irritably and stuck my
mouth under the tap, taking long cold gulps. But as I stood up again the room
started to spin so that I had to hold on to the basin for support.

I shut my eyes, cursing my stupidity. Why
had I drunk all that wine? I’d made a complete fool of myself. Acting like a
stupid kid.

And yet Luke had still been nice to me. I recalled
the warmth of his jacket on my skin. The weight of his arm round my shoulder. The
touch of his lips on my head.

And then I felt him standing behind me, there
in the bathroom, his arm round my waist. A kiss on the shoulder where the T-shirt
left it bare. A tiny, tender kiss. And then his other hand came up and grabbed
my hair, pulling it away from my neck, as he kissed me again. My neck. My collarbone.
And the space in-between.

But then I hiccupped loudly, a stupid
drunken noise, and it was over. The fantasy gone. And I was alone, just me, as
before, standing in front of the mirror. Instinctively my hand reached up to my
shoulder, my neck. They felt slightly damp to the touch.

But then I felt my face, my forehead: they
felt damp too. Covered in a cold sweat.

My head started to swim again: I felt dizzy.

Holding on to the basin for dear life, I
breathed in and out, slowly, trying to calm myself down.

And then I lunged for the toilet and was
violently sick.

Skidding.

Crashing.

The car smashing into the cold, dark river.

“Help me…!” Mum below me crying out, her
voice echoing around my head, as the deadly water rushes in, searching for her
lungs.

But her seatbelt is stuck.

I open my window and turn to push myself
out. The sky above me seems full of twinkling stalactites. Then Luke is there,
smiling, reaching out to me.

I do likewise, reaching out to him. But
there is something in his hand. He raises it so that I can see. It’s a silver
chain. And swinging from it, like a man on the gallows, is a pink teddy bear
with a strawberry stamp on its paw.

The next morning, I was woken up by my
phone blaring at me. Eyes still shut, I put out my hand, scrabbling about on
the bedside table to find it. But by the time I had, it had stopped.

I opened an eye. One missed call: from Dad.
But then a text appeared. He was reminding me what day it was. Saturday: the
Fox and Hound’s annual trip to the Cauldron pothole.

I groaned and tried to sit up, only to
collapse back onto the bed again. My head was thumping and my throat was desert-dry.

Eventually I dragged myself out of bed and
pulled on a pair of jeans.

Once in the bathroom, I removed all traces
of panda eyes with a cleansing wipe, and, ignoring the déjà vu, I cleaned my
teeth, scrubbing hard at my dry, white tongue. I stood, looking in the mirror,
mortified as I ran through the night before. How I’d openly flirted - no,
thrown
myself at Luke on the way home. What
had I been thinking of? He was in his thirties for God’s sake.

A fully-grown man having to look after a
stupid, drunken teenager. I bet that impressed him.

My only consolation was that he hadn’t
witnessed my later behaviour, standing at that very sink. My pathetic little fantasy.

I cringed, hating myself.

<><><>

Downstairs, the place was full of outdoor-types
tucking into hearty breakfasts in preparation for the long hike up onto the
Devil’s Lair, to the Cauldron. I gulped, feeling queasy, as the smell of fried
bacon wafted towards me.

Dad was already eating. “Morning, lazy
bones,” he said, pouring me a cup of tea. “Ready for a fun day?”

I smiled half-heartedly. The last thing I
felt like doing was tramping up onto the fells just to be lowered into a huge
pothole on a swing. But Dad wasn’t to know that. And I definitely didn’t want
him finding out about my behaviour last night, so it was important to keep the
hangover hidden from him.

When Sandy placed a big plate of fry-up in
front of me, I looked at the grease glistening on the sausages, the runny yellow
yolk of the fried egg oozing across the plate, and felt nauseous. But we had a
long walk ahead of us, so I stuffed as much of it down as I could. And by the
end of my second cup of tea I was actually feeling a lot better, apart from my
pounding head.

All through breakfast I kept my eyes down,
dreading the moment when I would see Luke. But when he
did
show up, he was too busy addressing the crowd even to notice me.

“As it’s been raining hard practically all
night,” he began, “I was a little worried that we might not be able to descend
into the Cauldron this morning, but I’ve just been in touch with the guys up
there now and they say it’s fine. The beck, which flows into it as a waterfall,
is
higher than normal, but as most of
it’s being diverted away from the opening by a dam, that shouldn’t be a
problem. So, let’s say we meet out the back, in the car park in ten minutes?”

Everyone cheered and lots of chairs were
scraped back as people started packing up, getting ready to go. I winced at the
noise, touching my aching head.

“You okay?” Dad asked, but I said I was
fine.

“Sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I
mean, after last time…”

I hurriedly assured him that I did. That
nothing was wrong. That the fainting spell in the caves was a one-off. A thing
of the past.

“That’s the spirit,” he said proudly. “Like
falling off a horse - you’ve just got to get straight back on.”

<><><>

It was a raw, fresh morning when we
congregated in the car park, our breath visible in the cold air. Everything was
still damp from last night’s rain, the colours clean and vivid; but the sky was
still overcast. Luke handed out photocopied maps so that no one would get lost,
and then stood with his clipboard, checking us off as we filed past him, out of
the car park and onto the lane. I managed to avoid his eye as I passed, and he simply
kept on doing his register, not even pausing to say good morning.

So that was it. Clearly he’d had enough of
me. And who could blame him?

We were quite a crowd, maybe forty or more
people, of all ages. But, inevitably, some quickly forged ahead while others
took their time, and so we became quite spread out as we followed the lane, eventually
passing over a wooden style into the fields and down a rough footpath which,
after a few miles, began to incline, twisting and turning, up and up and onto The
Devil’s Lair
.

It was hard going trying to keep up with
Dad’s long strides, especially the way I was feeling, and soon I was lagging
behind. At first, he kept jollying me along and even waiting for me to catch
up, but eventually he fell in with someone he knew from the gallery, busy talking
about photography, and didn’t notice that he was leaving me further and further
behind.

And so I walked alone through the vast, harsh
landscape which had been carved out, eroded and scarred over millions of years
by vast, icy glaciers and blasting winds.

And I thought about Luke. About how I must
have seemed to him last night. A silly child playing dress-up in her mother’s
clothes, running after the first person to pay her any attention, to show her
any pity.

I was pathetic. Hideous. No wonder he was
keeping well away from me.

But then, suddenly, he was there, beside me.
And he seemed to be smirking.

“Ah, Miss Williams,” he said, falling into step
with me, “feeling all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning are we?”

“Yes, thank you.” I couldn’t believe it. He
was walking beside me, laughing and joking. Maybe everything was okay between
us after all.

“I don’t know…you looked a little green
around the gills at breakfast.” He laughed, loudly.

So he
had
noticed me then…

“But I’m fine now,” I said, pretending to wince
at the pain in my head. “As long as people keep their voices to a normal
volume.”

He laughed
again. “A headache eh? Well - that’ll teach you a lesson. I guess next time you
won’t be so daft.”

Daft
? I cringed with humiliation at his word
choice. It made me sound so silly, so immature, so childish. Was
that really how he thought of me?

Rolling
my eyes dramatically, and tutting loudly, I put on a ‘stupid’ voice to cover my
embarrassment: “Yes, Sir! Sorry, Sir!”

But it
was the wrong thing to do. Luke had apparently been prepared to joke about it
all at first. But now that it seemed I hadn’t learned any lessons from the
experience, he grew more serious. I guessed he saw it as his responsibility, as
the grown-up, seeing as Dad knew nothing about it.

“Look,
I’m not saying there’s anything wrong in having the odd glass of something now
and again,” he said. “Of course not. After all, I
do
run a pub. But there’s nothing funny about getting into
that
state.”

That
state. Again, I was stung by his choice of
words. Though he’d been kind to me the night before, he’d obviously found me
repulsive. And, though I couldn’t blame him for that, the truth was painful to
hear.

But he
wasn’t finished yet. “Christ, Mel,” he looked at me, “you’ve seen first hand
what too much drink can do to a person. It’s disgusting. Why would you want to
go down that road?”

I stared
at him, horrified. Was he talking about Dad? About the night he’d drunk too
much at dinner?

Yes - just
like the others in the pub that night, he was sitting on his throne of
superiority, judging my father. Criticising him.

I
couldn’t believe it. It was one thing to lecture me: I deserved it. But not
Dad
.

“Have you
no sympathy?” I cried, amazed. “I thought that you of all people would
understand. The man just lost his wife!” I looked at him. Surely he could put
himself in Dad’s shoes? “Just like you lost Billie.”

Billie. I’d
spoken her name at last. And doing so gave me a sudden feeling of liberation. I
could almost feel it in the air, carried by the gusting wind, hear it echoing
across the hills.

Billie…

He
stopped and turned to me, his expression severe. “What do
you
know about
her
?” he
said.

“Nothing,”
I admitted. “Just…just that she died in an accident… like my mum.”

“No, come
on. There’s more to it than that,” he said angrily. “You’ve hinted at this
before, asking me about a waitress with a daughter. You’ve been listening to
gossip haven’t you? Scratching around, trying to dig up any dirt. You think you
know all about her, don’t you.”

“No, I
don’t!” What did he mean - I thought I knew all about her? I couldn’t believe
he was getting so angry over this. “I told you - I don’t know anything about her
at all!”

We began
walking again, Luke forging ahead, so that I had to hurry to try to keep up
with him.

But I couldn’t
stand this ‘silent treatment’ for very long. It seemed so ridiculous. “But what
if I
did
?” I began. “What if I knew every
little detail about her? What would it matter? Why does Billie have to be such
a big secret? I mean,
you
know about
my mum. Why am
I
not allowed to know
anything about Billie?”

He stopped
abruptly, his face distorted with anger. “Stop saying her name,” he growled,
his voice barely able to contain his fury.

So now I
knew for sure. Luke still loved Billie. And in his eyes I wasn’t even good
enough to mention her name.

Jealousy,
hard and ugly, reared up inside me.

“Why?” I
said, my voice getting even louder. “Why should I?”

 
He stuck his finger in my face. “I’m
warning you,” he scowled.

Warning
me?
Warning
me? Was this guy for
real? I couldn’t believe the way he was behaving. Treating me like a naughty child,
scolding me,
warning
me not to say
the name of his precious girlfriend.

Well -
I’d show
him
.

And so, head
up and jutting my chin out, I looked him square in the face and said it, big
and bold, my mouth revelling in the formation of each letter.

“B-i-l-l-i-e!”

I’d gone
too far. Of course I had. But I couldn’t possibly have stopped myself. It was a
complete gut reaction to the situation. An instinctive response. It was as if
the jealousy inside me was a raging wild animal, striking out, and I was
powerless to stop it.

I’m not
sure what I expected to happen next. Something big, obviously.

But Luke
just stood there, looking at me, his manner cold and detached. Then he shook
his head as if disappointed in me. As if I wasn’t the person he’d thought I
was. As if he wasn’t sure that he knew me at all.

“You need
someone who cares enough to teach you some manners,” he said, almost under his
breath.

And with
that, he turned away from me, trekking back down the path we had just
travelled. I watched him calling cheerfully to a couple of stragglers far
behind, encouraging them in their attempt to climb the steep, rocky terrain.

And so he
left me, alone and devastated.

But there
was nothing for it: I had to keep going. So, as the sky above slowly blackened,
I stumbled on through the cold, brutal landscape, trying to fathom how we had
come to this.

And there
was time enough to replay the scene a hundred times in my head. And to regret
my part in it. My words. My
word
. ‘Billie’.
With that single word - that name - I had hurt Luke irrevocably, sending him away
from me forever, back to the arms of a dead girl.

And so I stumbled
on, weeping for all I had lost - his laughter, his kindness, his comfort - my
tears dried by the blasting wind.