Reversing Over Liberace (18 page)

“Hello. Are you all right? Nothing happening?” I asked of my dear sister, when she finally deigned to answer.

“That depends what you mean by nothing, I suppose,” she said. “Jazz is here and he and Ash are comparing gig scars.”

“Who's winning?”

“Jazz, at the moment, with a nasty gash under the ribs from a, what was it? Oh yes, a Compounded gig in Manchester. I'm only hoping Ash doesn't bring out the big guns and start showing everyone the scar he got when that roadie bit him in the bollocks.”

“That was at an after-gig party. That doesn't count. Anyway, just called to make sure you were okay. Better go. I'm on someone else's phone.” And I rang off, before I got any more details. The envelope was still flashing. I'm sure it was accidental. Yes, I'm
sure
it was, but in my attempts to switch the phone off, I ended up accessing the messages inbox and opening the most recent of the messages he'd received.

“C u l8r. X.” I felt the world stop spinning, judder to a halt beneath me and flex. Previous message: “We cud go wlking on th beach.;)” And before that: “Srry bout last nite. I no it will b alrite.”

“It will be all right,” I repeated, like an idiot. The earth under me was still holding its breath, unsure how to start moving again. I held on to the Metro for support, my heart booming in my ears, a sour taste beginning in my mouth. What could…I mean, who would…he…
Luke
…

“Has something happened?” The voice made me jump, nerveless fingers let the phone fall again. “Your sister? What
is
it?” Cal was beside me now, picking up the phone from where it had fallen, trying to hand it to me. But I squealed and backed away as though it were infected. “Willow? Willow, take it easy. Do you need me to do something? Take you somewhere? Come on, talk to me, girl.”

As though remote-controlled I pointed to the phone. “M-m-messages,” I stammered. “Luke. Messages.”

Cal found the inbox immediately, scrolled through, opening messages. Certainly the three I'd read, maybe he went past those. He just looked up eventually and said, “Shit.”

The shock was beginning to fade, passing over me to be replaced by rationalism. “It's nothing incriminating though, is it? I mean, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation, obviously. I mean, that X doesn't have to be a kiss, that semicolon might not be a winking smiley. It might be that the messages are from somebody who can't punctuate, called…”

“Xanthe? Xavier?”

“Yes. Or short for Alexander.”

“‘I'm sorry about last night.' ‘See you later.' He must be very good friends with this Alexander.”

I snatched the phone away, shoving it into my pocket. “Yes, well, we don't know anything. It could be business.”

Cal opened the Metro and pushed me into the passenger seat, where I sat and shivered. He didn't say anything, for which I was grateful, but stood outside the car looking over its roof towards the house, a lost expression on his face. I tried not to think of the condom behind me. The sun was beginning to sink behind the hills, the sky turning a chalky red, the clouds as pink as conjunctivitis and away to the east I could see night boiling up, insinuating its way in under the daylight. Cal swung into the driving seat beside me and rested his arms on the wheel.

“Right. Bedtime story, to take your mind off things,” he said. “Once upon a time, there was a little boy—that's me, by the way—whose parents had waited a long, long time to have him. And then, when he was born, he arrived much too early and had to spend a long time in hospital, in a special cot. His parents didn't mind. Because they'd waited such a time for him to arrive, they were happy simply to have him. Then he grew up, and he wasn't the lovely, perfect child that they'd thought. Instead he was weak and ungainly and clumsy and couldn't walk properly or run at all. And these parents said ‘we don't want a little boy who isn't perfect', so they gave him away. Gave him to an old lady, who loved him, and did her best for him, but who wasn't his mother or father. That little boy grew up to be someone who didn't trust the perfect people and kept out of their way, and only mixed with his own kind, the damaged and the weak. But then, do you know what? This boy grew into a man who realised that nobody was perfect. Oh, some of them pretended to be, and they were the worst ones. The ones that looked like they'd been sent from heaven, all shiny and bright and lovely, because underneath they were rotten and black, the sort of people who'd lie and cheat and steal and…anyway. My point, if I've got one, is that, well, nobody's perfect. Not really. We're the lucky ones, because our imperfections are there for everyone to see. I can't walk straight and you can't keep your lunch in place. Apart from that, we're perfect.
You're
perfect. And that Luke case, he doesn't deserve you.”

“That's…what happened to you, it was…wrong!” Cal's story had distracted me, but the feelings were a paper-thickness away.

“I know. Took a lot of therapy for me to deal with it, to come to terms with the fact that my parents weren't perfect. Hadn't been perfect. That they'd had no right to demand perfection of me. I was a
child
, their child, and they should have faced their responsibilities, not given up on me as though I was an untrainable dog. But they didn't. End of story. Sorry. I didn't mean to encroach on your feelings there but I just thought you should know. Me. All of it. Well, most of it, anyway.”

“Are you saying that Luke isn't what he appears to be? That he's
too
perfect?”

“Hey, put your own interpretation on it, why don't you?” He faced me and gently flicked my nose with a fingertip. “You have to make up your own mind here, Willow. These messages, yeah, I agree they aren't exactly hanging evidence, but there's somebody out there. You might want to find out who that is, before you let this go any further.”

I picked up the phone. “It could be his brother?”

“Could be. If they take”—Cal winked—“
that
kind of beach walk together.”

“Or a friend?”

“Again, yes.”

I flipped to the Messages Inbox. Called up the first message and found the sender. The world stuttered.
Oh, Luke. My beautiful Luke.
“It says ‘Home'.”

We walked down to the farm, slowly and without speaking. Back at the yard, Luke was waiting for us. “Hey, Will, where've you been? It's time we were getting back. Y'know, we've both got work in the morning. Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

“Just feeling a bit faint.” Cal rescued me, saving me from having to speak. “Look, if you're in a hurry, I can run Willow back later. We wanted to have a chat about some damp-proofing that needs doing.” As he spoke he'd gone into the house. By the time we got in, he was digging around in a cupboard clearly standing absolutely nowhere near Luke's jacket, although one of the sleeves had been slightly disarranged.

I wanted to grab Luke, to reduce the physical and emotional space, wanted to hold him close,
so close
, to feel his heartbeat and his arms around me, telling me that everything was fine, would be fine, that I was the only person he loved. I wanted to trust him.

From being my gorgeous husband-to-be, dress picked out, bridesmaids selected, he'd become a stranger, with secrets. God, I wanted comfort right now. A hug, that would do—although Luke didn't hug, didn't do that kind of closeness. Why did I want it from him now, when I unquestioningly accepted his remoteness? I felt so exposed, as though I wore all my nerves on the outside.

“I'll go back with Cal. You go on, Luke, I'll…” I swallowed. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

I saw Luke look from me to Cal, then he beckoned me outside into the yard. “Are you sure you'll be all right?” he asked, pulling his jacket on. I was pleased, sort of, to see that the phone was back in the right pocket. “I mean, can he drive?”

“Yes, of course. That's his Metro up on the road.” I realised I was clipping my words and managed to stretch a fake smile over my lips.

“Oh right, he's got one of those specially adapted things, has he? Okay then, if you want to stay here, I'd better go.”

Yeah
, I thought,
you head “home”
. “Tomorrow then.” And I ducked my head as he went to kiss me, so the kiss missed my mouth and landed on my forehead.

“Yeah. I thought we could go over to Leeds, maybe check out some of the clubs?”

“Sounds great.” Just go. Please, just go away.

“Hey, then maybe we could go over to the flat? It seemed to suit you last time.”

I was nearly sick on the spot. I'd opened myself up to this man, given myself completely, done things I would never have done with anyone else. And all the time he'd… “Maybe.” Tight smile, cover the heartbreak.

“Later, then.” And with a blown kiss he was on his way up the hill towards the car.

Thank God for night. The dark hid me safely, hunched in against the wall of the barn, as I turned my face to the wooden door and sobbed myself senseless. Cal left me until I'd cried myself to a shell, then came over and stood beside me as I blew my nose repeatedly and mopped my eyes on my sleeves.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“It's really strange, you know. I can't think. I feel like my head's been stuffed.”

“Living taxidermy. Good hobby for a growing boy.” A flash of smile, as though he worried I might burst into tears again at his levity, but I was glad of it. Nothing had changed. I was still the woman Luke wanted.

“After all, if he
did
have someone else, someone waiting for him at home, then how come he's never been the least bit worried about us being seen together? You'd think if he was…” Come on, say it, Willow. Face the fear, at least to yourself. “If he was
married
or something, he'd be a bit cautious about going out. Anyway why propose? He could have carried on dating me. I wasn't going to press him for anything more committed.”

Cal gave a sideways shrug. “It doesn't add up, does it?”

I seized on his doubt. “No. Exactly. Did he look to
you
like a man who was being unfaithful?”

“How would I know? Do they grow a second head or something? All I know is that he doesn't seem to touch you very often.” Cal bit his lip. “I'm surprised he can keep his hands off you.”

“We both like our own space, that's all.” I took a deep breath. All my insides felt achy from crying. “It's nothing, I'm sure. Maybe someone sent him messages to wind him up.”

“You need to talk to someone who knows him. Have you met any of his friends or family? Anyone who might be able to put you in the picture?” Cal leaned companionably beside me against the barn door.

“No. Not really. I mean, there's only his dad in Wales. Oh, and his brother James in Boston. But I've never met or spoken to either of them. And I don't think he's made many friends back in York yet. He's only been over here for six months, and most of that time he's spent with me. What are you doing?”

“Making notes.” From a pocket Cal had fetched a tiny electronic notepad. “What do you know about the brother?”

“James? Not much. Runs the franchise in Boston, a couple of years older than Luke, that's about it.”

“American citizen?”

“I don't think so. No, I'm sure not.”

“Do you know his date of birth?”

“What? No, of course not. Oh, wait a minute, we were talking about star signs and horoscopes and, yes, Luke is a Gemini and his brother was born two days before Bree. That's right, I remember now.”

Cal tapped in the date. “Leave it with me. I can probably get a phone number. Then maybe you could call, have a chat. He'll know if Luke has any particular friends, won't he?”

Despite the balmy night, I found myself shivering again. “I don't know if he'd tell me anything though.”

Again, the sideways shrug. “You've got nothing to lose by talking to him.”

I felt the weight in my heart, my stomach. A leaden grey feeling as though my soul was punctured. “No, I suppose not.”

“Although it's Luke you should be talking to. You know that.”

“And what do I say? ‘I was sneaking through your phone messages'?”

“Whatever
you
did”—Cal faced me—“
he
has no right to put doubts in your head.” He laid a casual hand on my cheek and wiped away a tear. “No one has any right to hurt you, Willow.”

His fingers were very warm. I closed my eyes. “It might not be what it seems. Maybe I shouldn't be doubting.”

“You certainly shouldn't be suffering. Come on, let me take you home.” The hand was still resting on my cheek. I leaned into the pressure and felt the ponderous slowing of time, drugged by proximity, as his fingers cupped under my chin and moved my head. “Oh Christ. Bad idea, Cal, bad idea,” he whispered, then our mouths made contact, and that was that.

Moons passed. Ice ages came and went.

At last, he moved away. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say. Together we crossed the moonlit field, picked our way carefully up the muddy pathway and arrived at the car, the only sound our breathing, eerily visible in the chilled air, rising like prayers. I sat in the passenger seat and broke the silence. “Cal.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. It shouldn't have happened. I took advantage of a bad situation. If it's any consolation, it wasn't intentional. I only wanted to make you feel better.” He started the engine, but wouldn't meet my eye. “I can't…I wanted to show you that I…that you are worth something. I'm sorry.”

We drove about twenty miles without another word being spoken. Even my stomach was still, whereas normally in this sort of situation it would have been undulating and the lining of my nose would be stinging with acid. Eventually, when we were almost at my door, I said, “There really wasn't anything to apologise for, Cal. It's okay. I don't feel ‘taken advantage of'.”