The Moment You Were Gone (4 page)

‘Driven. Terse. You probably sleep about five hours every night, get up at dawn to row or run or swim before going off to work for ten hours with only a cup of black coffee to keep you going. Am I right?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Whereas I'm a slob. I need at least ten hours' sleep. I can sleep anywhere, any time. And I do. Once I went to sleep in the airport bus on the way to the plane, standing up.'

‘Like a horse.'

‘Did you know that horses' knees lock into position while they sleep?'

‘I can't say I did.'

‘I have a friend who's got a big car – well, it used to be a hearse. I don't know why he gets such a kick out of driving around in a hearse – he thinks it's
ironic
, though I don't get the irony myself. Anyway I'm sure he can come out and tow you out of the ditch tomorrow.'

‘I can do it,' he said. Connor felt clumsy, anxious, inarticulate, older than her. He thought he knew the kind of background she came from – middle class and probably a bit Bohemian; loving parents who had always given her lots of praise, several siblings, lots of grandparents and godparents and cousins; a big, untidy, ramshackle old house; noise, laughter. She was careless, expansive, uncensored, light-footed; she didn't mind spouting nonsense or fear that she was making a fool of herself. She'd always been herself, had never had to invent the woman she was to become. She belonged to a different world, one that had always been out of his reach, and he felt a spasm of familiar, sour resentment. But then it struck him that
she was, through her kookiness, actually and deliberately taking care of him. She was trying to draw him out, and her words were like a trail she was scattering in her wake, hoping he'd want to follow. And he did want to; he did.

He wished that he could go on walking with her for the rest of the night, and deliberately slowed his pace. He pushed her bike, and when she shivered, he insisted on draping his coat round her shoulders, buttoning it up into a cape, carefully pushing her hair out of the way as he did so. He wanted her to feel safe with him, and he wished that she would stumble so that he could support her, or that she would cry again so that he could hold her in his arms to comfort her. There was a half-moon; there was corn stubble in the fields on either side of the hedges, and bales standing in massed shapes on the horizon. It was like a landscape in his mind and he knew he would remember it later. He matched his footsteps to hers, heard their joint rhythm pulsing behind their conversation, stored away her words. He knew he would bring them out when he was alone; that he would return to the image of her glowing face as it turned towards him. She said she had three brothers and she was the baby of the family. She mentioned someone called Stefan, but he ignored it. Stefan and Sally didn't belong to this night. He knew very well that his heightened feelings were caused by the particular circumstances – his father was dying, his mother was drinking, he was tired and had been working too hard, there had been a car crash. Gaby had come to him like a figure out of a dream. Like a dream, she would fade with morning and his old life would resume.

‘What are you studying?' he asked, as they walked.

‘Physics and philosophy.' His expression must have altered because she looked at him shrewdly. ‘What? You thought I was doing, let's see – psychology. Or maybe English and art.'

‘No!'

‘Yes, you did. Scatty girl.'

‘I didn't mean –'

‘Never mind. Do you always pull on your ear-lobe like that?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you never talk much?'

‘I don't know. Probably not.'

‘Is that because you don't want to?'

‘Well,' he said, then stopped.

‘I mean, are there things you want to say but don't know how to, or do you want to keep your thoughts private inside yourself? Or maybe there are a select few people you confide in.'

‘What I hate,' he said, ‘is saying something that seems important and feeling that the person you're saying it to isn't really hearing it. Not hearing it the way you want it to be heard, if you see what I mean. That makes me feel – well, I hate it. I'd prefer to remain silent.'

‘I see,' said Gaby. Then, after a pause: ‘Listen, Connor, I lied to you – I'm not studying physics and philosophy, I only said that to impress you. English literature, after all.'

‘You never needed to try to impress me,' said Connor. He felt intoxicated by sudden happiness.

‘And the car swerved to avoid me,' said Gaby.

‘You mean –'

‘It swerved to avoid me. I was in the middle of the road, going down the hill. It swerved, skidded and went out of control round the bend. And I didn't even say that to the policeman.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘It's my fault.'

‘It's not your fault,' said Connor. ‘He was probably drunk, and –'

‘Don't try to comfort me. I know. If it hadn't been for me on my bloody bike, they would still be alive.'

Connor didn't reply. He took one hand off the bike, reached out for Gaby's, and put it under his on the handlebar. He knew that she was crying again, although he didn't look at her but ahead, at the road that wound like a ribbon through the cornfields. They walked in time, and in silence. He could hear the thud as their feet slapped against the earth. At what they estimated to be the halfway point, they stopped to have another cigarette. They sat on the side of the road, their backs against a tree; Gaby drew her legs up under her and wrapped the coat more tightly round her against the cold. The tips of their cigarettes glowed.

‘I told myself I wouldn't smoke again,' said Connor. ‘My father's got lung cancer.' He had the sensation of being slightly drunk, although he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol, and painfully awake, though he had not slept for over twenty hours. His skin tingled and his throat ached.

Gaby turned towards him, tented by the coat, her face half hidden by her hair. She was barely more than a shape,
splashed with moonlight. Connor forced himself to think of Sally, lying trustingly in his bed and waiting for him to come home. He'd ease himself in beside her and she'd open her arms and hug his chilly, tired body and murmur into his ear. He knew how lucky he was to be with Sally. He didn't deserve her. He was twisted and thorny and full of deceit; he didn't deserve anyone.

‘That's where I was coming from,' he said. ‘When I saw you.'

Gaby let her cigarette fall on to the ground and put the heel of her boot on to its red eye. Say nothing else, he told himself. Stand up and start walking. Now, before it's too late. But he didn't move.

‘I thought I was dreaming you,' he said. ‘Maybe I'm still dreaming you.'

He, too, let drop his cigarette, watched it glimmer and die. He could hear himself breathing raggedly as she sat motionless and half invisible beside him, and he imagined what must happen next: he would push his hand into the tangle of her hair and hold her face away from his, drown in the darkness of her eyes. For a moment they would stare blindly at each other, then he would pull her urgently towards him and they would kiss each other behind the protective curtain of her hair. Her arms would be round him, under the thin shirt, and his hands would be on her breasts. And then – he half shut his eyes … He put out a hand and with one finger traced the shape of her mouth. He felt her lips open and the pattern of her breathing changed. He touched her cheek, which was still damp from tears. ‘Jesus,' he whispered, ‘but you're lovely.'

A shaft of light fell on them, almost dazzling them. For an instant, Connor saw Gaby's face clearly in the headlights, like a hallucination. Then the car roared past, sending up a shower of grit, a horn blared twice, and it was gone, tail-lights disappearing round the bend.

Connor sat up straight and blinked.

‘Wake-up call,' said Gaby, lightly brushing the grass and dirt from his back. He shivered at her touch but pulled away.

‘Yes, sorry. We should go.'

‘We don't need to, you know.'

‘It's late.'

‘It was always late.'

‘I mean to say,' he replied, very formally, ‘that I'm involved with someone.'

‘Oh.'

‘Gaby –'

‘You're right. We should go.' She stood up in one easy, fluid movement and held out her hand, hauling him to his feet.

‘Thanks.'

‘Still miles to go before we sleep,' she said. ‘It'll be dawn before we get there. Come on.'

He didn't come. Day after day, Gaby waited for him. She would wake each morning thinking, Perhaps it will be today. She would dress with care and stare anxiously at herself in the mirror, to see the face that he would see. She would pretend indifference, pretend not to start every time someone knocked at the door or the telephone rang. She would go out and steel herself not to look for him in
every face she passed. Gradually the certainty she had held wavered, became a dim hope, almost died. She tried to tell herself it didn't matter – who was he, after all? Just a stern young man who was going to be a doctor. But he'd wept in her arms and she could still feel his tears on her skin. And he'd looked at her so attentively, as if he recognized her; she had felt beautiful under his rapt gaze. He'd grazed his thumb along her lower lip, half closing his eyes, and told her she was lovely. And he'd nearly kissed her, so very nearly. Just one tantalizing second more – and how she wished now she could turn back the clock and be there again with nothing to stop them this time. She could see his serious face coming towards her, his lips parted, his eyes looking into hers, and she could feel the way she had melted, ready for him; the way she melted still, just thinking of him. In her dreams she drew him into her and wouldn't let him go.

Several times she made up her mind to track him down. Several times she stopped herself because she heard his voice in her head, telling her quite calmly that he was involved with another woman. There was nothing he could say that would change that.

In the end, Gaby phoned her friend Nancy, waking her in the early hours of the morning, to pour everything out. It sounded so paltry when she said it out loud, so insignificant; she was almost embarrassed to hear herself speak. Nothing had happened between them: they had witnessed a crash together, then walked home through the night; they had hardly touched, and had not-quite kissed; he had told her he was not free and he had left her at dawn without saying anything except ‘Goodbye'.
So why did she feel so jittery, so sick with desire when she remembered him, so hollow and sad when he didn't call? Nancy listened without interrupting; Gaby could imagine her at the other end of the line, sitting up straight in bed in her stripy pyjamas, neat and calm even though it was the small hours and she'd just been woken up.

Gaby stopped talking. For a few seconds the silence buzzed between them.

‘You've fallen in love,' said Nancy.

‘I have,' said Gaby, half giggling but feeling the tears gather. ‘Isn't it ridiculous? But it hurts so much that I don't know what to do with myself.'

‘There's probably nothing, really,' said Nancy. ‘No way round except through.'

‘I do wish you weren't so far away,' said Gaby. ‘You're the only one I could possibly say this to without feeling an utter fool, and you don't try to cheer me up by saying things like “Time heals everything.”'

‘Which it kind of does.'

‘And “There are plenty more …” '

‘There are.'

‘Don't spoil it.'

‘Are you feeling really down?'

‘I guess I am. Down and blue. I know it's stupid.'

‘I tell you what, shall I come and visit? I could, you know. How about tomorrow?'

‘No, don't even think of it.'

‘I've already thought of it.

‘I know it will pass.'

‘But I'd like to come. I miss you. I can get there by early evening, is that OK?'

‘What would I do without you?'

‘You'd do the same for me.'

‘Any time.'

Ten days after the crash, Connor stood outside 22 Jerome Street. He had been there since eight o'clock in the morning and it was now nearly eleven. The sky was low and grey; there was a persistent drizzle that had soaked through his clothes and made his hair stick to his skull. He was damp and hungry and hugely embarrassed by himself. He kept thinking that he should go, then giving himself ten more minutes, then another ten. At half past nine a young man had slouched out of the house, long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. At just gone ten a woman of about Gaby's age, but tall and slim, with hair cut short and wearing ripped black jeans and a leather jacket, had emerged. No sign of Gaby. Upstairs, all the curtains remained closed. He paced up the street, then back again. If someone was looking at him, they'd think he was casing the joint. No, they'd think he was a stalker – and he was a kind of stalker, a risible figure, skulking in this narrow street, waiting for someone who'd probably not given him a moment's thought since they'd parted in the darkness, on the outskirts of the city, as the first faint band of light appeared on the horizon. He shifted irritably from foot to foot, feeling trickles of water escape down his neck. Of course, he should simply knock at the door and ask for her. But he couldn't bear the thought of being ushered into the house like a guest, to her pitying surprise, or being turned away politely with the news that she wasn't there or, worse, was still in bed
with whoever she had chosen to go to bed with the night before.

He'd give himself till a quarter past. Then he'd forget about her. End of story.

He'd give himself till half past. Not a minute after.

At twenty to twelve the door of 22 Jerome Street opened and Gaby stepped into the street. He'd been tormented by her image, day and night, and there she was – a bit smaller than he remembered, her face a little thinner, her hair the colour of golden syrup, her eyes dark. She was stuffing a croissant into her mouth and laughing, while little flakes of pastry scattered round her. There was a man behind her, tall and broad and – Fuck him, thought Connor. Fuck him and fuck everyone who looked like that, so easy and happy and nice, inheriting the earth and not even noticing, while he, Connor, was skinny and serious and gripped with such cramps of longing for Gaby that he thought he'd die of it. For a second, as he stood there, he understood that while he had spent the past week and a half rearranging his entire life, Gaby had gone about her business as usual, scarcely casting a backward glance at the night in which they'd met. Of course she hadn't, because there she was in front of him, in a calf-length purple dress with dozens of tiny buttons, and black wellington boots, her hair tamed into plaits and a cloth cap on her head and, following her, a man. She was smiling over her shoulder at him, teasing him. There! She'd put her arm through his proprietorially as they reached the pavement and popped the last piece of croissant into his mouth.