The Story of Us (16 page)

I wanted to ask him if he cooked at home with his wife, not because I was interested, but just because I thought one of us should at least acknowledge our absent partners, but somehow the right moment never identified itself. We ate at the kitchen table by the light of the candles. I had burned the steaks slightly, but Jack was way too polite to say anything other than that was just the way he liked his meat. He opened a bottle of wine, but I only had one small glass, saying that I would soon have to drive back home.

‘I don't think you should leave until the storm dies down,' Jack said solemnly. ‘The coastal road isn't lit and it's downright lethal in the rain.'

An image came to mind of another darkened road we both had reason to remember well. Survivor and rescuer, we shared a long and meaningful look. ‘I can't be back late,' I said. ‘My parents are in permanent panic mode whenever I'm driving these days.'

‘That's understandable. Couldn't you call them?'

‘Richard will be phoning me from Austria later, and I don't think he'd be too pleased to know I was still out.' What I really meant was
out with you
, and I think Jack realised that.

‘But he wouldn't want you driving when the roads weren't safe?'

‘Of course not,' I replied, springing to my fiancé's defence. There was no polite way to say that Richard would probably think my safety was more in jeopardy in Jack's company than on the roads. I was suddenly overwhelmed by a tidal wave of guilt.

Jack must have sensed my discomfort, for he reached across the table and patted the back of my hand, the way you'd soothe a fretting child. ‘Don't worry. We'll get you back home, one way or another.'

Then he seemed to suddenly remember something. ‘Earlier on, when you first got here, you said you'd brought me something,' Jack suddenly remembered. ‘What was it?' I quickly withdrew my hand from beneath his, as his words reminded me of the purpose of my visit. I felt like I'd just been doused with a bucket of ice-cold water.

‘I've left it in the car. I'll just get it,' I said, pushing away from the table and heading for the front door, before he had a chance to stop me. It was still raining, but nowhere near as ferociously as before. I was back in seconds, handing him the rain-speckled brown paper package, which I had loosely rewrapped. There was a smile of curiosity on his handsome face, which froze slowly when he saw his own jacket. Wordlessly he walked back to the kitchen, and by the light of the candles he read the note Amy's mother had written. ‘Can you give me their address?' he asked solemnly. ‘I'd like to write back.'

‘Of course.'

He looked at the folded leather jacket and I wondered if, like the dress I had worn on that fateful night, his jacket was also destined to be discarded. Some objects remain for ever tainted, however well you manage to remove the surface stains from them.

We were silent for a long time. When Jack next spoke, it was to ask a question. A question that, with hindsight, should have been preceded by a warning klaxon.

‘There's something that's been puzzling me about that night, something Amy said. What was it that she was referring to when she thanked you for forgiving her?'

I frowned in genuine confusion at his words. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘Don't you remember,' he said encouragingly, ‘just before the ambulances arrived, Amy thanked you for being a good friend and forgiving her. It seemed so important to her, that it made me curious.'

‘I… I don't know,' I said, slowly shaking my head from side to side. I'd forgotten her words until that moment, and something inside me clenched and tightened at the memory. I was aware Jack was still studying me. ‘I don't think she knew
what
she was saying,' I said, my voice not quite steady. ‘But that's hardly surprising, is it? She was barely conscious, nothing she said made sense. They were just meaningless words.'

‘I'm sorry,' apologised Jack, as he saw my look of distress. Suddenly I was back there, kneeling on the wet tarmac, looking down at my horribly injured friend, holding her hand… not for a moment really believing that this was going to be the last conversation we ever had.

For the second time that night Jack's arms wrapped around me in comfort. The sob seemed to come from somewhere deep within me, from a well I had tried to seal – not very effectively, as it turned out. He held me gently while I cried, and there was a release in being able to be this way with him because, unlike with Richard or Caroline, I didn't need to worry about
his
pain,
his
loss, or
his
feelings, I could just allow the tide of grief to take hold of me and wash me up when it was done. My hands were trapped between us, lying on his chest and I could feel the strong and steady beat of his heart against my palm. Still holding me against him, one hand moved up to my hair, gently smoothing it against the curve at the back of my neck. Gradually the torrent of tears slowed down to a trickle. I raised my head from his chest and the large damp patch I had left on his T-shirt. ‘I'm sorry,' I whispered. Even my voice sounded broken and hurt.

‘Sshhh,' he soothed, and then with no warning, no sign, or hint that it was about to happen, his head lowered and his lips gently brushed mine.

We sprang apart as though we'd been electrocuted. My gasp of shock cleared all other emotions away as though a bush fire had seared through them. My eyes blazed with fury. Was that what this had all been about? Had he only been comforting me so he could take advantage of my vulnerability? How could I have misjudged him and the situation so badly?

Then I looked at him properly. He looked as shocked by what he had done as I did, and almost as horrified. He held out a hand towards me in a gesture of someone trying to ward off something wicked. As though somehow all of this was
my
doing.

‘What the hell—?' I shouted.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I don't know what I was thinking.' There was probably some sort of insult tied up in that, but I was too angry to pick up on it. ‘I wasn't trying to take advantage of you, please believe that, Emma.'

I shook my head, looking at him as though I had never seen him before, as though he was a stranger. Which, in reality, was pretty much exactly what he was. I looked around frantically for my bag and plucked it up.

‘Emma, please,' Jack implored, his hand still outstretched and his face anguished. ‘I don't even know how that happened. I didn't want to kiss you. I
don't
want to kiss you.' Did he really think anything he was saying was making things better?

‘Good to know,' I said bitterly, ‘but it doesn't change a damn thing.'

I spun on my heel and headed for the door.

‘Emma, wait,' Jack cried. His hand fastened on my wrist, turning me back towards him. ‘Let me explain.'

‘Save it,' I spat out. ‘I don't know why you did that, and I don't even care. But whatever this… this
friendship
was, you've just gone and ruined it.'

There was a tight ball of pain in my chest, and I could feel it burning like a comet with anger as I looked at him. ‘I thought you understood me. I thought we were becoming friends, that I could trust you.'

‘I do, we are, and you can,' he answered. I shook my head and saw that I was now at his front door without realising how I got there. But he was following close behind me, so that when I turned to deliver my parting words, I almost crashed into him. ‘I owe you a lot, Jack. I won't ever deny that. But what you did just now… well that just crossed the line, as far as I'm concerned.' If my words meant anything at all to him, he hid it well. ‘So thank you for saving my life, enjoy the rest of yours, and if you have any decency at all, why don't you do us both a favour and stay as far away from me as possible.'

I was out of the door by then. I could hear from the crunch of gravel that he was still following me. I jumped into my car, my heart hammering crazily as I risked one glance to where he stood, watching me with an agonised look on his face. My hand was shaking so much it took three attempts to finally slot the key into the ignition.

Illuminated in the beam from my headlights, I saw the planes of his faces cast into shadowy relief. His eyes looked bleak as he ran his hand across his mouth, and my own lips tingled treacherously at the memory of the feel of it. Guilt rose like bile in my throat, bitter and acidic. I thumped down hard on the button to lower my window. ‘Richard was right about you,' I said through the gap. Jack winced as though I'd cut him. ‘What the hell were you thinking? You and your wife might go in for all that open relationship crap, but
I
certainly don't!'

I sped backwards down his drive, tearing up the turf beside it in my haste. I should have been paying better attention, but my eyes were fixed only on the stunned look of shock on his face.

The good thing about rage, the kind of blind, blood-filled rage that I was feeling as I left Jack's home, is that it gives you something tangible to focus on. And while you're busy fuelling it and feeding it with all the clever and scathing things you should have said, if only you'd thought of them at the time, then you don't have to worry about digging deeper and uncovering the thing that is
really
eating away at you.

But, like the storm the night before, my anger could only last for so long before it burned itself out. And by the light of day when the red mist had lifted, I realised that much of my reaction to Jack's touch had come from guilt. I'd allowed him to get close to me, confusing the debt I owed him with a fast pass to friendship and trust. And Richard's own reaction to Jack had only made me stubbornly determined to prove him wrong. But aside from Jack's heroism on the night of the accident, what did I really know about him? Nothing. I'd lied on the phone to Richard that night, and I couldn't remember
ever
having done that before. I blamed a cold for the rasp in my voice, hearing my dishonesty buzzing down the phone lines between us like a malevolent mosquito. I didn't mention visiting Jack. Of course, that was only a lie by omission, but I knew I was splitting hairs with that one.

It was only when I began to unravel the scene in Jack's kitchen, winding it up like a ball of unpicked yarn, that I realised everything had started to spiral out of control with his question about Amy. Such an inconsequential thing, but once voiced it could never be unasked, and it was going to keep nagging away at me until it was answered: What
did
Amy believe I had forgiven her for? I could think of absolutely nothing she had ever done that required an apology. And even more bewildering, why on earth did my good friend, with her generous spirit, open heart and joyful approach to life, think she'd done something to hurt me? Nothing was less likely to be true.

But now that Jack had opened the door to the memory, all I could see when I closed my eyes was Amy gripping my hand on the cold tarmac of the road, as though I was a priest absolving her during her final moments, and the relief on her face when I had told her everything was all right.

I tried to tell myself there was no hidden intrigue or mystery to her words. Amy was just as likely to be apologising because she'd ruined a pair of shoes she'd borrowed… or something equally mundane.
Really? That was what was on her mind in her dying moments?
Some damaged designer sandals?
I shook my head angrily at the voice of doubt, which for some reason was speaking in my head in a soft American accent. Damn him. Why the hell hadn't he just kept his stupid questions to himself?

There was only one other person who had known Amy as well as I had; one other person who might just be able to tell me what I needed to know.

‘Caroline McAdam.' Her voice was clear and professional, with a sing-song intonation.

‘Hi, Caro, it's me.'

Her tone softened and warmed, and the smile that I knew she was making was as clear as if I was standing in front of her. ‘Hey, sweetie. How are you doing?'

Good question, and not one I really knew how to answer right then. ‘I'm fine,' I replied, because that was what she was expecting to hear. ‘I was just wondering… are you free for a quick cup of coffee?'

There was a slight pause, and I could visualise her, sitting at her window-side desk in the estate agency, glancing at her watch and maybe even biting her lip the way she always did when considering something unexpected.

‘Yeah, I guess I can pop out if it's only for a quick one.'

I got to the coffee shop first, ordered us two cappuccinos, and found a small table by the window. I saw her walking towards the café through the glass and waved, smiling at the wide beam she sent back in return.

She carefully undid the lid of her frothy drink, and I let her take a sip before I launched into the reason I had dragged her out of the office in the middle of the morning. We didn't have much time.

‘Caroline, I have something I need to ask you.'

She looked up and delicately licked away the small milky trail on her top lip.

‘That sounds serious,' she observed.

‘I… I don't know. It might be.'

A small furrow appeared between her brows. ‘So, what's up?'

‘Caroline, how much do you remember about the night that Amy died?'

I watched her face spasm, and I hated myself for having to do this to her, but there was no one else I could ask.

‘I take it you don't mean about the hen party?'

I shook my head sadly. ‘The accident,' I confirmed quietly.

She shook her head, as her eyes shifted away from me, staring out of the window. ‘Not much,' she admitted. ‘It's all a blur after we left the party. I remember Amy feeling sick, I remember the deer in front of us and then… it's all kind of greyed-out until I was sitting in the back of the ambulance.'