This is a Love Story (46 page)

Another giant tear rolled from her crystal-blue eyes and I reached my index finger out and wiped it away. As soon as the coffin had gone, I pulled her face close to mine and looked into her glassy eyes until her breath was calm and the church was empty.

Sienna

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own tonight?’ asked Elouise, who was standing in my kitchen, nibbling on a biscuit. The flat seemed so empty now, but I needed to be alone for the first time. It was something I had to do. I finally felt ready. Well, I thought so, anyway.

‘Yes, I’ll be fine, sweetheart,’ I said, faking positivity. I pulled my sleeves over my arms and wished I could climb inside my cardigan and hide for a while until things felt normal again. It had been a blisteringly hot day, the kind of oppressive heat that gives you a headache. Now it was melting into a stunning, salmon-pink evening with rich streaks of purple tearing through it as the sun went to sleep. I could see the splendour of it all from the windows, which were wide open to let in the fresh air. I traced my bare foot over the floor and felt the cool tiles on my skin. I caught a flash of myself in the mirror. I looked like I hadn’t slept for days, my skin tinged with grey.

Elouise tilted her head to one side and smiled, popping the last chunk of shortbread into her mouth. ‘Really? Because I can’t help but feel it might be too soon . . .’ she said dubiously, her thick, blonde hair sweeping over her right shoulder. A look of concern spread across her pretty face.

‘Yes, really. I promise,’ I responded.

‘Well if you start feeling horrible, just call me. I’ll be round like a shot. Do you promise you’ll ring if you’re struggling?’ she asked, almost begging.

‘Of course I will. But you know what, I think I’ll be fine,’ I said, really hoping I would be. I’d had this exact same conversation with Nick a couple of hours before. It had been almost impossible to get him out of the flat. I’d eventually had to push him out of the door, tickling his sides because he can’t defend himself when I do that.

‘Look, El. I promise everything will be OK. I’m feeling so much better now.’ I really meant that, I thought, as I looked around me at the place we used to share. My dad and I. I had to learn to be alone. I was going to have to spend evenings in solitude without talking to myself, or racking up huge phone bills by calling horoscope hotlines. Cats weren’t an option either. I was far too young to have a flat full of them, weeing all over the place. I felt just about ready to take on my new life now. Acceptance had come rushing in, and it was doing me the world of good.

‘I’ll have my phone on loud. All night,’ Elouise told me, leaning up on her tiptoes and kissing my forehead. It made me grin. She and Nick had seen me through this whole thing. It would be hard to truly feel alone ever again.

As she walked past me, she left a trail of her perfume in the air and I breathed it in deeply, holding the memory of it close for the dead of night when I might need her. I wasn’t going to call her, or Nick, or anyone. Not even Mystic Margaret from south Ealing with her premium-rate phone line.

‘Love you, Si,’ she said, turning towards me as she stood by the door, her small frame almost swallowed whole by a trendy T-shirt.

‘You too, pretty one,’ I said, standing by the counter.

The door closed slowly and quietly. I looked around me and took a few deep breaths.

That night I was hungry for the first time in ages, so I made my favourite dinner, medium rare sirloin steak with mashed potato and Mediterranean vegetables. Nick had brought all the ingredients round for me. I think he was worried I was going to end up looking like a bag of bones if I didn’t put some weight on soon. He had a point, I thought, looking down at my trousers, which were gaping at the waist.

I spent at least an hour preparing it all as the last dregs of the day slipped behind dark clouds. I put the radio on and sang along to every song. Great songs. Shit songs. It didn’t matter what it was because it was a way of expelling all the tension, even if it did involve screaming Aerosmith at the top of my voice and using a courgette as a microphone. I could sing as loud as I wanted and I knew no one would disturb me. This night was all mine.

I chopped up onions, sliced mushrooms in half and divided juicy tomatoes into quadrants. I put a steak in the pan and listened as it sizzled satisfyingly, the smell wafting up my nose and making me even more hungry. I had a bottle of wine and a small chocolate pudding in the fridge. I was going to treat myself. Relax, and bathe in the happy memories. Because they were happy, and they would never be stolen from me like my father had been.

After dinner I curled up on the sofa, put on
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
and sipped a huge glass of cold wine. I was content for once. I didn’t feel scared, I felt safe and happy. Wasn’t I supposed to be crying like a lunatic still? Was I in denial? I looked over at the chair opposite me and wished my father was sitting in it. I wished so hard that I imagined it before my very eyes, his lovely, kind face and his thin frame, draped in a jumper and a pair of chequered trousers. The thought of it made me smile so wide I forgot for a moment that the film was on. I just stared at the emptiness where he used to be. When I turned back to the screen, I was reminded of all my favourite scenes. Audrey Hepburn’s passion for parties, diamonds and sleeping until midday. It was a magical world I could lose myself in. I just wished I could live like that, wandering around with a cigarette and a sexy smile, needing nothing else in life but the date and whereabouts of my next social gathering.

And then I remembered my dad’s notebooks. Reams and reams of writing I had never looked at because I hadn’t wanted to intrude. They were scattered all over our flat and I hadn’t touched them. It had felt wrong to move them, and when Elouise, Nick and I sorted through his possessions, I’d begged them to leave them where they were.

I could see them now, all around me. Big books with thick, black covers, white labels with dates on. They were stacked in neat piles, some on the shelves, a few on top of the TV and a whole load more in boxes under his bed. I sat for a moment and wondered what it would be like to read them. Would it be too soon? Would it rekindle all the fear and agony, or would it be like he was with me all over again?

I paused the film and sat for a while, taking a few more sips of my wine and wondering what to do. I picked up the book that was closest to me and ran my hands over the smooth, cool surface. A flash of lightning shot across the skyline and I pulled a light blanket over my body. A storm must be coming, I realised, thinking back to how hot and stuffy it had been today. I wasn’t scared of it. Not at all.

I held the book, slipping my fingers between the pages, feeling the thickness of them, which seemed even denser now they were covered in scribblings, the words pushed into the paper where he wrote so hard. Would he mind? I wondered. I opened it at the middle, greeted with his familiar handwriting, which had so often been scrawled on a Post-it note on the fridge, little reminders to me of the things we needed. Peanut butter. Cooking oil. Soap.

My eyes glazed over the letters, too frightened to read but too curious to look away. More flashes of lightning bolted across the summer sky like strobe lights. They illuminated the room in brilliant white for a split second before plunging me back into the warm light of the candles in the middle of the table. Rain started to patter on the windows. What would I find? Would I discover that he’d been deeply unhappy, but kept it from me? Did he ever think I’d neglected him? Let him down? My heart started to thump as I began to read.

That was all I could read. The emotion was tearing at my chest again. It was too hard. I slammed the book shut. His imagination astounded me, and I’d had no idea he felt so proud of me until then. I knew he would ‘finish’ the marathon. It was my dad, of course he would. I believed in him, but I had to close it, just for a short while, otherwise I would trip up and fall down that hole of grief I knew was so difficult to climb out of.

I wiped a single tear from the corner of my eye, wondering what secrets the rest of the books would hold. The film was flickering in the background now. Curiosity got the better of me. I poured another glass of wine and went into his room, pulling from under his bed a large box, which was full of notebooks. It shocked me how many there were. I wanted answers. I wanted a sign. Something. I wanted to know my father better. So I closed my eyes and picked a book. Any book. One of at least fifty, I think.

I clutched it between my fingers and carried it back into the living room, sitting on the sofa and drawing the blanket around my body once more. The rain was beating so hard against the glass now that the noise took my breath away. It was one of my favourite sounds: nature battering the world around me, leaving me safe in my little man-made box, sipping wine and reading.

I looked at the label on the front of the book. 1
JULY
2006. Wow, this was ages ago, I thought. I’d only been in my job for a couple of months then. Things had been very different. Again, I braced myself before opening the pages. I could handle this . . . and if it was too much, I would put it away and come back in a few months’ time. No one is forcing me to read this, I thought, peeling it open with trembling hands. I flicked through the pages, my eyes scanning over words. In a flash I saw Nick’s name pop up. How strange . . . I’d only have known him a short time by then. I leafed back to the place where I found it, and started reading.