One Small Mistake(18)
Every summer since I was six, our families spent two weeks in Cornwall at Wisteria Cottage, a five-bedroom sandstone home with a wraparound porch and a view of the sea on two sides, plumes of lilac wisteria weaving up its walls. We usually piled into two cars and drove across in convoy. That year though, Kathryn and Jack’s older brother, Charlie, went across early, stopping in Taunton for a couple of nights to visit Kathryn’s sister. Jeffrey and Jack were going to travel up with us but, the day before we were due to leave, my parents received an email from Jeffrey explaining he couldn’t make it to Wisteria due to work commitments, and could we please take Jack with us. We didn’t know then it was a part of Jeffrey’s plan, that he kept a gun in his study, that he was preparing to take his own life as soon as we drove away.
Two weeks later, it was Jack and I who found him. Sometimes I swear I can still smell Jeffrey Westwood; like that thick, hot stench of rotting flesh that clung to the back of my throat for months after we buried him has never really left. It was the height of summer and thanks to the heat, he decomposed quickly. So quickly, it was almost impossible for forensics to determine how long he’d been dead. The cause of death wasn’t a mystery though; there was a letter on his computer and a gun in his hand. It didn’t take a genius. I’m shocked by the way he chose to do it. It seems so loud, so violent. All blood and brains and blistering heat. I don’t know what exactly was in his suicide note, but Jack hinted that his father had a history of mental illness. That the sudden heart attack which killed Jeffrey’s older brother just months before Jeffrey’s suicide may have played a part in it.
‘You can’t stop writing, Elodie. I won’t let you,’ says Jack. ‘Look, I need to send some emails. I’m going to go downstairs and work. You stay up here and write some new pitches.’
‘I’m supposed to be at Mugs in an hour …’ I trail off, picturing an afternoon spent in a hot, sweaty café, and I cannot breathe for the claustrophobia of it.
‘Call in sick.’
I hesitate because I’ve never pulled a sick day.
‘You need to write,’ he tells me, then gestures to the pastry. ‘Eat that.’ He hands me the water. ‘Drink this.’ He scoops the pills from the bedside table and folds them into my palm. ‘And swallow these.’
I pop the pills into my mouth and salute him. ‘Yes, sir.’
He turns to go, but pauses at the door and says, ‘We’ll get you published. I promise.’
‘Even if it kills you?’
He smiles. ‘Even if it kills us both.’
My trainers slap against the pavement as I jog across the road towards the park. I’m running to distract myself because one hour and twenty-eight minutes ago, I sent three grittier pitches to Lara for approval from Harriers. Instead of repeatedly refreshing and deliriously hoping, I decided to run.
I’ve come to the park opposite my house. My preferred route. It’s flatter than other areas of town, prettier too. There are benches nestled among wildflowers, a blur of red and purple and buttercup yellow as I pass. On the inside is an expanse of grass where people throw balls for bounding dogs, and couples share picnics on sunny afternoons.
Then I see us, Noah and I sitting on a duck egg blue blanket after dark, dozens of flickering tealights all around. We were visiting my parents for the weekend. In the middle of the night, he woke and led me from my childhood bedroom and out into the night. I felt giddy, like a teenager high on rebellion as we snuck into the park.
‘A midnight picnic,’ he said. ‘Just the two of us.’
‘This is like a scene from a film,’ I whispered.
‘Not a film. A book. Your book.’
I stared at him in the half-light. ‘You read it?’
‘It’s brilliant. Don’t you dare give up trying to get that book published.’
There are some moments in life you want to keep, to dip into over and over. This was one of them. I can still feel his strong hands resting in the violin curve of my waist and the reassuring weight of his chin on my shoulder as we talked and talked and talked.
A wave of longing breaks over me; I push the memory away and start marking off landmarks as I pass them. It takes me a few minutes to find my rhythm again but when I do, it’s glorious.
Right foot forward.
Breathe in.
Left foot forward.
Breathe out.
When I spot the gazebo, I remember the night sky cracking open and rain pouring out in a blinding torrent. We abandoned our picnic and ran for cover, laughing as icy water streamed down our jackets. On the decking, we huddled together, soaked and shivering. Noah’s breath was hot against my neck as he pulled me closer.
I smile now, remembering him making a heroic dash across the sodden grass to save my phone which was lying in a puddle on the blanket.
The sun is blinding as I emerge from the shadow of the trees, the heat from it pressing down on me like a hand. I’m on my third lap and starting to slow, the hangover catching up with me. I turn my music up and keep going, breathing through the stitch forming in my side.
I’m still lost in the memory of that night with Noah, and how we had sex on the gazebo ledge, the sweet hum of the moon above our heads and the taste of chocolate strawberries on our lips.
Then I’m ripped away as I swing around a corner and collide with someone.
‘Sorry,’ I say, yanking my headphones out.