One Small Mistake(29)
‘Did you need to treat her like that?’ I ask. Even though I’m glad she’s gone, I don’t agree with the way he deals with women. They hold the same value to him as a cotton bud – once they’ve served their purpose, they’re tossed in the bin and forgotten about. And that is exactly why I’ve never gone there with Jack. Maybe Jeffrey’s opposition to us as a couple all those years ago did me a favour.
‘Should you be lecturing me on how to treat people?’ he retorts.
I frown. ‘I don’t know what you mean …’
‘You ignore me for days, then stroll in here like nothing’s happened.’
Playing for time, I move over to the bar cart. I didn’t expect him to be this upset. I pour us both a drink, hand him one. ‘I needed time to myself.’
‘Not everything is about you, Elodie.’
I inhale, surprised by the venom in his voice. ‘Jack …’
‘You just disappeared like I didn’t matter.’
And he is just a little boy again, branded with another split lip, another bruise, another mark of how unloved he is, longing to feel wanted. This isn’t about me. It’s about Jeffrey. The run-up to the anniversary is hard for him; he’s irritable and snappy – even with me. I understand, I wouldn’t want to spend an entire evening gushing about a man who treated me terribly, but it’s important to Kathryn, so Jack attends.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have shut you out like that.’
‘You’re right. You shouldn’t have.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You were attacked and then you vanished. I was worried about you.’
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Drink your whisky and let’s go.’
The night unfurled as predicted. Even though Jack and I were sitting side by side at the dinner table, a chasm had opened between us. No one else seemed to notice. Jack delved seamlessly from one conversation to the next, all dimples and charm, and while everyone else blossomed beneath his attention, I wilted beside him.
Anxiety meant even the thought of food sent my stomach into a nauseating churn, but I kept shovelling it into my mouth to avoid answering questions about my book deal. At one point, the pressure and guilt of lying became too much, and I decided to tell the truth. Then, before I could explain, Jack stepped in, announcing to the group he’d been pleased to hear Lara on the phone, raving about the book and discussing a possible publishing date for next winter.
The drive back to my house is silent. I’m both relieved Jack has backed up my lie and terrified that now, if I tell the truth, everyone will know Jack covered for me and that certainly won’t help the tension between him and Ada.
I get out of the car, surprised when he follows. ‘Your security light’s still broken; I’ll see you inside.’
As I push open the front door, I see a large, thick envelope on the floor.
My stomach squeezes as I pull the pages from it and realise what it is.
‘Your manuscript?’ asks Jack.
‘Partial,’ I manage. Then I read the accompanying letter.
Dear Elodie,
Congratulations on your book deal. Your mother reached out and invited me to the party they threw at your sister’s house the other day, but I’m afraid I couldn’t make it. Even so, I wanted to write and wish you well. I’m very proud of you.
I don’t need to skim to the bottom of the page to know Florence, Noah’s mother, is the author of this letter. I recognise her handwriting from birthday and Christmas cards. It’s the first time I’ve heard from her since the funeral. I am snapped back to that day in the cold, echoing church, an emptiness spreading through my chest like a wintry frost. I see the gathering of mourners, like a swell of ink. I see the carnations I knew he’d hate, the dark classic cars and the lacquered wooden box. And as I stare at it, I picture Noah rotting between its plush silk walls.
Noah would be elated. More than anything, he wanted you to be published. I found your manuscript in his belongings. There are some notes in the margin. He had beautiful handwriting.
Carefully, as though it might disintegrate if handled too roughly, I turn to the first page of the battered, coffee-stained manuscript. There is a note, scribed in Noah’s hand. ‘Elodie, Elodie, you’re going to be a star.’
I flip through the pages, catching glimpses of his jokes, his thoughts, his scribbled musings. Shards of me snap off and disappear into a black void of grief. Florence and I are bound by a man we both loved. And even though pain is immeasurable, I am struck by the truth that no mother should ever have to bury her son or post a piece of who he was to a girl who shared him only briefly. Tomorrow, I will photocopy this and send the original back to her.
I read your story and his notes – I hope you don’t mind – and I very much look forward to buying a finished copy to see how it ends. Noah was right, you are a very talented writer.
The first time I met Florence, we had lunch at a French restaurant in Trafalgar Square and I was so nervous I couldn’t eat. Noah kept leaning in and whispering, ‘She’ll love you. How can she not love you?’ I brought her flowers – peonies, her favourites – and she told me I had a keen mind.
He would be so proud, Elodie. He knew you’d be published one day. This is the best way you could have honoured my son’s memory. Perhaps you would consider dedicating the book to him?