The Dilemma(69)

I carry my coffee out to the garden. It feels as if I’m the only one awake in the world. When Josh and Marnie were small, I’d often get up in the early hours and get the housework out of the way. I’d always have a really good day afterwards, no longer stressed about having to get things done. I’m glad that I’ve been able to get the house back to normal, with everyone coming over later.

It’s a while before I realise that nobody will be coming to lunch today, not now that Adam knows about Marnie and Rob.





5 A.M. – 6 A.M.





Adam


I jolt awake, my heart pounding. I know something terrible has happened and I struggle to remember what it is. And then I remember. Marnie is dead. I lie still, trying to absorb the pain of loss that wracks my body. This is how it will always be, I realise. A first few seconds of unawareness before reality comes flooding in, bringing anguish along with it.

Is it a good thing that Livia is no longer beside me? Yes, because if she was, I’d have to tell her now, this minute. She must be in the bathroom, which means I can wait a bit longer. I try to think of nothing, to close my mind to the horror of Marnie’s death, to preserve myself so that I’ll be able to tell Livia without breaking. But it’s impossible.

It’s the not knowing that’s going to haunt me. Not knowing if Marnie knew she was about to die. And because I can’t know, I’ll always torture myself with thoughts that she did, that there were seconds, minutes even, when she knew the horror that awaited her. I’ll never get over the fact that Marnie had to face death alone, never.

One of my biggest regrets has always been that I wasn’t there at her birth, because I was at the pub with Nelson. By the time Jess tracked me down, it was all over. Is it significant that I wasn’t there for her death either? Maybe it’s the price I’ve had to pay for not caring enough about her before she was born. That, and not really wanting her in the first place.

The sound of the back door opening and footsteps on the terrace tells me that Livia is downstairs, not in the bathroom. I wonder how long she’s been up. Through the open window I catch the sound of her humming to herself, and feel an aching sadness. Today is the last day she’ll have got up, excited for the day ahead.

The amount of effort needed to reach for my mobile is huge. I only manage because I need to know the time, I need to know how much longer I can stall before I tell Livia. It’s 5.45. The sun will just be rising. It will be beautiful out there in the garden, a little chilly perhaps, but beautiful. Is that the place to tell her, in the garden, sitting on the wall surrounded by memories of yesterday, facing Marnie’s fence? Or will the photos of Marnie make everything worse, if it’s possible for things to be worse?

Fifteen more minutes and then I’ll tell her, before Josh wakes up, before everybody starts phoning to thank us for the wonderful party.





Livia


I love the garden in the early morning, before birdsong is replaced by the sound of voices, the drone of lawnmowers and power tools. I walk across the grass, retrieving the discarded napkins and dropped bottle tops as I go. I catch myself humming ‘Unchained Melody’, the song Adam and I danced to last night, and I can’t believe I feel so relaxed when I know what the day ahead holds. I suppose it’s because it’s going to be Adam telling me about Marnie and Rob, rather than the other way around, which means the worry of telling him has gone. I feel bad that I’m going to pretend I know nothing about the affair to save my own skin. Maybe I shouldn’t, I think anxiously, maybe I should just tell the truth.

I try to take the burst balloons down, but realising I’ll need scissors to cut the string, I go and fetch some from the kitchen, taking the napkins and bottle tops with me. As I go to throw them in the bin, I freeze. Because there, lying on top of remnants of food, is the wallet from the travel agency, the one I gave Adam during my party. Not only that, it’s been torn in half.

I reach down and retrieve the two pieces, my heart heavy with dismay. I don’t understand. Why has Adam thrown away the tickets I bought him? I thought a trip to see the viaduct would be the perfect present for him. How could I have got it so wrong?

I carry the torn pieces over to the table and sit down, feeling stupidly close to tears. It’s true that he hadn’t seemed excited when I presented him with the tickets yesterday. I thought it was because he was worried about taking time off; now it seems he didn’t want to go at all. It’s completely out of character for him not to be grateful for a present, even those he secretly doesn’t like, like the Christmas jumper his aunt buys him every year. He might never wear it – he has a drawerful of presents that he’s never used – but when he opens it, he’ll pretend that it’s exactly what he wanted. He would never hurt anyone’s feelings – but he has hurt mine, not by not wanting to go and see the Millau Viaduct, but by tearing the tickets in half. For him to have done that, he must have been angry, irritated, frustrated.

Frustrated. Maybe Adam has never got over his disappointment at not having qualified as a civil engineer. What if it’s still there, hidden deep inside him along with other never-to-be-fulfilled desires? Have I made the most stupid, insensitive mistake? I never thought to run it past Mike or Nelson, ask them what they thought before booking the trip. Maybe they’d have put me right and suggested an alternative. If Adam still has regrets about not having done what he wanted to do, not being what he wanted to be, I’m the last one he’d tell.