The Perfect Girlfriend(86)

Before I even looked down into the pool, I sensed what had happened. I ran, climbed down. The slope down towards the deep end was horribly slippery. A long stick lay by my feet. And his shoes and odd socks, he always took them off before he went near water. It took vital seconds to find him in the murky water. I gripped, but he slipped from my grasp.

The gardener appeared. He’d seen me rush down, he’d guessed and run too. He managed to pull Will out, not me. I watched him attempt to resuscitate the barefoot bundle of sodden clothes. Water seeped from beneath him and slid down the slope, rejoining the murkiness. I screamed as he tried to save my brother. My responsibility. The noise that echoed was far worse than anything that had ever come out of his innocent little mouth.

The rest of that day is shattered fragments of memories, apart from the look in my mother’s eyes when she saw me. At first I thought she was going to hug me, but her arms remained at her sides.

Instead, she fell to the floor and sobbed.

The thing I’ve discovered about guilt is that some days you can live with it. Other days, it hits – like grief – without warning and it burns, all-consuming and acidic. And the worst of it is that there is nothing you can do.

You can’t change a mistake. Ever. Instead, it weaves its way inside you, becomes an embedded part, a bad, rotten, suffocating part.

In all my dreams and nightmares, all I’ve ever wanted was a time machine to take me back to redress the past. When I met Bella, I thought I had a chance to follow a different path – that I could one day heal and have a stab at a normal life, by riding on her coat-tails. I wanted it so much that it hurt.

When she refused me that chance, fate offered up a second opportunity by handing me Nate. He gave me a focus, the possibility to be something other than what I feared – a scooped-out, hollow version of myself. A robot on the outside.

Inside me exists a sense of dread which has never, ever truly left me. And without a major change – something wonderful to focus on – I fear it never will.

Because, without love and acceptance, all that’s left is something dark and hateful.

I stand up and walk towards the dance floor. I stop. I am so close. So close to the life that could be mine that I could reach out and take Nate in my arms. He is dancing with Bella. I stand on the sidelines, watching. I struggle to breathe.

Focus.

I force myself to walk away. I leave them all to their fairy tale.

Outside, the welcome coolness hits me.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ asks an elderly man. He is puffing on a cigarette.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I had an affair with the groom. He told me he loved me, but . . .’ I shrug.

‘No?’ he says, wide-eyed. ‘Miles? He’s my nephew. No, I’m sure he . . .’

I shrug again. ‘Sorry. If I’d known . . . it’s just that he hurt me. Greatly.’

I walk away, leaving behind the life denied to me.

On the way back to my hotel I pass a homeless woman in the doorway of a shoe shop. I take out all the cash Miles has and give it to her.

It must be at least two hundred pounds; some small good has come out of something bad. I dump the wallet in a bin.

At dawn, I gather my belongings and check out of the hotel after a sleepless night.

Instead of driving home, I head for Dorset. First, I park in Dorchester town centre. After sending Babs a message alerting her to my imminent visit, I push open the door to a florist’s shop. I wait impatiently whilst a young woman makes up four bouquets, tying each stem with twine. She adds a teddy-bear balloon, attached to a stick, and places it within a bunch of white carnations.

When I ring Babs’ doorbell, she is ready with her coat already zipped up.

‘These are for you,’ I say, handing over the most expensive flowers, a mix of peach and yellow roses.

She insists on arranging them in a vase before we leave for the cemetery.

We start with William Florian Jasmin. Babs says a prayer but I silently tell him I’m sorry.

I should’ve watched you. I should’ve been a better big sister.

Next, we visit my mother. I don’t know what to say or do, so instead I describe the flowers I’ve placed beside her plaque.

‘What was her favourite flower?’ I ask Babs, suddenly realizing that I don’t know.

‘She loved them all,’ Babs says, shivering.

‘Go back to the car,’ I say, handing her my keys. ‘Put the heater on. I won’t be long.’

She doesn’t argue.

I watch as she makes her way to the car park. Then I search for the headstone of the gardener who tried to save Will and who protected me. There is nothing by his grave, even the flower holders are empty. I place my final bunch down on the ground.

Michael John Simpson 1946–2004.

He died of lung cancer whilst I was at boarding school. Amelia casually mentioned it when I was home once for half-term. I cried.

‘Thank you for trying,’ I say out loud.

I refuse Babs’ offer to stay for the night when I drop her home.

I need to get back to my own place and work on my plans, even though my app doesn’t work any more. Nate must have upgraded his phone and not transferred everything over. Or it has been deleted, somehow.

He has also changed all his passwords. There must be something I haven’t thought of yet. There just has to be.

It comes to me in the early hours with such a jolt of sheer obviousness that I sit up: Nate still owes me a honeymoon.