The Things We Do to Our Friends(89)

So where did everyone end up? Imogen graduated and married a banker. Although I tried to reach out to her after Tabitha’s fall, she didn’t return my calls and finally she got in touch to say that she wanted nothing to do with me, ever again. This struck me as fair; there was no love lost there.

Samuel enjoyed working for himself, and he started something similar to Perfect Pieces (I’d always thought he’d found Perfect Pieces genuinely enjoyable) but a little more vanilla, which was a better fit for him. Looking at the new listings was an excellent way to keep tabs on him for a while; I’d scroll through the knickers and camisoles, watching the stories become more elaborate and less tasteful, and it was like I was talking to him. As with Imogen, he said he would prefer not to stay in touch. He said it was too difficult considering what had happened.

There was never much of a follow-up from the police after the accident; our stories must have been convincing enough. Still, there was a fair bit of coverage in the press. Beautiful young student topples with catastrophic injuries—who can blame them? My parents contacted me through my granny, they said under no circumstances was I to get in touch with them, not ever. I’ve respected their wishes and I haven’t contacted them since.

And Tabitha? I can say in all honesty that I wish Tabitha had died. How final that sounds! When I saw her body lying there after having fallen so far down, so battered, I thought it was over.

Ava steers away from the question. She has never asked me if I feel any guilt. Perhaps because she’d rather not hear the answer. But I have asked myself that, and although I wish everything had worked out differently, I’m not sure how it could have. For some people, when they get very close to the edge of doing something bad, they draw back. When that happens to me, when I get that close, it has to happen and there is no other option. What I will say is that I’ve gained the clarity that comes with the passing of time, and I can recognize some of my flaws. I see how I scrutinized The Shiver, how I made them my entire world and relied on them for excitement, for joy, for everything.

I visit Tabitha often. Usually, I have the radio on in the car, but on those trips I drive out in silence, thinking about what to say to her and what she’d like to hear. I often think about what would impress her.

It hasn’t always been like that. In the beginning, I would go every day, then hardly at all, maybe once a year. She lives in a residential home outside the city. A place where the doors are locked at night and visitors sign in and out. I could have gone as much as I wanted, but I struggled with it eventually. What was too much? If I went every week, surely it would look like I had something to hide, like I was too attached to her?

Now I’m less concerned with what people might think of me, and I go there often again. I sit there and watch her; she’s mostly awake—staring, locked in. I like to think she understands and that she’s listening.

Her eyes are glassy, and she doesn’t blink much. They suspected she could communicate with flickering eye movements at the beginning, but she never managed to get very far, and I wonder if that was because of my presence in those early days.

I feel very protective over her, which is nice; I’m the one in charge, and she has no choice but to sit there listening to my stories. I tell her about the business, about what’s working and what’s not, because I always think she’d enjoy that. I tell her about my marriage, about what it’s like to be married, about the freedom I miss sometimes, about the plans I have next. And I always speak to her about Ava, about how beautiful she is, still. Ava likes someone else to be in charge, someone else to ultimately defer to. First she had Tabitha and now she has me.

The things that keep her alive beep companionably as I talk, and she’s kept presentable by the staff. I researched her condition more in the years after it happened. It was a rare condition to be brought on by a fall, and it would be even rarer for her to ever emerge to anything like her old self. At this point, the consensus from the medical team is that too much time has elapsed for any improvement to be expected.

I digress. Tabitha represents a tiny part of my life; a scheduled, regular visit. For a long time she hardly occupied my thoughts at all, not until Minta asked me to write down my memories of her.

Tonight, for example, I’m sitting in my dining room; it’s spacious with large windows and views out onto the park. I’ve decorated the place quite a few times over the years, no doubt helped by the many tips I picked up from them all. The rugs and artwork are old, most of them sourced at auction, and they speak of excellent taste, I think. Of heirlooms. If someone assumes that I’ve inherited these items, I don’t contradict them—I let people think they’re pieces that have been kept in the family, because that works for the story many craft about me in their heads. I even have some of the furniture from Tabitha’s flat in Edinburgh, but I’m no Luddite. I also welcome modernity, with a speaker system that cost several times more than the average car. And the decoration helps keep certain things at bay. If I ever see the suggestion of a furry little trail of mold, I tend to repaint. That serves to eradicate it from the walls, or just from my head.

There’s a fire in the fireplace. I’ve lit it even though it’s relatively mild outside, because people are always drawn to it. They slink over and warm their hands. To cater to my guests, I’ve also placed a tray of hors d’oeuvres and a bottle of decent red there, at an easy reaching distance.