Me Before You: After You Part 14

'You are totally judging. That's exactly what "it's not a good idea" means.'

'I'm serious.'

'Do I tell you how to live your life? Do I tell you that this flat is depressing, and you dress like someone who has lost the will to live, apart from when you're being a gammy-legged p.o.r.no pixie? Do I?

Do I? No. I don't say anything, so just leave me alone.'

I wanted to tell her then. I wanted to tell her what had happened to me nine years previously, on a night when I had drunk too much, and how my sister had led me home, shoeless and crying silently, in the early hours. But she would no doubt greet it with the same childish scorn with which she greeted most of my revelations, and it was a conversation I had only ever managed to have with one person. And he wasn't here any more. 'It's also not fair to wake me up in the middle of the night. I have to get up early for work.'

'So give me a key. Then I won't wake you up, will I?'

She blasted me with that winning smile. It was rare and dazzling, and enough like Will's that I found myself giving the key to her. Even as I handed it over, I knew what my sister would say.

I spoke to Mr Traynor twice during that time. He was anxious to know Lily was well, had started to worry about what she was going to do with her life. 'I mean, she's plainly a bright girl. It's not a good idea forher to drop out of school at sixteen. Do her parents not have anything to say about it?'

'They don't seem to speak very much.'

'Should I have a word with them? Do you think she needs a university fund? I have to say, things are a tad tighter than they were since the divorce, but Will left a fair bit. So I thought that might be ... an appropriate use for it.' He lowered his voice. 'It might be wise, though, for us not to mention anything to Della just now. I don't want her getting the wrong idea.'

I resisted the urge to ask what the right idea might be.

'Louisa, do you think you could persuade Lily to come back? I keep thinking about her. I'd like us to all try again. I know Della would love to get to know her better too.'

I remembered Della's expression as we had tiptoed around each other in the kitchen, and wondered whether Mr Traynor was wilfully blind or just an eternal optimist.

'I'll try,' I promised.

There is a peculiar sort of silence in a flat when you are on your own in a city on a hot summer weekend. I was on earlies, finished my s.h.i.+ft at four, arrived home by five, exhausted, and was secretly grateful that, for a few brief hours, I had my home to myself. I showered, ate some toast, took a look online to see if there were any jobs that either paid more than the minimum wage or were not zero-hours contracts, then sat in the living room with all the windows open to encourage a breeze, listening to the sounds of the city filtering in on the warm air.

Most of the time, I was reasonably content with my life. I had been to enough group sessions now to know that it was important to be grateful for simple pleasures. I was healthy. I had my family again. I was working. If I hadn't made peace with Will's death, I did at least feel like I might be crawling out from under its shadow.

And yet.

On evenings like this, when the streets below were filled with couples strolling, and laughing people spilled out of pubs, already planning meals, nights out, trips to clubs, something ached inside me; something primal telling me that I was in the wrong place, that I was missing something.

These were the moments when I felt most left behind.

I tidied up a little, washed my uniform, and then, just as I was sinking into a kind of quiet melancholy, my buzzer went. I stood and picked up the entry-phone wearily, expecting a request for directions from a UPS driver, or some misdirected Hawaiian pizza, but instead I heard a man's voice.

'Louisa?'

'Who is this?' I said, though I knew immediately who it was.

'Sam. Ambulance Sam. I was just pa.s.sing on the way home from work, and I just ... Well, you left in such a hurry the other night, I thought I'd make sure you were okay.'

'A fortnight later? I could have been eaten by cats by now.'

'I'm guessing you weren't.'

'I don't have a cat.' A short silence. 'But I'm fine, Ambulance Sam. Thanks.'

'Great ... That's good to hear.'

I s.h.i.+fted, so I could see him through the grainy black and white of the little entry video screen. He was wearing a biker jacket instead of his paramedic uniform, and had one hand resting against the wall, whichhe now removed, and turned to face the road. I saw him let out a breath, and that small motion prompted me to speak. 'So ... what are you up to?'

'Not much. Trying and failing to chat someone up through an entry-phone, mostly.'

My laugh was too quick. Too loud. 'I gave up on that ages ago,' I said. 'It makes buying them a drink really, really hard.'

I saw him laugh. I looked around at my silent flat. And I spoke before I could think: 'Stay there. I'll come down.'

I was going to bring my car, but when he held out a spare motorbike helmet, it seemed prissy to insist on my own transport. I stuffed my keys into my pocket and stood waiting for him to motion me aboard.

'You're a paramedic. And you ride a motorbike.'

'I know. But, as vices go, she's pretty much the only one I have left.' He grinned wolfishly. Something inside me lurched unexpectedly. 'You don't feel safe with me?'

There was no appropriate answer to that question. I held his gaze and climbed onto the back. If he did anything dangerous he had the skills to patch me up again afterwards.

'So what do I do?' I said, as I pulled the helmet over my head. 'I've never been on one of these before.'

'Hold on to those handlebars on the seat, and just move with the bike. Don't brace against me. If you're not happy, tap me on the shoulder and I'll stop.'

'Where are we going?'

'You any good at interior decorating?'

'Hopeless. Why?'

He fired up the ignition. 'I thought I'd show you my new house.'

And then we were in the traffic, weaving in and out of the cars and lorries, following signs to the motorway. I had to shut my eyes, press myself against his back and hope that he couldn't hear me squeal.

We went out to the very edge of the city, a place where the gardens grew larger, then morphed into fields, and houses had names instead of numbers. We came through a village that wasn't quite separate from the one before it, and Sam slowed the bike at a field gate and finally cut the engine, motioning for me to climb off. I removed the helmet, my heart still thumping in my ears, and tried to lift my sweaty hair from my head with fingers that were still stiff from gripping the pillion handlebars.

Sam opened the gate, and ushered me through. Half the field was gra.s.sland, the other an irregular mess of concrete and breeze blocks. In the corner beyond the building work, sheltered by a high hedge, stood a railway carriage and, beside it, a chicken run in which several birds stopped to look expectantly towards us.

'My house.'

'Nice!' I glanced around. 'Um ... where is it?'

Sam began to walk down the field. 'There. That's the foundations. Took me the best part of three months to get those down.'

'You live here?'

'Yup.'

I stared at the concrete slabs. When I looked at him, something in his expression made me bite back what I was going to say. I rubbed at my head. 'So... are you going to stand there all evening? Or are yougoing to give me a guided tour?'

Bathed in the evening sun, and surrounded by the scents of gra.s.s and lavender, and the lazy hum of the bees, we walked slowly from one slab to another, Sam pointing to where the windows and doors would be. 'This is the bathroom.'

'Bit draughty.'

'Yeah. I need to do something about that. Watch out. That's not actually a doorway. You just walked into the shower.'

He stepped over a pile of breeze blocks onto another large grey slab, holding out his hand so that I could step safely over them too. 'And here's the living room. So if you look through that window there,'

he held his fingers in a square, 'you get the views of the open countryside.'

I looked out at the s.h.i.+mmering landscape below. I felt as if we were a million miles out of the city, not ten. I took a deep breath, enjoying the unexpectedness of it all. 'It's nice, but I think your sofa's in the wrong place,' I said. 'You need two. One here, and maybe one there. And I'm guessing you have a window here?'

'Oh, yes. Got to be dual aspect.'

'Hmm. Plus you totally need to rethink your storage.'

The crazy thing was, within a few minutes of our walking and talking, I could actually see the house. I followed the line of Sam's hands, as he gestured towards invisible fireplaces, summoned staircases out of his imagination, drew lines across invisible ceilings. I could see its over-height windows, the banisters that a friend of his would carve from aged oak.

'It's going to be lovely,' I said, when we had conjured the last en-suite.

'In about ten years. But, yup, I hope so.'

I gazed around the field, taking in the vegetable patch, the chicken run, the birdsong. 'I have to tell you, this is not what I expected. You aren't tempted to, you know, get builders in?'

'I probably will eventually. But I like doing it. It's good for the soul, building a house.' He shrugged.

'When you spend all day patching up stab wounds and over-confident cyclists and the wives whose husbands have used them as a punch-bag and the kids with chronic asthma from the damp ...'

'... and the daft women who fall off rooftops.'

'Those too.' He gestured towards the concrete mixer, the piles of bricks. 'I do this so I can live with that. Beer?' He climbed into the railway carriage, motioning for me to join him.

It was no longer a carriage inside. It had a small, immaculately laid-out kitchen area, and an L-shaped upholstered seat at the end, though it still carried the faint smell of beeswax and tweedy pa.s.sengers. 'I don't like mobile homes,' he said, as if in explanation. He waved to the seat, 'Sit,' then pulled a cold beer from the fridge, cracking it open and handing me the bottle. He set a kettle on the stove for himself.

'You're not drinking?'

He shook his head. 'I found after a couple of years on the job that I'd come home and have a drink to relax. And then it was two. And then I found I couldn't relax until I'd had those two, or maybe three.' He opened a caddy, dropped a teabag into a mug. 'And then I ... lost someone close to me, and I decided that either I stopped or I would never stop drinking again.' He didn't look at me while he said this, just moved around the railway carriage, a bulky, yet oddly graceful presence within its narrow walls. 'I do have the odd beer, but not tonight. I'm driving you home later.'Comments like that took the weirdness out of sitting in a railway carriage with a man I didn't really know. How could you maintain a reserve with someone who had tended your broken, partially unclothed body? How could you feel anxious around a man who had already told you of his plan to take you home again? It was as if the manner of our first meeting had removed the normal, awkward obstacles to getting to know someone. He had seen me in my underwear. h.e.l.l, he had seen under my actual skin. It meant I felt at ease around Sam in a way I didn't with anyone else.

The carriage reminded me of the gypsy caravans I had read about in childhood, where everything had a place, and there was order in a confined s.p.a.ce. It was homey, but austere, and unmistakably male. It smelt agreeably of sun-warmed wood, soap and bacon. A fresh start, I guessed. I wondered what had happened to his and Jake's old home. 'So ... um ... what does Jake think of it?'

He sat down at the other end of the bench with his tea. 'He thought I was mad at first. Now he quite likes it. He does the animals when I'm on s.h.i.+ft. In return I've promised to teach him to drive around the field once he turns seventeen.' He lifted a mug. 'G.o.d help me.'

I raised my beer in return.

Perhaps it was the unexpected pleasure of being out on a warm Friday evening with a man who held your eye as he spoke and had the kind of hair you slightly wanted to ruffle with your fingers, or maybe it was just the second beer, but I finally started to enjoy myself. It got stuffy in the carriage, so we moved outside onto two fold-up chairs, and I watched the chickens peck around in the gra.s.s, which was oddly restful, and listened to Sam's tales of obese patients, who required four teams to lift them out of their homes, and young gang members, who tried to attack each other even as they were being st.i.tched up in the back of his rig. As we talked I found myself sneaking surrept.i.tious glances at him, at the way his hands held his mug, at his unexpected smiles, which caused three perfect lines to span out from the corner of each eye as if they had been drawn with fine-point precision.

He told me about his parents: his father a retired fireman, his mother a nightclub singer, who had given up her career for her children. ('I think it's why your outfit spoke to me. I'm comfortable with glitter.') He didn't mention his late wife by name, but observed that his mother worried about the ongoing lack of a feminine influence in Jake's life. 'She comes and scoops him up once a month and takes him back to Cardiff so she and her sisters can coo over him and feed him up and make sure he has enough socks.' He rested his elbows on his knees. 'He moans about going, but he secretly loves it.'

I told him about Lily's return, and he winced at my tale of her meeting with the Traynors. I told him about her perplexing moods, and her erratic behaviour, and he nodded, as if this were all to be expected.

When I told him about Lily's mother he shook his head. 'Just because they're wealthy doesn't make them better parents,' he said. 'If she was on benefits, that mother would probably get a little visit from Social Services.' He lifted a mug to me. 'It's a nice thing you're doing, Louisa Clark.'

'I'm not sure I'm doing it very well.'

'n.o.body ever feels they're doing well with teenagers,' he said. 'I think that's kind of the point of them.'

It was hard to reconcile this Sam, at ease in his home, caring for his chickens, with the sobbing, skirt- chasing version we heard about in the Moving On Circle. But I knew very well how the persona you chose to present to the world could be very different from what was inside. I knew how grief could make you behave in ways you couldn't even begin to understand. 'I love your railway carriage,' I said. 'And your invisible house.''Then I hope you'll come again,' he said.

The compulsive s.h.a.gger. If this was how he picked up women, I thought a little wistfully, then, boy, he was good. It was a potent mix: the gentlemanly grieving father, the rare smiles, the way he could scoop up a hen one-handed and the hen actually looked happy about it. I would not allow myself to become one of the psycho-girlfriends, I told myself repeatedly. But there was a sneaking pleasure to be had in just flirting gently with a handsome man. It was nice to feel something other than anxiety, or mute fury, the twin emotions that seemed to make up so much of my daily life. The only other encounters I'd had with the opposite s.e.x over the last several months had been fuelled by alcohol and ended with a taxi and tears of self-loathing in the shower.

What do you think, Will? Is this okay?

It had grown darker, and we watched as the chickens clucked their way indignantly into their coop.

Sam watched them. He leant back in his chair. 'I get the feeling, Louisa Clark, that when you're talking to me there's a whole other conversation going on somewhere else.'

I wanted to come back with a smart answer. But he was right, and there was nothing I could say.

'You and I. We're both skirting around something.'

'You're very direct.'

'And now I've made you uncomfortable.'

'No.' I glanced at him. 'Well, maybe, a little.'

Behind us, a crow lifted noisily into the sky, its flapping wings sending vibrations through the still air. I fought the urge to smooth my hair and instead took a last swig of my beer. 'Okay. Well. Here's a real question. How long do you think it takes to get over someone dying? Someone you really loved, I mean.'

I'm not sure why I asked him. It was almost cruelly blunt, given his circ.u.mstances. Perhaps I was afraid that the compulsive s.h.a.gger was about to come out to play.

Sam's eyes widened a little. 'Woah. Well ...' he peered down at his mug, and then out at the shadowy fields '... I'm not sure you ever do.'

'That's cheery.'

'No. Really. I've thought about it a lot. You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they're not living, breathing people any more. It's not the same crus.h.i.+ng grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you, and makes you want to cry in the wrong places, and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It's just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a hole. I don't know. It's like you become ... a doughnut instead of a bun.'

There was such sadness in his face that I felt suddenly guilty. 'A doughnut.'

'Stupid a.n.a.logy,' he said, with a half-smile.

'I didn't mean to '

He shook his head. He looked at the gra.s.s between his feet, then sideways at me. 'C'mon. Let's get you home.'

We walked across the field to his bike. The air had cooled, and I crossed my arms over my chest. He saw, and handed me his jacket, insisting when I said I was okay. It was pleasingly heavy, and potently male. I tried not to inhale.

'Do you pick up all your patients like this?''Only the live ones.'

I laughed. It came out of me unexpectedly, louder than I had intended.