The phone rang again and he froze.
Then he answered it and walked out of the room.
While Adam was outside in the car with Pat, I tentatively made my way to Simon Conway’s ward. I was on the lookout for his wife, his children or any member of his family who felt that taking a pop at me would alleviate their pain or bring Simon back to them. The only familiar face I saw – and I cowered away from her as soon as I saw her – was Angela, the nurse who had brought me to Simon’s room the previous week, the night I’d met Adam. I froze when I saw her, but Angela smiled at me warmly.
‘I’m not going to bite,’ she smiled. ‘Family only, but come on.’ She led me along to the room. ‘I heard about what happened the last time you were here. Sorry I wasn’t on duty. I want you not to worry in the slightest about it. She was upset and needed someone to blame. You’re not responsible.’
‘I was there. I was the one who—’
‘You’re not responsible,’ she said firmly. ‘The girls said she felt awful about it after you left. She was so overcome with emotion they had to take the little ones out and calm her down.’
She didn’t paint a pretty picture, but it did a little to relieve my stress.
‘Did you speak to anyone yet?’ Angela asked, and I knew she meant someone professional.
I hadn’t forgotten the advice Leo had given me about Adam, but this was an entirely different problem. All the same, I’d been thinking about it and I’d finally figured out who exactly I needed to talk to.
I was left alone with Simon. The beeping and whooshing were the only sounds in the silence. I sat down beside him.
‘Hi,’ I whispered. ‘It’s me. Christine. Christine Rose, the woman who failed to save you from yourself. I’m wondering if someone should have saved you from me,’ I said, eyes filling as the emotions I had been doing my best to suppress came flooding back to me all at once. ‘I’ve been going over that night over and over again, trying to figure out what happened. I must have said something wrong. I can’t remember. I was so relieved that you’d put that gun down. I’m sorry if whatever I said made you feel that you weren’t important enough, that your life wasn’t worth living. Because it is and you are. And if you’re able to hear me, Simon, then you fight, fight for your life – if not for yourself then do it for your girls because they need you. There is so much of their life that they will need you for. I grew up without a mother, so I know what it’s like to have the ghost of someone permanently in every moment in your life. You always wonder what would they think, what would they do if they were here, whether you’re making them proud …’
I allowed a long silence where I let my tears flow, then I composed myself.
‘Anyway, because of this guilt I feel about what I did to you, I’ve got myself in a whole lot of trouble. I met a man on a bridge and I have to help him see the beauty of life, convince him that life is worth living or else I’ll lose him.’ I wiped my streaming eyes. ‘One of the things I have to do is help him win back his girlfriend. And if I don’t get him back with his girlfriend he will kill himself. Those are the rules. It’s only been a week but sometimes you know, you know? And this week I’ve learned some things.’ I looked down at my fingers, realising it for sure, completely one hundred per cent.
I’d hoped to feel relief. Instead I had a pounding headache, a heavy heart, the whoosh of the ventilator and the beep of the heart monitor my only response. I wanted an encouraging nod, I wanted to hear that I was understood, that it was okay, that it wasn’t my fault, that I would be able to work everything out. I needed to be given tools, where were my tools? I needed a good book that would fix everything; How to Make Absolutely Everything Okay Again, a simple step-by-step guide to mend hearts, clear consciences and make everybody forget.
Perhaps the realisation wasn’t enough, the silent admission wasn’t enough; I needed to say it out loud. I looked up, fixed my eyes on Simon as though my words of heart-dripping honesty would be powerful enough to make him open his eyes.
‘I’m in love with Adam.’
19
How to Pick Yourself Up and Dust Yourself Off
‘Everything okay?’ the most beautiful man in my world asked me as I got into Dick Basil’s chauffeur-driven car.
I nodded.
He frowned and studied my teary eyes. I had to look away.
‘You’ve been crying.’
I sniffed and stared out the window.
‘How’s he doing?’ he asked gently.
I could only shake my head, not trusting my voice.
‘Did his wife say something to you again? Christine, you know you didn’t deserve that. It was unfair.’
‘Maria could treat me the very same way next week,’ I said suddenly, not knowing that was going to come from my mouth, not really knowing it was on my mind.
Pat turned the radio on.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me. Maria, your whole family, they’ll blame me. They’ll say I spent two weeks swanning about the place with you instead of getting you proper help. Do you ever think of what will happen to me if you go ahead with it?’
‘They wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t let them,’ he said, getting upset at how I was being affected by this.
‘You won’t be here to protect me Adam, you won’t be able to defend me. Everything will be my word against theirs. You don’t know the mess that you’ll leave behind,’ I said angrily, barely able to get the words out. And by that I didn’t only mean the situation, I meant myself.
Adam’s phone rang and as soon as I saw the look on his face when he answered, I knew immediately. His dad had passed away.
Adam didn’t want to see his father’s body at the hospital, he didn’t want to deviate from the plan of going to Tipperary, which of course was where we needed to go now anyway to make arrangements for the funeral. So we remained in the car as if nothing had happened, when of course everything had happened: he had lost his father and he was now officially the head of Basil’s.
‘Have you heard from your sister?’ I asked. His phone had remained in his pocket where he’d put it after he received the call. He hadn’t contacted anybody. I wondered if he was in shock.
‘No.’
‘You haven’t checked your phone. Shouldn’t you call her?’
‘I’m sure she’s been informed.’
‘Will she come to the funeral?’
‘I hope so.’
I was relieved by his positive response.
‘And I hope the guards are waiting for her on the runway. In fact, maybe I’ll call them and alert them myself.’
I wasn’t so pleased then.
‘Maybe this means the party won’t go ahead,’ I said quietly, feeling bad at trying to find a silver lining in the death of a loved one, but Adam was clearly in need of one.
‘Are you joking? There’s no way they’d cancel the party now – this is their big chance to prove that we’re as strong and ready as ever.’
‘Oh. Is there anything you’d like me to do?’
‘No, thanks.’
He was silent as he gazed out of the window, grabbing every scene that passed, trying to hold on to being away from the dreaded place we were going to, trying to slow the car in its tracks. I wondered if he wanted me with him at all. Not that it would affect me being there; I was staying with him regardless, especially now, but it would be easier if I knew he wanted me there. I supposed not. He probably would have preferred to be alone with his thoughts, and it was his thoughts that scared me.
‘Actually,’ he said suddenly, ‘will you read the reading from Amelia’s mother’s funeral?’
I was surprised. He hadn’t commented on it much at the funeral, other than to ask me if I’d written it. I was deeply touched. That reading meant the world to me. I looked out of the window, blinked away tears.
We were driving down country lanes, the landscape was rich and green, vibrant, even on the icy morning. It was horse territory, plenty of trainers and stables
with some of the best land for feeding their breeds, whether race horses or show horses, it was a big business in these parts – if they weren’t making chocolates, that was. Pat wasn’t taking too much care on the roads, he didn’t pause before rounding sharp corners, took lefts and rights at roads that bore exact resemblance to the last turn we’d taken. I felt my nails digging into the leather seats.
I looked at Adam to see if he looked as nervous as I was. He was looking at me. I’d caught him.
He cleared his throat and looked away. ‘I was … do you know you’re missing an earring?’
‘What?’ I felt my earlobe. ‘Shit.’ I started searching my body for the earring, shaking my clothes roughly, hoping it would fall out. I had to find it. When I still didn’t find it I got down on my hands and knees in the car.
‘Careful, Christine,’ Adam warned and I felt his hand on my head as I bumped it against the door as Pat rounded another corner sharply.
‘It was my mother’s,’ I said, leaning over on his side and pushing away his feet to check the floor around him.
Adam winced, as though feeling my pain at losing it.
After finding nothing, I sat down, red-faced and flustered. I didn’t want to talk to anyone for a while.
‘Do you remember her?’
I rarely spoke about my mother; not a deliberate decision but because my mother had been in my life for such a short time that I had no references to her. I tried to summon her up now and then but had little to remember and therefore little to say.
‘These earrings are one of the very few memories I have of her. I used to sit on the edge of the bath and watch her when she was getting dressed to go out. I loved watching her put on her make-up.’ I closed my eyes. ‘I can see her now, facing the mirror, her hair back off her shoulders in a clasp. She’d be wearing these earrings – she only ever wore these on special nights out.’ I fingered my naked earlobe. ‘It’s funny the things we remember. I can see from the photographs that we did so much more together, I don’t know why I remember that moment more than anything.’
I was silent for a while, then said, ‘So to answer your question: no. It’s a long way of saying no, I don’t really remember her. I suppose that’s why I wear these earrings every day. I hadn’t figured that out until now. When people comment on my earrings, I know I can say, “Thanks. They’re my mother’s.” It’s a way to creep her into my conversations every day, somehow make her real and a part of my life. I feel like she’s an idea, a bunch of other people’s stories, a person who changes all the time in photographs, who looks different in each one, in different lights, different angles. I used to ask my sisters all the time when we’d look through the album: Is that the mum you remember? Or is that her? But they’d say no, then describe her in a way that no photograph captured. Even my own image of her at her mirror is of the back of her head, her right ear, her chin. Sometimes I wish that she’d turn around in that memory so I can see her fully; sometimes I make her do that in my imagination. It probably sounds weird.’
‘It’s not weird at all,’ Adam said gently.
‘Do you remember your mother?’
‘Bits and pieces. Small things. Problem was, I didn’t have anybody to talk to about her. I think it helps your memory of a person, when people share stories, but my dad never talked about her.’
‘Wasn’t there anybody else to talk to?’
‘We had a new nanny every summer; the gardener was the closest we had to a regular person about the house, and he wasn’t allowed to talk to us.’
‘Why not?’
‘Dad’s rules.’
We left a long silence.
‘Your earring will turn up,’ he said.
I hoped so.
‘Maria said she’d come to my birthday party.’
I had forgotten to ask him. How had I forgotten that?
‘Good. Great. That’s … Adam that’s really great.’
He looked at me. Big blue eyes searing into my soul. ‘I’m glad you think it’s really great.’
‘I do. It’s …’ I couldn’t think of any other word other than great so I let the sentence die.
Finally the car slowed and I sat up, eager to catch a glimpse of the place where Adam had grown up. The plaques on the grand pillars announced ‘Avalon Manor’. Pat heeded the speed limits here and crawled down the driveway, which went on for miles. The trees fell away to reveal a wide open green before an enormous period manor house.
‘Wow.’
Adam looked unimpressed.
‘You grew up here?’
‘I grew up in boarding school. I spent holidays here.’
‘It must have been incredibly exciting for a young boy, lots of places to explore. Look at that ruin.’
‘I wasn’t allowed to play in there. And it was lonely. Our nearest neighbours are a considerable distance away.’ He must have heard the poor little rich boy tone in his voice because he dropped it. ‘That’s the old ice-house. I always thought I’d renovate it and live there.’
‘So you did want to live here,’ I said.
‘Once upon a time.’ He looked away from me, out of his window.
The car pulled up before the sweeping steps that led to the enormous front door. The door opened and a woman with a warm face welcomed us. I recalled her from Adam’s stories: Maureen, wife of Pat the driver. She had been housekeeper, or house manager as Adam called her, for thirty-five years, for as long as Adam had been alive. Though Adam never considered her as a maternal figure in his life – the nannies were employed to mind him, and Maureen, though warm, had children of her own, while her sole responsibility as an employee was the wellbeing of the house – I was sure Adam was missing a trick. I was dubious as to how she could have turned a blind eye to the two motherless children under the same roof, and I felt sure that Adam was being obtuse if he believed that.
‘Adam.’ She embraced him warmly and he visibly stiffened. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thanks. This is Christine, she’ll be staying for a few days.’
Maureen couldn’t quite hide her surprise at the sight of a woman in Adam’s company who wasn’t Maria, but it was quickly masked by her welcome, though nothing could be done to hide the awkwardness which I know we both felt when it came to deciding the sleeping arrangements. The house had ten bedrooms and Maureen didn’t know whether to lead me to one of them, or to Adam’s room. She led the way tentatively, looking behind her now and then to try and catch Adam’s eye for guidance, for a hint as to what to do, but as well as being laden with our bags, he was lost in his mind, his forehead furrowed as he tried to decode a cipher. I guessed that he’d left last week thinking he would be returning an engaged, soon-to-be-betrothed man and when that went suddenly pear-shaped he didn’t intend to return at all. Now here he was, back in the place he seemed to detest so much.
I had been worried about our ‘deal’ all week, but that concern was nothing to what I felt now in Adam’s company. He seemed detached, cold, even when I met his eye and smiled encouragingly. I imagined how Maria felt when she tried to engage with him, reach out to him, be intimate with him and then was greeted by this withdrawal. I first thought of it as a shell of Adam, but then realised I was entirely wrong. He wasn’t a shell, he was completely filled by someone else, possessed by an Adam who felt rage and loss and anger and resentment at the loss of control of his life. An Adam who was profoundly unhappy. He had lost his mother at a young age but in other ways his life had been sheltered. He didn’t have to wonder about his next meal, schoolbooks, toys at Christmas, a home being taken from him. In his life, all of these things were taken for granted. And he’d taken it for granted that he was free to break away from his father’s rule, plot his own destiny, with an older sister to step into the family business. Then all that had changed. Duty, the thing he had so avoided and celebrated avoiding successfully had strolled casually up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder and respectfully requested that he follow it this way. The party was over, t
he belief that he had control over his own fate, that he could build a different kind of life for himself, evaporated, melted before his very eyes like a house of wax.
He was at the end and he didn’t like endings, he didn’t like partings or goodbyes and he didn’t like leaving. Change occurred on his terms when he was good and ready. It was the look in his eye, the tone of his voice, everything that made Adam Adam which had altered since we set foot in the house, and now that I thought about it, had begun to creep in since he’d hung up the phone earlier. It gave me a sick feeling in my stomach, because I realised how utterly serious Adam was about leaving this world and I knew, if he attempted it again, this time he would get the job done, he would not stop until he was successful.
It was one thing to help someone who wanted to be helped, which I felt Adam was quite open to in Dublin. Here, in Tipperary, I felt he’d already closed the door and emotionally detached himself from me. He spent most of the day sleeping with the curtains drawn in an enormous room with an open fireplace and a couch area, which Adam insisted he would be sleeping on later, but for now he was in the bed and I was sitting, legs up on the window seat, in the bay window which looked out over Lough Derg. I listened to his breathing and watched the clock, all the while conscious that we were wasting time. Time, in this case, was not a healer; we needed to be talking, fixing and doing, I needed to be challenging and supporting him, but I couldn’t do any of those things because he had retreated, detached and withdrawn himself, and I was scared.
I checked on Adam again; he was definitely asleep. His hands lay palms up behind him on the bed, his arms raised as though in surrender. His blond hair fell over one of his eyelids and I reached out to move it. He didn’t wake and my finger remained on his soft skin a little longer. He hadn’t shaved that morning and barely noticeable white-blond stubble glistened in the light. His lips were together, pouting that way he did when he concentrated. It made me smile.