And as for the sign-off line – ‘Yours sincerely’? or ‘Yours most sincerely’? or ‘Thank you for your time’? or ‘With best wishes’? or ‘With warmest wishes’? or ‘Love’? or ‘Lots of love’? or ‘All my love’? or ‘I suppose a ride is out of the question?’? Which one gave the right message? By then I was so confused I wasn’t sure what the bloody message was, anyway.
Dear Luke, I wrote in the letter I eventually posted. You may be surprised to hear from me. I’m back in New York for a short while and I would be grateful if you could spare some time to see me. I’m very aware of how badly I treated you when we were going out with each other and I would appreciate a chance to apologize in person. I’m contactable at the above address. If you don’t want to have anything to do with me, I fully understand. Yours sincerely, Rachel (Walsh)
I thought it sounded apologetic without being ridiculous; friendly without being predatory. I was quite proud of it, until the moment I’d slipped it into the box, when I suddenly saw that it was the most terrible letter ever written. It was a very hard job to force myself to walk away and not hang around to intercept it when the postman emptied the box.
I desperately hoped he’d reply. But I tried to prepare myself for the possibility that he mightn’t. There was a big chance that I wasn’t the important figure in his life that he was in mine. He probably barely remembered me.
Unless he remembered me all too well, and hated my guts, of course. In which case, I wouldn’t be hearing from him either.
Four days in a row I lingered by the front desk around the time the post was delivered and four days in a row I was sent away empty-handed.
But on the fifth day I came home from work to find a letter had been shoved under my door. No stamp. Hand-delivered.
Luke had replied.
I held the envelope in my sweaty paw and stared at it. I was terrified of looking inside. At least he’d gone to the trouble of writing, I comforted myself.
Unless it was a page filled with just two words – ‘fuck’ and ‘off’.
Suddenly, frantically, I found I was tearing it open, the way a tiger tears dead antelopes. I savaged it. And with a pounding heart scanned the letter inside.
It was short and to-the-point. Brusque even. Yes, he said, he’d like to meet me. What about that evening at eight at Cafe Nero? Any problems, leave a message on his machine.
I didn’t like the tone. It struck me as unfriendly, not exactly in the spirit of forgiveness and extending the olive branch. I suspected the camera wouldn’t fadeout on this one, with us holding hands at head-level, swaying and singing ‘War is Over’ or ‘Ebony and Ivory’ or any other lickarsey songs about the end of conflict.
The letdown was terrible. I even felt he had a bit of a cheek until I remembered I’d behaved appallingly to him. If he still carried a grudge, he was quite entitled to it.
But he had said he’d meet me. Maybe that was just because he’d remembered a few more horrible things that he hadn’t got round to saying at the Cloisters, I thought, slumping again.
73
It wasn’t a date. It was more unlike a date than any other encounter I’d ever had. And to treat it like a date would be to trivialize his feelings and my maturity.
All the same, I spent hours getting ready. Hours!
Should I try to look attractive or mature and rehabilitated? I wondered. Try to win him over by making him fancy me again, or behave in an adult, I’m-very-different-now way? I decided on the serious, sober approach, tied my hair back, tucked a book on addiction under my oxter and wondered if Mikey-Lou would loan me her glasses.
She wouldn’t, so I realized I’d have to play the you-used-to-fancy-me-once-upon-a-time card. I tried, very quickly, to glamour myself up.
But I had almost no clothes. A year and a half of subsistence wages had taken care of that. So there was no great frantic trying on and tearing off of things. No wild flinging of things onto the floor even while pulling the next volunteer from the wardrobe.
Condemned to wear my long denim skirt and a short T-shirt, I was annoyed and ashamed. I wanted something fabulous to wear. Until I realized that that was the way I was now. Simple, straightforward, hiding behind nothing. (Badly-dressed, also.) I didn’t have to put on a show for Luke.
But I piled on tons of make-up. I put my hair up, I took it down, I put it up again. I took it down again. I finally decided to put it up and leave it.
Just before I left, I took it down again.
‘You look great!’ Brad bellowed, as I left.
‘Thanks,’ I said nervously, not at all sure I was pleased.
I tried not to be late. It was an effort not to play games, but I forced myself not to. It wasn’t appropriate. When I arrived at Cafe Nero there was no sign of him. Naturally, I suspected the worst, that he’d changed his mind about seeing me. I decided to leave.
Then I stopped, forced myself to sit down and ordered a drink. Ten minutes, I swore. That’s all I’m staying.
It was utter torment. I was ejector-seat jumpy with nerves, and kept glancing towards the door, willing him to appear.
After the arrival of the twentieth person who wasn’t Luke, I miserably decided to leave. I fumbled round in my bag for my purse to pay for my mineral water…
And then, there he was. Coming through the door. Talking to the greeter. Being told where I was. Glancing over at me.
It was a tremendous shock to see him. He was taller, bigger than I remembered. More grown-up. He still had the long hair and leather jeans, but his face was different. An adult’s face.
As he strode across the café, I tried to read what he felt towards me, but his expression was closed. When he reached me there was no effusive greeting, no hugs and kisses. He just said curtly, ‘Rachel, how’s it going?’ Then swung into the seat opposite, giving me a delicious second or two, eye-level with his leather-clad crotch before it disappeared below the table-top.
I didn’t know how I could ever have thought his appearance was something to ridicule. He was a beautiful-looking man.
I mumbled ‘Hello, Luke,’ or something equally inane. I was barely able to believe it was him, Luke, sitting there, on the other side of the table. Close enough to be touched.
In a way it seemed such a long, long time since I’d seen him. But in another, it wouldn’t have seemed all that weird if I’d leant over and held his hand, or if he’d kissed me.
At least that was what I felt, I wasn’t so sure he did.
He sat in silence, staring at me with a hostile look. And I had to steel myself to be strong. This was going to be harder than I thought.
When the waitress came, he ordered a beer and I indicated I was happy with my water, although that was far from the case. Then, clearing my throat, I launched into my well-rehearsed apology.
‘Thank you for coming, Luke, I won’t take up too much of your time.’ I spoke rapidly. ‘This is long overdue, but better late than never, well, at least I hope that’s what you’ll think. What I’m trying to say here is, I’m extremely sorry for any pain or unhappiness I caused you when we, er, knew each other when I lived here. I was an awful bitch of a girlfriend and I don’t know how you put up with me, and you were perfectly right to be pissed-off with me.’
How I would have loved a drink! I took another deep breath. ‘I would never have behaved in the terrible ways I did if I hadn’t been addicted to drugs. But I know it’s no excuse, it certainly doesn’t lessen the bad stuff I did to you, just for you to know why I’d behaved so badly…’
I sneaked a glance at him. Impassive in the extreme. React, for God’s sake!
‘I was disloyal,’ I ploughed on. ‘Had no integrity and I betrayed you and let you down. It’s probably of no interest to you to know why I was so unreliable, but just to let you know that I’ve changed a lot and I stand by my friends now. Of course,’ I added, ‘that’s precious little use to you now; it would have come in fairly handy two years ago, when I was the terrible bitch I was…’
On
and on I went, my words falling on the stony ground of Luke’s silence. At one stage he shifted himself sideways on his chair and slung his arm along the back of it. In the midst of my abjection I couldn’t help a throb of realization that he was still a complete ride.
Back to the apology. I kept my eyes downcast as I slid my glass around the wet table, as if it was a ouija board.
I eventually came to an end. There wasn’t anything else I could apologize for and still he hadn’t said anything. Before our meeting, I’d been dreading his anger. But it would have been preferable to this impenetrable passivity. At least we’d have been communicating.
Reluctant to sit in silence, I apologized for some things I’d already apologized for. ‘Sorry again about drinking Joey’s JD that time, sorry for embarrassing you, sorry for upsetting your home life with my addiction…’ Then I trailed off, there was no point going round for a second lap.
I had no option but to leave.
‘I’ll be off then,’ I said humbly. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Again, I pawed for my purse, with a view to paying and departing.
And then Luke completely threw me off my stride by saying ‘Oh come on, Rachel, get off the cross! We need the wood.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean, sit down, and talk to me,’ he exclaimed in a peculiar tone that I recognized as forced joviality. ‘I haven’t seen you in nearly a year and a half. Tell me how you’re getting on! How’s Ireland?’
It wasn’t so much an olive branch, as a mere olive. But it was enough. I pushed my bag away and settled back down.
Relaxed, uninhibited chat was difficult. The situation was too contrived and I hadn’t had – and wouldn’t be having – anything to drink. But I tried.
We warily discussed the Irish economy. Awkward talk of Celtic Tigers, foreign investment and per capita income. We were like two political analysts on the telly. When I got a chance to be funny, I grasped it in the hope of redeeming myself, of changing his memory of me. But there are few laughs to be got out of a healthy economy. Conversation lurched along awkwardly, stopping and starting, making no real progress. I didn’t want to leave because being with him was a million times better than not being with him, but it was knackering.
The waitress came. He ordered another beer and I ordered another water. Her arrival derailed whatever we’d been talking about and, into our silence, Luke asked, almost shyly, ‘Is that all you drink now? Water?’
‘Yes.’
‘God, you have changed.’ He smiled.
‘I have,’ I said seriously. And then we looked at each other, really looked at each other. The blinds had snapped up off his face and I could see him, the old Luke, my old Luke, for the first time. We held the look for a long time. And I was confused because I kept forgetting it was now and not then.
‘Well!’ He cleared his throat and broke the mood. ‘Thanks for your apology.’
I managed a shaky little smile.
‘You know,’ he said, pushing back the boundaries, ‘I thought you wanted to meet me so you could give out shite for what I said that day in your rehab place.’
‘Oh no,’ I breathed. I was shocked he’d thought that was my motive, but I was glad we were finally talking about why we were there. Balance of payment deficits weren’t really my forte. ‘You were right to say all you said. If you hadn’t, maybe I’d still be going around in lala denial land.’
‘I was sure you hated my guts,’ he said ruefully.
‘Of course I don’t,’ I insisted. I mean, I didn’t now, did I?
‘Really?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Really,’ I assured him. It was ironic, Luke worrying about whether I hated him.
‘If it’s any consolation it did my head in saying all those things.’ He sighed with a great rush. ‘And doing that bloody questionnaire yoke.’
‘But you had to,’ I comforted him. ‘It was for my good.’
‘Man, I hated myself,’ he replied.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ I consoled.
‘But I did anyway,’ he complained.
‘But you shouldn’t have. I was awful.’
‘Ah, you weren’t,’ he said.
‘I was.’
‘You weren’t.’
‘I was.’
‘Well, you were sometimes, I suppose,’ he eventually agreed.
‘Of course I was.’ I smiled to hide my kick of discomfort. ‘And it was especially decent of you to come and put yourself through that ordeal when we weren’t even married or in a serious relationship, when you weren’t even in love with me…’
‘Hey, I was in love with you,’ he interrupted, in a wounded tone.
‘You weren’t,’ I reminded him.
‘I was.’
‘Luke,’ I pointed out, ‘I’m not giving out to you here, but you told everyone in my therapy group that you never loved me.
‘I have witnesses,’ I added, with a stab at humour.
‘Oh God, I did, didn’t I?’ he said, rubbing his stubble in a gesture that I recognized from another life. ‘I did, of course.’
He turned an urgent look on me. ‘I shouldn’t have said it, but I was angry, Rachel, I was very angry with you. For the way you’d treated me, and for the way you’d treated yourself.’
I swallowed. It still hurt to hear him say such a thing. Nice to know he had loved me once, I thought.
‘Weird, isn’t it?’ Luke said thoughtfully. ‘How time changes things. One day I’m raging with you, next thing it’s more than a year later and I’m not pissed-off anymore.’
Thank God, I thought with shuddering relief.
‘Even though I was angry, of course I loved you!’ he declared earnestly. ‘Do you think I’d fly three thousand miles to sit in a spooky room with a crowd of weirdos and trash you if I didn’t love you?’
We both burst out laughing.
‘You trashed me a lot,’ I said. ‘So you must have really loved me.’
‘Oh, I did.’ He nodded ironically. ‘I did.’
Suddenly the mood had shifted upwards.
I asked after Gaz and the lads. Which led us seamlessly into a series of ‘Do you remember?’s. ‘Remember the day of Gaz’s tattoo?’ ‘Wasn’t it hilarious the way it got infected afterwards?’ ‘Remember the time we made popcorn and set the kitchen on fire?’ ‘And Joey had stolen the fire extinguisher from work?’ ‘Wasn’t it so handy?’ ‘I’d forgotten about that.’ ‘I’d forgotten about it too, until now.’
There was a bit of tentative arm-touching as we jogged each other’s memories. Delicious, bittersweet, a faint echo of other contact.
When we’d done enough reminiscing, I wheeled out my recent achievements like a child showing off her birthday presents.
‘I haven’t had a drink or a drug for a year and four months,’ I boasted.
‘Fair play to you, Rachel.’ Luke smiled with admiration.
I pulsated with pleasure.
‘And I’m going to un-i-ver-sit-y,’ I spelt out slowly, for maximum effect, ‘in October.’
That nearly floored him.
‘Are you really?’ He goggled.
‘Oh yes.’ I grinned. ‘To do psychology.’
‘Fuck me!’ he exclaimed.
We both ignored the flirt-opportunity afforded by that remark. Things were different from the way they’d been two years before. Very different indeed.
‘Next you’ll be telling me you’re getting married,’ he said, ‘for the transformation to be complete.’
I smiled. The very thought!
‘Are you?’ he asked, when we’d sat in silence for a while.
‘Am I what?’
‘Getting married.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t be mad,’ I tisked.
‘Haven’t you met any nice lads in Ireland?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Plenty of eejits,’ I added. ‘But no nice lads.’
He laughed, his teeth white, his aura dangerous. My insides flipped.
‘You always made me laugh,’ he said.
‘And not just when I took my clothes off?’ I quipped.
I shouldn’t have. His eyes kind of lit up and clouded over simultaneously. Memories and sensations came racing back. I could almost smell the way his skin used to smell when we were in bed together. The good mood was instantly dispelled. The tension back in force, accompanied by sadness and colossal, awful regret. In that moment I hated myself for being an addict, for ruining what might have been a great relationship. The grief I felt was mirrored in Luke’s eyes.
We looked at each other, then had to look away. I’d thought that the day in the Cloisters was the deathknell of the relationship, but it wasn’t. It was only happening now.
‘Rachel,’ Luke said awkwardly, ‘I just want to say that you’re not to feel guilty anymore about me.’
I shrugged miserably.
‘Would it sound really corny if I said that I forgive you?’ he asked sheepishly.
‘Of course not,’ I said earnestly. ‘I want you to forgive me.’
‘You know,’ he said kindly, ‘you weren’t that bad.’
‘Wasn’t I?’ I asked.
‘Not always,’ he said. ‘And on a good day, there was no one better than you.
‘No one,’ he repeated gently, kindly, ‘ever.’
‘Honestly?’ I whispered. His unexpected tenderness made me weepy.
‘I mean it,’ he whispered back. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it, what with me being off my face all the time and everything. So it was good with us sometimes?’
‘Lots of times,’ he said. Both of us were barely moving, even the air had stopped circulating around us.
A tear rolled smoothly down my cheek. ‘Sorry,’ I said, wiping it away. ‘But I didn’t think you’d be nice to me.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ he asked in genuine surprise. ‘I am nice.’
Of course, he was. He was a nice man, once upon a time he’d been my nice man. A rush of loss momentarily withered me.