Because She Loves Me

  ‘That was the worst mistake . . .’

  ‘You ever made?’

  Her eyes had gone blank, and I knew she’d gone deep inside her head, had left my bathroom and withdrawn into her memory. The tap dripped. Plink. Plink. Plink. I counted. After eleven drips, Charlie came back into the room.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. I’m sorry.’ She shook her head and smiled, like the whole topic was forgotten, like we’d been talking about our favourite chocolate or childhood TV shows. ‘Want me to join you?’

  Before I could answer, she had stripped off, chucking her clothes on the floor, and jumped into the bath, and while I wanted to ask her about her ex, Leo, and the worst mistake Charlie had ever made, yet again my body took over, told my mind to shut up, stop worrying. Enjoy the ride.

  I leaned on my crutch by the front window, dried and dressed. Maybe it was because of the long sleep, but my leg felt less painful today, nothing a couple of normal painkillers couldn’t cure. And although I had mild cravings for codeine, I was able to distract myself, not think about it too hard.

  ‘The snow and ice have all gone,’ I pointed out to Charlie, who had been in the bedroom drying her hair.

  ‘I know. The thaw finally arrived.’

  ‘I want to go out,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘I’m going completely stir crazy here. If it’s not slippery, it will be fine. You’ll just have to catch me if I fall over! Come on, I’m not going to be dissuaded.’

  Ten minutes later we stood on the street, after a wobbly journey down the stairs, wrapped in our coats against a bitter wind. But the cold breeze felt wonderful, like inhaling mints, filling my lungs, making my heart beat faster, my blood pump harder.

  ‘Let’s go to the park,’ I said.

  It was far more challenging to walk on crutches outside than in the confined space of my flat, but Charlie stayed close to me, teasing me about being a ‘poor wounded soldier.’ I soon settled in to a rhythm and when I relaxed I felt more alive than I had in two weeks, like I’d been let out of prison.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you haven’t been institutionalised,’ Charlie said when I told her this.

  ‘You have been an excellent cell-mate though.’

  ‘Hmm. More like a warden.’

  We passed through the park gates.

  ‘That gives me an idea,’ Charlie said, a wicked twinkle in her eye. ‘We could play prison guard and inmate. I’ll get some handcuffs and a big stick, and you can wear a jumpsuit.’

  ‘Kinky.’

  ‘If you behave yourself, you’ll get special privileges. But if you’re naughty, if you disobey me . . .’

  ‘You scare me sometimes,’ I laughed.

  The park was beautiful. Tree bark glistened with frost. Spidery branches were framed by the steely-blue sky. Chunks of ice floated in the lake where Charlie and I had made love, though I shivered to remember the feeling of being watched and the second-hand memory of the boy who had drowned here, on a day just like this. I stopped to give Charlie a kiss, leaning on my crutches, and we walked on, up to the big house where we bought hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows and watched some pre-school kids running about on the grass.

  ‘Do you like kids?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Kids? Yeah, definitely. I mean, I’m not ready to have any yet, but one day. How about you?’

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

  I spat out my hot chocolate.

  ‘Just kidding.’ She laughed uproariously.

  ‘Charlie! Don’t do that to me.’

  ‘Judging by that reaction, you’re definitely not ready. No, I do like kids. I sometimes have dreams where I have a little boy who has hair the same colour as mine and he’s wearing a stripy T-shirt and he holds my hand and tells me he’ll love me forever.’

  ‘That’s sweet.’

  ‘They never do though. Boys, especially. They always leave their mums.’ She watched a pair of little girls running in circles, shrieking. ‘I don’t know how I’d feel about having a daughter though.’

  ‘I’m sure you’d be an excellent mum. You’re so caring and nurturing.’

  She laughed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. You look after me.’

  She ruffled my hair. ‘You’re my little boy. You won’t leave me, will you?’

  ‘Never. But the little boy thing is a bit creepy.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry about that.’

  On our way out of the park, we passed a woman with long blonde hair, wearing an expensive-looking black coat. She could have been a model, with sharp cheekbones and huge eyes.

  ‘See something you liked?’ Charlie said, after the woman had passed and was out of earshot. A switch had been flicked and Charlie’s mood had changed in an instant.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘That girl. I saw you staring at her.’

  Charlie stopped walking and I was forced to stop too.

  ‘Staring? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I saw you. Your tongue fell out of your mouth. You were practically drooling.’

  ‘No I wasn’t.’

  She moved in front of me. ‘So tell me you weren’t staring at her.’

  ‘Charlie, this is ridiculous. I looked at her, sure. But . . .’

  ‘Looked at her?’

  ‘Yes, but just an, I don’t know, appraising look.’

  ‘Appraising?’

  Her voice had grown louder and I looked around, worried someone might hear. It was embarrassing. But there was no one nearby.

  ‘That’s the wrong word,’ I said. ‘Charlie, this is ridiculous. You’re accusing me of what? Fancying her? Planning to track her down and . . . hobble off with her?’

  ‘No. But you were wishing you could be with someone like her. Instead of me.’

  I was flabbergasted. ‘Charlie, I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I have no interest in other women. None. I promise you. This is crazy.’

  Her face twisted into what I can only describe as a snarl. She jabbed a finger at my chest and hissed, ‘Don’t call me crazy. I am not fucking crazy.’

  And she started to cry.

  ‘Charlie.’ I leaned on one crutch, reached out and pulled her against me, which wasn’t easy, especially when she resisted. Her muscles were wound tight, her back as hard as rock. But then she gave in, relaxed slightly, letting me embrace her awkwardly. I whispered reassurances to her, told her I loved her and didn’t want anyone else. She apologised and promised she would stop being so stupid.

  But I was worried. She’d shown a few signs of being prone to jealousy before, but not this level of irrational insecurity. I was certain I hadn’t looked at the passing woman with my tongue hanging out, as Charlie had put it. But had I stared at her, shown signs of desire without even realising it? I tried to imagine how I would feel if it was the other way round, if some gorgeous bloke walked past and Charlie had looked him up and down, shown obvious signs that she found him attractive. I wouldn’t like it, that was for sure. I wouldn’t, though, accuse her of wishing she was with him. I wouldn’t have got upset about it.

  Then it struck me. The conversation in the bathroom.

  ‘I’m not like him, you know. Leo.’

  She looked up me.

  ‘I’m not going to cheat on you. I’m not going to start staring at other women. I’m not like that. And it’s hard to say this without sounding corny as hell, but I’ve only got eyes for you.’

  She held me tightly, the chilly wind whipping around us, her head pressed against my chest, until my leg began to ache.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go home.’

  Twenty

  It was a glorious sunny winter morning, mild and bright, and I opened the windows to let some of the mustiness out. A couple
of days had passed since I’d awoken from my long sleep. Maria was due that afternoon but I decided to have a pre-spring clean, to sort out some of the admin of my life.

  I emailed Victor to ask if it was OK for me to start work next Monday and he replied immediately: ‘The sooner the better!’ Knowing I would soon have some regular income, I went online to buy replacements for the clothes I’d lost when I fell. The postman brought the necklace I’d ordered as a gift for Charlie, which prompted me to buy some more gifts for her: a couple of lavish art books and, remembering our conversation in the park, some handcuffs with pink fluffy bits that I thought would make her laugh.

  I even managed to get through all my unread emails. I contemplated sending a message to Sasha, whom I’d had no contact with since the unsuccessful night with Charlie, but decided against it. I would leave it a few more days. I didn’t want to risk anything spoiling my good mood.

  As I ate my lunch – mushroom soup that Charlie had prepared and left in the fridge for me – I felt more relaxed than I had for ages. My hibernation period was over; not just the last two weeks, stuck inside in a codeine haze, but the last fourteen years, ever since my parents’ deaths. This felt momentous. I was about to embark on a new chapter of my life. No, not a chapter – a book. Andrew Sumner: Volume 2. Or was it 3?

  Whatever, it felt like things were changing. And as I went around the flat tidying up and sorting out the messy piles of DVDs and books and clothes, I thought about asking Charlie to move in. I was confident she’d want to. She was here all the time and still paying rent on her own place – which I still hadn’t seen. It made sense. Or was it still too soon? It might be a good idea for me to see her place before asking her to move in. What if it was an apocalyptic mess? What if she had a collection of creepy porcelain dolls that she’d want to bring with her?

  I opened the wardrobe, still mulling over these questions in an unhurried way. I began pulling out old clothes, ones that I knew I would never wear again, and bagging them up. My leg was feeling a lot better and I was able to put a little weight on it, was limping about with no crutch, though it was still something of a struggle to lug bags around. By the time I’d half-emptied the wardrobe I was sweating, and I sat down on the edge of the bed to catch my breath.

  I stared into the darkness of the wardrobe. There was a niggle at the back of my mind: something was missing, or different. I got up and peered inside, realising what it was.

  When I’d last sorted out the flat, shortly after splitting from Harriet, I’d put all of my memorabilia of our relationship – photos, cards, notes and postcards – into a large reinforced paper bag. This bag already contained mementoes of my previous relationships, such as they were, along with a load of other bits and pieces that I didn’t want to throw away – fliers from university nights, a couple of mysterious Valentine’s cards whose sender had never revealed herself, my degree certificate and some silly letters that Tilly had written to me while I was at college.

  Beneath all this, in a bag within the bag, were other personal treasures. These were items that were too painful for me to have on display, even though the rational, lucid part of me knew it would be better, healthier if they were out there. These items included photographs of my mum, with her long red hair, and dad, mainly during his eighties fashion-disaster period, when he’d sported a moustache and glasses with oversized frames. There were family pictures too: the four of us, Tilly and me as little kids, on holiday on a beach somewhere, or with our dog, Benji, a cocker spaniel who had died when I was twelve.

  Along with the photos, there were other souvenirs of my parents’ lives. Their wedding certificate (Tilly had the rings and the photo album). Cards that my mum had written to me when I was too young to read, telling me how much she loved me, how proud she was of her only son. Most precious of all, there was my baby book, in which she had recorded not just the basic information like my birth weight and time but her feelings upon meeting me, her firstborn. Stuck into this book was a picture of her and my dad holding me when I was a couple of hours old. My face was pink and puffy but they were gazing at me like I was the most beautiful thing on earth.

  Although Tilly had her own mementoes, every trace of my parents that I owned was in this bag.

  It was missing.

  I moved aside clothes, lifted shoes, pulled boxes and folded jackets off the top shelf. Then, frantic, I pulled everything out, chucking everything on the floor, coat hangers flying, until the wardrobe was empty. I checked on top of it, behind it. Under the bed in case I’d moved it absent-mindedly. I looked inside every cupboard in the house.

  It was gone.

  I sat on the floor of my bedroom, my good mood obliterated, replaced by a dark, cold sickness.

  The doorbell rang and, slowly, I got up to answer it. When Maria came in, and saw the clothes scattered about the room, she looked at them, then at me. Huffing and puffing, she systematically set about sorting everything out, while I sat in the other room, trying not to throw up.

  As soon as Charlie came round, I said, ‘I’ve got something I need to ask you.’

  Her eyes widened. She could tell from my face, I hope, that I wasn’t about to ask her to marry me or move in. Since discovering that my bag had gone missing, I hadn’t even thought about my idea to ask her to live with me.

  ‘In my wardrobe, I had a bag of stuff.’

  I watched her face grow pale.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, Andrew. I was hoping . . .’ She broke off. ‘I was hoping it would turn up before you noticed it was gone.’

  I stared at her, conflicting feelings shooting about beneath my skin. Anger. Horror. Confusion. Even sympathy. She looked so contrite and scared.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘I found it the other night. You know, when you were in your sleeping pill coma. I was getting that blanket out to cover you? Well, I saw the bag and I couldn’t help but look inside – I’m sorry, I know it’s your private stuff but I couldn’t stop myself. I found the pictures of your mum and dad and the cards and all that stuff. And I started to think what a shame it was that it was all just stuffed in a bag in your wardrobe.’

  I got up and poured us both a glass of wine while she talked.

  ‘I was planning to take some of the pictures of your parents and get them framed, maybe get a few of them made into an album. But before I could sort it all out, you woke up. And then the next morning, when I was leaving, I didn’t get a chance to pick out the pictures I wanted so I took the whole bag, smuggled it out without you seeing.’

  I had a horrible feeling I knew what she was going to say.

  ‘And on the way to work, the bus was really busy, and then the Tube was even worse, and I . . . I forgot it. I’m so sorry. I’m sick about it. I stupidly left it somewhere – I don’t even know if I left it on the bus or the train. I’ve been wracking my brains, but I was half-asleep and engrossed in the book I was reading and—’

  ‘Have you reported it?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I’ve been ringing London Transport’s lost property office every few hours, asking if it’s been handed in. They’re getting sick of hearing from me.’

  I stared into my wine. I didn’t know what to say.

  Charlie grabbed my forearm. ‘Please, Andrew. Please don’t be mad with me. I feel like shit, I really do.’

  ‘I’m not mad,’ I said.

  ‘If you want to stop seeing me, I’ll understand.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’m not going to break up with you over something like this.’

  She inched closer. ‘You look like you’re going to cry.’

  That was exactly how I felt. All my stuff. My only connection to my parents. Gone. At least Tilly still had some things. I could probably get copies made, even though we didn’t have the negatives of any of the pictures. Negatives – it sounded so old-fashioned. These days, if you lose a photo y
ou just get another one printed. These ancient artefacts, pictures from the 1980s and 90s, were irreplaceable. Gone forever.

  ‘The guy at the lost property office said it’s likely the cleaner would have thought it was rubbish. I mean, it’s not the kind of stuff someone would steal, is it? And I’ve looked into it, thinking maybe I could go to the rubbish dump, but depending on where it was chucked out, it could have gone to one of half a dozen dumps, and they destroy stuff really quickly. Like the same day.’

  ‘Oh Charlie,’ I said.

  ‘Do you hate me?’

  ‘Of course not. I just think . . . Maybe I should be on my own tonight.’

  She looked at me like I’d suggested that she jump into a fire. ‘You want me to go home?’

  A large part of me wanted her to stay, hated not being with her. But I heard myself say, ‘Yes. I think I need to have a night to myself.’

  She nodded sadly. ‘OK.’

  But after she’d been to the loo and got her coat on and was standing by the front door looking as miserable as a dog who’d just been told off, her hair hanging in her eyes, I said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Stay.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Come on. Take your coat off. I’ll pour more wine.’

  She hooked her hands over my shoulders and pressed her body against me. ‘I love you. And I’m so sorry. Do you want to go to bed?’

  I peeled myself off her. ‘No. Not yet. I’m not in the right mood. Just . . . please stop saying sorry.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So . . .’ I took a deep breath. ‘Let me tell you what else happened today.’

  That night was the first night that we didn’t have sex. Although we cuddled, we kept our underwear on. I feigned exhaustion and Charlie was soon asleep, her arms still wrapped around me.

  I lay and looked at her in the semi-darkness. Her chest rose and fell, her hand twitched in her sleep. She made little murmuring noises. I loved her. There was no doubt about that. But, for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I believed her.