“OK,” I say.
“OK to me staying, or OK to me going?” he asks.
“I don’t mind. I just need to sleep.”
“OK,” he repeats. “I’ll leave you to it then.” He moves over to me, automatically kisses me. I kiss him back, watch as he picks his stuff up, moves to the door, closes it behind him.
I go to bed, not bothering to wash, brush my teeth, or put pajamas on. I collapse in a heap, my running gear firmly plastered to my overwrought body. I fall onto my bed and sleep the sleep of the dead. Dreams of Davey rush in and out of my mind and, even though I’m dreaming, I’m still dizzy.
Chapter 24
I’ve done everythingI can. It’s not up to me, on this side of the world, to save a man on the other side. Part of me hates that responsibility and is so incredibly angry that Grant felt he had to turn to me, and that I was the final key to try in the lock of getting Davey into his last chemo. And the other part finds it incredible that, after all this time, Grantdidfeel he could call me and that I could make a difference. Davey and I haven’t spoken in months. That Grant called, does that tell me things about how Davey feels about me? Has he spoken to Grant…has Davey been speaking to his best friend about me—still—after all this time? I push this thought aside. It helps no one, least of all me, going down this path. And the way I treated George yesterday was unforgivable. I left him on his own in the park.
I climb out of bed the next morning, renewed. I’m not at peace but I’m halfway there. I needed that, yesterday. I didn’t realize it at the time because I was so desperate to talk to Davey. But actually yesterday’s call didn’t mark the beginning. It marked the end. I need to put Davey behind me. I thought when we next spoke it would be the beginning of something, a fire starting underneath us, reigniting us. But he’s with someone. And I’m with someone.
It’s over. Speaking to him was never going to be the precursor to something greater. I can see that now, in what I would like to say is the cold light of day. But the spring sunshine filters inthrough the windows, bringing with it that change in weather, that freshness where London hits the periphery of summer. Spring is making way for the trickle of brightness that brings with it something resembling heat. I leave my coat at home today. A light little white blazer hangs at the back of my wardrobe and I pair it with skinny jeans and some pointy flats. I never dress like this. I’m not exactly drab, but I’m not remarkable in my clothing choices for work, but today I up my game, just a smidge.
I didn’t know I was half-waiting for this thing with Davey to really, finally end. And I breathe in the fresh air, or as fresh as it gets in London, as I walk toward the station, picking up a coffee en route. I don’t get my usual order; instead I opt for a macchiato and—I will not tell George—a shot of vanilla syrup. I feel different. I will be different. I consider George for a moment. Perhaps I should tell him about the syrup, actually. Perhaps today is a good day to start being a bit more honest with him, to focus more fully on him, on us. Davey’s gone. And George is here. Today could be a fresh start for everything.
This afternoon I have a presentation at work. We’re pitching to run the marketing campaigns for a charity that focuses on prisoner rehabilitation. I actually play quite a major role in the whole pitch process. Because my boss, Craig, wants to bring out the big guns, all of us are involved in wooing a new client, telling them everything we have to offer, and, from a marketing point of view, I have to wow and amaze. For once I think I can wow and amaze. I could probably do this presentation in my sleep, actually, I’ve been doing the same job for so long, and so I spent extra time researching the various ways prisoners are rehabilitated. I don’t want to overstep the mark, but I can see there are ways to market the charity in addition to what they already do: team up with big companies and get them involved in mentorship schemes. I’ve had loads of other ideas and have toyed with whether or not to mention them. But I can see there’s probably a bit more inputthey could squeeze out of people without it costing the charity a single penny. It doesn’t strictly fall under the remit of marketing, but it’s all communications.
I’m diligent and have overprepared, as usual. I’m actually good at my job. This pitch is not the most challenging thing I’ve ever done with my life, which is probably why I’ve had time to put a bit more research into it. So today I feel confident. Life is beginning again for me. Today will cement that.
And so I’m shocked at myself when I’m standing in the ladies’ bathroom, before the presentation is due to start, checking my makeup, and my phone beeps from a US number I haven’t saved. It’s Grant and my stomach tightens, as I dread what the message may contain. I open it:I don’t know what you said to him, Hannah. But Davey just went in for his last chemo. Thank you. Grant x
I hold my phone to my chest, close my eyes, and thank whatever there is up above me—the gods, the Fates, whatever—for sending Davey in for his chemotherapy. There’s no part of him that belongs to me now, but I am so overwhelmed that, stupidly, I let silent tears fall down my face. A woman comes out of a cubicle, hands me a tissue from one of the dispensers near the mirrors.
“Are you OK?” she asks.
I nod. “Thank you, yes.” Although she can see I’m not, but the polite answer to that question is never “No,” and then you sob your heart out. So I pull myself together.
“Can I help?” she asks.
I shake my head, and say, “No, thanks.” And then, because I can’t help myself, I smile meekly, roll my eyes at myself, and say, “Boy trouble.”
“Ah,” she says knowingly. “They can be shits, can’t they? That’s why I only date women,” she says with a laugh.
Her comment raises a smile from me.
And then she says, “If he doesthisto you”—as she gestures to my blotchy face—“then he’s probably not worth it.”
“Ordinarily yes,” I say. “But it’s not like that. He’s sick. Cancer. And so…” I trail off. Oh God, why am I talking? I should have just nodded in agreement, pretended I had a crap boyfriend.
Her face changes. “Oh, I’m so, so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” I say, trying to make lightness rise from the darkness. I realize this is what Davey said to me the moment I told him I was sorry he had cancer.
She rests herself against the sinks, pulls another wad of tissues from the dispenser, and hands them to me.
I look in the mirror and find my mascara has headed a centimeter south. “Oh Christ,” I say, rubbing makeup off my face.
“My girlfriend had breast cancer,” she says suddenly and I swivel to look at her. “Cruel illness,” she says simply.
I nod in solemn agreement. “It really is. Is she…OK now?” I ask tentatively.
She nods her head. “Alive. Lucky to be so. It’s aggressive. We’re always on the lookout for signs it might return. We try not to let that dominate our lives, but we’re careful.”
“I feel so inexperienced in this. He lives in the US and I live here and so we aren’t even seeing each other anymore—or whatever it was we were doing, being thousands of miles apart.” I take a deep breath, spilling my guts to this poor woman I’ve just met, who had the misfortune to find me crying in the ladies’ bathroom. “And I didn’t see him because he wouldn’t let me see him. He pushed me away. He lives so far away and he pushed me even further.”
