Issues were raised about toilets, about his ability to take part in a fire evacuation. Questions were asked about whether he would be able to attend functions and conferences without a carer. Whether he would be able to fly for meetings abroad. How he could navigate his daily working life without experiencing ‘unnecessary strain, both physical and mental.’
Harry is many things, but slow on the uptake is not one of them. He saw through it immediately, realised that they were placing obstacles in his path to deliberately discourage him from returning.
It was hard for him – so much of his identity and self-esteem was tied up in that job. I didn’t care about the money or the posh cars, but I did care about him.
I should have known better. Harry’s self-esteem was made of sterner stuff. He had a couple of very tough weeks where he was devastated – broken by what he saw as a betrayal. I know his parents were worried, his dad setting him up with interviews with golf-club buddies who’d be ‘lucky to have a man of his skills’.
Maybe that’s what finally dragged him out of it – the thought of accepting what he saw as a charity job from a middle-aged bloke in pink chequered socks.
So instead of crumpling, he worked even harder. He spent hours in the gym, on the supported treadmill, in the pool. Weeks and months of effort and pain and gruesome determination, as well as learning everything he could about his condition, helping his body learn and relearn how to function as well as it could in its new state.
He went on a wheelchair masterclass, and by the end of it was agile and confident – coming a long way from the early days, when he could be defeated by a cash machine. He spoke to new doctors, new therapists, to other spinal-injuries patients, to small companies that provided cutting-edge equipment. He knew he would have problems – with fatigue, with pain, with blood pressure, with sex, with maintaining his human dignity. He knew all of it, and he decided that he could deal with it.
It sounds like a training montage in a movie, doesn’t it? Something that would be condensed into five minutes of heroic sweat and effort for our handsome hero.
The reality was that it took a lot longer than that, took a lot more effort than that. There were some very dark times. Times I thought he couldn’t push any further.
I was wrong – and he refused to give up on himself. The part of me that had fallen in love with him all those years ago was thrilled. Thrilled to see that spirit, the drive that was always the flip-side of the arrogance. Thrilled to see him parlay the issues with his former employers into a hefty settlement, to see him unafraid to embrace the challenges of his new life.
He knew that he was going to need care, going to need help and support, for some time yet. That he was going to be dependent on me – at least for a while. But he was always insistent that it wouldn’t last forever.
What can I say? He was right. He is sitting opposite me now, flexing his biceps unnecessarily as he lifts his coffee mug. He has navigated his way here from the converted barn where he has his office without any assistance, driving his adapted car. He is theCEOof his enterprise, leading a staff of five. He is making a difference to the lives of the individuals he helps, and he is attempting to change the way people with disabilities are perceived by others.
I am so very, very proud of him – he has overcome so much, and has perhaps earned a quick flirtation with a now-blushing waitress.
‘Are you sure about this? Are you ready?’ he asks.
‘Not really.’ I pile small sachets of sugar into a higgledy-piggledy pile to distract myself. ‘You?’
I expect a glib reply – an ‘I was born ready’ or suchlike – but instead he ponders the question, sipping his coffee.
‘Well, I’d be lying if I said I was one hundred per cent. At the beginning, when things were … the way they were … it was helpful, the attention. And I’ve never exactly been a wallflower, have I? But I know you hated it, Elena. And I still don’t know why you’ve decided now is the time to talk about it all, after almost a decade of solid English denial.’
‘I don’t either … I just feel it’s the right time to talk about it.’
‘Some might say perhaps it’s a little overdue, nine years on?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe they’d be right. But it was hectic, wasn’t it? And when we came home there was so much else to deal with. So much else to distract me.’
‘I know,’ he says, reaching out to place his hand over mine. ‘I know how hard it was for you then. I didn’t at the time, I don’t think. I was too self-obsessed, which I’ll allow myself considering the circumstances. But I know what it cost you, putting me first. I know how much you gave up.’
I meet his eyes, and wonder if he does. I wonder if I do. I wonder if we are skirting near to a dangerous honesty. That opening up to Em, to each other, to ourselves, will change the shape of our lives and our relationship.
He lifts his hand from mine, and knocks over my sugar-sachet pile with a laugh.
‘Don’t look so scared. You don’t have to do it. We don’t. We could tell her we’ve changed our minds. Or … or we could accept that you need this, even if it is making you look like you’re facing a firing squad. We could accept that it’s okay for everything not to be perfect, and we could have a little faith that your instinct is right – that this will be a good thing. That whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. We’ll deal with anything.’
‘You think?’ I ask, almost amused at his certainty. ‘Anything?’
‘I think. Life has already thrown a few stinkers at us, Elena. And the logic of doing this is solid – there is going to be publicity around the anniversary. At least this way, we’re involved; we have some control. Some good may even come of it – and if not, well … free therapy.’
He is, of course, right. Life has thrown a few stinkers at us. I’m still not entirely sure that it’s finished. I have secrets I have never shared with this man – this man who I share a life and a home and a past with. I wonder if it is the same for him? If he also feels this unfurling of the wings of change inside him, the need to metamorphose?
But I also wonder if any marriage could survive full disclosure, and if what I am doing here is less an act of therapy, and more an act of sabotage.
Luckily I am saved from too much wondering by the arrival of Em and Ollie.
They cause a subtle stir in the café. It’s November, a crisp and beautiful day, the sunlight shining onto a flat, grey sea, gulls wheeling and turning overhead. Still gorgeous, but a lot quieter than summer, when the whole area is awash with camper vans and surfboards and tired parents and toddlers covered in ice cream. At this time of year there are very few tourists, and any new blood attracts a second glance.
