Even thinking about it puts me on edge.
‘So, since then,’ she rolls on, seeing how close I am to panic, and moving me on to safer ground. ‘What did it change for you? Tell me about your life now, and how it was altered.’
‘Well,’ I reply, giving it a few minutes’ thought, choosing my words carefully. ‘It definitely changed things. Harry was severely injured, and life got very complicated because of that. We had a lot of medical stuff to deal with: rehab, finding a new home, finding a new way to live. So, yes, it changed a lot.’
‘But that happened to Harry,’ she says, ‘and it had that knock-on effect on your life. But what did it change for you, personally? What did it alter, for good or bad, for you individually?’
I am momentarily stumped by this question. I have spent many years seeing my and Harry’s fates as intermingled. Seeing what happened to him as something that also happened to me. Harry and I were together for a long time before that night. We looked to the world at large like a solid couple, like two people who built a life together and would continue to build a life together.
The fact that we got married, have a home, are still a couple, would surprise nobody who knew us before our trip to Mexico. The reality that other people saw was not my reality – that I never expected to still be with Harry. That I was not happy with him. That we grew so far apart that I thought it was the end. That I even told Alex I couldn’t imagine my future with Harry in it.
I tap the kitchen table with my nail, and feel jittery and wired and suddenly too hot. I feel like I am treading on a minefield here, tiptoeing my way through potential explosions. Even the safer ground feels treacherous – because there is so much I could say, and so little that I can say.
I cannot say that I was unhappy with Harry already, that I was considering ending things. I cannot say that I applied for a job as a volunteer in a school in Guatemala – a job which I got, I found out, over a month later, in a bittersweet,Congratulations, you have been successful!letter that eventually found its way to me.
I cannot say that I wasn’t in love with Harry then. I cannot say that because it would hurt him, and he has been hurt enough.
I cannot say that it derailed my entire life, left me broken in ways nobody could see, both gave me a man who I actually could love and took him away in the same night. I cannot say that I lost a baby, a baby I never even knew existed until it didn’t.
I cannot say that hearing Alex’s name again has lit a small fire inside me.
There is so much that I cannot say that I am left without words. One night in Santa Maria de Alto, so many possible outcomes, so many ways my life could have changed. It was like my own living version of one of those maze puzzles I did as a child, where each pathway you follow takes you to a different dead end, escape, or perhaps even both.
‘I don’t think I can do any more today,’ I say simply, unclipping the collar microphone with shaking hands, and walking from the room.
Chapter 22
Em is understanding, for which I’m grateful. They pack up their gear and she gives me a quick hug.
‘I know it’s hard,’ she says, pulling away as though embarrassed at her unprofessional show of emotion. ‘I’ve only done about half an hour myself because I keep getting angry or sad or both. I’ve got plenty to be getting on with, and I’m due to speak to Shelley in Australia at some ungodly hour anyway – she’s been looking for some more pictures. Even has a whole film on one of those old disposable cameras she needed to get developed. So … I’ll see you tomorrow?’
Once they’ve left, I check in with Olivia and tell her we’re done for the day. She raises her eyebrows at me. ‘That didn’t take long. Are you okay, sis? Want me to come for a walk with you?’
Her concern makes me smile – she hates going for walks as much as I love them. I fake a smile and tell her that I am indeed okay.
I’m actually feeling scattered, confused. One session with Em has made me realise that I need to find my footing, and to do that I think I need to see Harry. I need to talk to him about some of these feelings, some of this anxiety, some of these doubts.
I call his mobile and Alison answers, explaining that he’s on another line.
‘Is it urgent? Is it anything I can help with?’ she asks.
Alison is a super-impressive woman – ten years or so older than me, and raising twin toddlers as a single mum after her partner abandoned ship. She’s always calm and organised and well put together, and I’d quite like to be her when I grow up. But I think this is beyond even her skillset.
‘Thank you, no. Can you get him to meet me at the Cooper’s Arms as soon as possible, please?’
There is a pause, and I imagine she is checking diaries and assessing meeting lengths and being her usual efficient self. Then she replies, ‘He should be able to be there in about forty-five minutes? Are you sure I can’t help?’
‘No, but thanks. Just tell him I need to talk to him.’
I put the phone down and rush around grabbing my coat and bag. Once I’ve done that, I force myself to sit still for a moment, perching on the edge of our bed, and breathe deeply.
There is no need to move so quickly. There is no need to put myself through this hectic dash. There is no need to give in to this strange sense of urgency – yet I can’t deny it’s there, bubbling inside me. The need to move, to run, to explode with all the emotion my conversation with Em has brought up.
I soothe myself enough to let my heart rate steady to that of someone who isn’t actually about to explode, and set off to the pub. As Harry can’t make it straight away, I have time to walk – and I hope the frosty air and traipsing along clifftop ridges will get rid of some of this angsty energy I feel flowing through me. It does help, and I even break out into some little jogs along the way.
The Cooper’s is midway between us and the barn where Harry works. It’s also one of the easiest places for Harry to use, with a big car park with disabled spots right by the door, and accessible toilets. Most of the rooms are large, the tables well-spaced, and it’s not difficult to navigate in a wheelchair. It pays to be prepared in our circumstances – in fact it’s become second nature now.
It’s perched on the side of a steep hill, the waves crashing into the cove down below, and looks like a picture-perfect version of a Daphne du Maurier novel. I never take views like that for granted but, like anywhere, when it’s home you don’t always see it through visitors’ eyes.
