Today, on a late afternoon midweek in winter, it is quiet. The sea is still beautiful, but it has lost its turquoise shimmer, and the car park is less than half full. One solitary man is sitting out at one of the beer-garden tables, smoking a pipe, a chunky black lab asleep at his feet.
I walk to the bar and order myself a large glass of red wine – delighted at the foresight I displayed by not driving here – and a half pint of some hideous-looking real ale that Harry will probably like. I think perhaps this is one of the occasions when we could both use a prop.
Maybe it was the filming, maybe it was facing up to the reality of Alex being back in my life – but I feel stirred and shaken and need to know if he feels the same. If Harry is feeling as uncertain as I am as we navigate our way through this.
By the time I see him pull into the car park from my window seat, I am halfway through my wine, and wondering if I will look like a terrible alcoholic if I immediately order another. I decide I don’t really care, and wave to the barman.
Harry takes a while to get inside – his car has been adapted for his needs, and is automatic with hand controls, but getting his chair in and out is no simple or quick process.
He waves at me through the window, and within a few moments is with me. I see him chat to the manager and say hello to a few people as he passes. He was born and raised in Hertfordshire, but somehow he’s become more part of the community locally than I am. Everyone knows him, everyone likes him – the Harry Effect.
‘Are you all right?’ he says, looking at the wine glass. I don’t usually drink much either. ‘Alison said you sounded upset.’
‘No, I’m not upset,’ I reply, exactly as a new glass of wine is delivered to the table.
‘I can see that,’ he comments wryly, raising an eyebrow. ‘What’s this?’
He points at his glass and I say, ‘I don’t know. A half of Badger’s Bottom or something.’
‘Ah. Who doesn’t love a Badger’s Bottom? Look, what’s wrong? You’re not yourself. What’s happened? Has someone said something to upset you?’
That, I think, is a weird thing to suggest – as though I am a child getting picked on at school. I shake my head. ‘No. It’s just that I thought we should talk. You know, to each other.’
‘All right … I’m still confused. We talk to each other all the time. We’re talking to each other right now.’
‘I mean, about real things. Not what day the recycling is due or whether you need a repeat prescription picking up or what we’re going to have for dinner. I mean real things – things like the things Em is asking us about. Because I saw some of your interview today, and it intrigued me. And I did my first interview today, and I … well, I freaked out a bit. So. Those things.’
‘Ah,’ he says, nodding. ‘Those kinds of things.’ He takes a small sip of his beer. ‘Okay. I can see that it has freaked you out. And maybe you’re right – maybe we should have thought this through a bit more carefully. Weighed up the pros and cons. It’s bound to bring things up, hit some sore spots. So … I don’t know … maybe we should pull out? Say it’s just too much for us?’
I am surprised that he has suggested it, but I don’t know why. It is in fact the logical thing to do. To keep the lights dim, keep the corners dark, keep our personal mythology intact. It’s the easiest thing to do, for sure.
But I find that I don’t want to do any of that – I don’t want to pull out. I don’t want to stay hidden. In fact, I think it’s time that both of us did some spring cleaning.
‘No,’ I reply firmly. ‘That’s not what I want to do.’
‘Well, what do you want to do? Just tell me, and I’ll do it with you.’
The words themselves are supportive, but he sounds slightly exasperated and I can’t say that I blame him.
‘I want to do it, but I want us to be honest with each other. Talking to Em today, seeing your interview, made me realise that we need to talk properly. That we need to be … more truthful with each other.’
I see his eyes widen, and know that I have touched one of those sore spots he mentioned. To his credit, he pauses, puffs some breath in and out, and seems to think about what I’ve said.
‘Right. Honesty. Truth. Big stuff. Are you sure we’re up to it?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know, Harry. But if we get through this, we might be stronger, happier, more together.’
‘And what do you think we are now? Weak and unhappy?’
‘No, I don’t – and I didn’t mean for you to think that. I don’t think either of us is weak, or unhappy. But I also think we’ve both been busily protecting ourselves – protecting each other sometimes – from some of what happened that night, and before, and after. I feel like we both … I don’t know how to say this, but I feel like we both knew that we had to hide things to survive. The impact of it all, and the way it could have crushed us … it didn’t. We got through it. And maybe one of the ways we did that was by ignoring other issues, other truths – and we needed to, back then, I think.’
‘But … you don’t think we need to now?’ he responds.
I smile at him over my second wine glass, and feel an unexpected rush of warmth towards him. He still has the Hugh Grant hair, and the fearlessness that always appealed to me. He is brave – in many ways braver than me.
‘I don’t think we need to any more, Harry, no. And I don’t think we need each other any more, either. You certainly don’t need me. To start with, you did. But now you’re doing brilliantly. You have your work, and you’re pretty much independent, and … like I said, you don’t need me any more. So, I suppose one of the things this might help us figure out is whether wewanteach other …’
He takes another gulp of his beer, seems calm but has a slight flush to his face. I have one moment of fleeting worry – we have to keep an eye on his blood pressure, it’s one of the risk factors he faces – but reassure myself that he is simply surprised. I have performed a small ambush, here, and caught him unawares. I want to apologise, but it has caught me unawares as well.
