But I feel bad hiding things from Em, lying by omission. We are becoming close, we are becoming friends, and I hate the thought of her feeling betrayed.
‘He didn’t go to the stall,’ I say abruptly, interrupting her as she talks about her positioning of the couple from Manchester, who we have nicknamed The Fight-a-lots. ‘He didn’t buy the ring.’
‘What?’ she says, frowning in confusion. ‘Of course he did. He bought you the ring that night, and proposed when he was out of his coma. He even did it on television!’
‘He did. And here I am, married to him, and wearing his ring. But, actually, Em, I recently discovered – like, two days ago – that there was a slight massaging of the truth going on.’
‘A massage with a happy ending?’
‘I suppose. He actually got one of the nurses to buy it for me, one just like the rings at the stall, but … but he says he was planning on asking me anyway, and I believe him.’
Em is narrowing her eyes, staring at a particularly garish pastel watercolour behind me, and obviously weighing things up.
‘Okay. You definitely believe him? You don’t feel like there’s any way he said that because of what happened …’
‘You mean to try and trap me into marriage because he was injured and thought he’d better bag a wife while he could?’
She shrugs, refusing to be embarrassed. ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I mean. Because that would be … bad.’
‘It would be,’ I reply. ‘But honestly? I don’t think that’s the case. I do believe him. I think he always had it in mind, always planned it … it was the next logical step as far as he was concerned.’
‘And you? Was it the next logical step for you?’
That, of course, is a big question. The simple answer is no – it was not the next logical step for me. Harry knows this; I have told him that I was planning to leave, to travel, but I am not willing to humiliate him like that by discussing it with anybody else. I just shrug.
‘But why lie?’ she says. ‘Why claim he bought it there, that night? What if someone like the nurse said otherwise? What if he was found out? Why would he take that kind of risk?’
‘Harry always takes risks,’ I explain. ‘It’s part of who he is. He works on the assumption that life is on his side, despite much evidence to the contrary. As to why … I think he felt vulnerable. And that was an entirely new feeling for him, and it led to him making a poor decision. He was taking a risk asking me to marry him, and I suppose he wanted to do everything he could to stack the odds in his favour. I’m … I’m okay with it, Em. We’ve all made mistakes, haven’t we? We’ve all made bad decisions. I didn’t want to hide it from you, but I also don’t want to embarrass him by including this in the programme, if there’s any way you can avoid it.’
I realise as I say it that I am protecting Harry again – that I cannot quite shake the belief that he needs protecting. That whatever our faults as a couple, I do not want to wilfully hurt him.
She pauses, and I see her professional brain kick in. The conflict between the urge to tell the truth, and her loyalty to us. To me.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she replies. ‘And thank you for telling me. I’ll have to be a bit more imaginative with the blue Harry blob … maybe he can tell me some of the places he did wander off to, then.’
‘Thank you – and we’ll understand, whatever you decide. As for what he did that night, I don’t think you’ll have much luck. He says he basically doesn’t remember anything. He says his mind is a blank from leaving me at the restaurant. Apparently a traumatic spinal injury and a coma isn’t very good for the memory banks.’
‘Shelley said pretty much the same,’ Em says. ‘She was in a coma for longer than Harry, and it was a long road to recovery for her. She didn’t have the spinal injury, but she basically had to re-learn how to talk, walk, everything. She spent years living back with her parents, and even now she’s moved out, it sounds like she’s a bit of a hermit. No chance at all of getting her back to the village.
‘As for that night, she has no memory of any of it, even getting off the coach …’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Poor Shelley. Did she get her photos developed?’
‘Not sure. I don’t want to push too hard. She’s had that camera for years – it’s a miracle it survived – but she’s been too … I dunno, too scared to look at the pics?’
‘Well, yes. I can imagine. Because not remembering that night is … well, it’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it? Maybe it’s better for her not to. Maybe her mind is trying to protect her by not remembering. Maybe seeing the photos might open up parts of her memory that she doesn’t want to face.’
‘Exactly. I don’t blame her at all. But a bit like us, she feels like now is the time to face them … her whole life has been derailed. She was planning on becoming a lawyer, and now she’s unemployed. She had a boyfriend and wanted kids, and now she goes weeks on end without seeing another human being. She’s alive, but she’s not doing much living – and we’re not the only ones using this project as a form of therapy.
‘I don’t know, Elena. I just hope I don’t end up feeling responsible for pushing her over the edge. I couldn’t cope with that. Sometimes, doing this job, you push … you have to. It’s part of it. But if I push Shelley too hard, and that damages her, I’ll never forgive myself, you know?’
I nod. I do know. This is a tough road for all of us, and for Shelley it didn’t only leave her severely injured, it effectively took the lives of three of her friends.
Em sighs, and closes down the laptop screen.
She rubs her cheeks as though she is scrubbing them. She looks so tired. Drained and exhausted and ten years older.
I realise that all of this is taking its toll on her. I’m reliving my own nightmares, but she’s reliving everyone’s. She is carrying my story, and Shelley’s, and Harry’s, and her own family’s. She is retelling a night that took the life of her own father, and left her traumatised.
