‘Of me?’
‘Of us. This.’ Erin couldn’t believe she was saying it. She worshipped Adam, still loved him ferociously. But there was no way she could deal with him turning up out of the blue like this any more, expecting her to welcome him with open arms, but knowing he was about to go back on tour and – probably – sleep with anyone who threw themselves at him.
‘But I love you.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think you do. You just like me being here whenever you want me.’
He didn’t answer for a moment, then he stood with a jerk, and started pulling his jeans on, then his filthy T-shirt. As she watched him she nearly shouted at him to stop, that she loved him, that she wanted him to stay. And the truth was she really did want him to. But she also knew that she couldn’t keep doing this, that things would only continue to spiral if she gave in again now. It took all her willpower to let him walk away.
When he finally shut the door of her student room behind him, her legs collapsed beneath her, and she dragged herself onto her bed, dug out her favourite Pearl Jam CD, and listened to ‘Black’, the lyrics about being a star in someone else’s sky torturing her as the thought of never seeing Adam again filled her with a terrible, agonising ache, like a bruise that was too tender to touch.
That’s where Greg found her, hours later. ‘Black’ was playing for the hundredth, two-hundredth time, and she’d cried so much she had no more tears left to shed. She felt like an empty husk, hollowed out, and when Greg tapped on the door, she ignored it at first. But when there was no answer the tapping became more insistent until she couldn’t stand it any longer, and she leapt up and yanked the door open.
‘What?’
‘Oh Erin.’ Greg stepped into the room and wrapped his arms around her and she collapsed into his chest, let him walk her to her bed and curled up with her head on his lap. As she lay peacefully with this lovely, lovely man comforting her, stroking her hair back from her face, his hands so soft and gentle, she felt the pain seeping away. Greg had turned the music off and Erin could hear the thump of his pulse, and his skin felt so warm, and smelt so good. She sat up, finally, utterly spent. Her face was so close to his she could see the veins in his eyes, the tiny lines on his lips. He was so kind to her, so different to the man she’d loved for the last year, and she felt his desire for her so brightly it was as though it was seeping out of him and into her. Her skin pulsed with expectation.
Did she love him? Could it be that she’d been so blinded by Adam that she’d missed what had been right in front of her all this time? That, in fact, it was kind-hearted, handsome Greg who she loved, who she was supposed to be with? Greg, who adored her, who treated her like a princess? And so what if she didn’t feel the same heat between them as she felt when Adam was near her – what good had that done her anyway? Greg’s love was stronger; it made her feel warm, safe. Adored.
Without breaking eye contact, she moved closer, closer, closer, until she felt his warm lips on hers, and she pressed her hand against his cheek. He hesitated a moment, pulled back.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Absolutely sure,’ she whispered.
He didn’t need telling twice. And as their kiss deepened, as Greg felt his way hesitantly around this body he’d only been allowed to admire from afar until now, he felt as though he had everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever need.
And that was the moment Erin knew she’d do everything she could to make sure he was everything she would ever need too.
15
NOW
Fleetwood Mac: ‘Everywhere’
My father was a hoarder, by which I don’t just mean that he had a couple of rooms full of junk waiting to be sorted out. My father’s house – my childhood home – was so packed full ofstuffthat I could barely squeeze my way inside. Newspapers and books teetered in precarious mountains along both sides of the entrance hall; boxes and pieces of furniture and suitcases and old TVs were shoved into every single room, sometimes piled as high as the ceiling. Some rooms were entirely inaccessible as items had fallen and blocked the doorway. The ones you could get into were so crammed there was barely room to turn around to come back out again. The only rooms he now used were the kitchen – where the cooker and the fridge were about the only things anyone could get close to, the ancient dining table having long been surrendered to the piles of junk on top of it – the lounge, where an ancient sofa, an armchair and a TV were still visible among the junk – and his bedroom where there was no floor space but he could just about climb onto one side of the bed.
Of course I knew that hoarding was meaningful, that it could be a sign of unprocessed grief – even if I weren’t a psychologist it would be obvious to me. After all, my father had always been so neat and tidy when my mother was around, as though by being that way she’d feel as though he were looking after her. But he’d always liked to collectthings– shells, a collection of pipes, novelty ties, vinyl records – and when my mother had moved into the care home eight years previously, there was no longer any reason for my father to stop filling his home with the junk that comforted him. And so he didn’t.
I’d tried to talk to him about it, but he didn’t want to listen, he couldn’t admit that there was anything wrong with what he was doing, or that he was so obviously trying to fill the gaping hole my mum had left in his life withthings. So instead, I did what I always did, which was to try and convince him to let me help him sort it out – usually without much success.
Even though I visited him at least once a week, it didn’t stop my heart from sinking every time I got there and was confronted with the true state of the house I’d always loved. Today was no different.
Greg and I usually spent Christmas Day alone or with Rose and Sam, but this year I’d promised my father we’d spend it with him. I wasn’t sure what to expect, given that we could barely access the kitchen, let alone the oven. But we’d come prepared.
‘Here we go,’ I said as we pulled up outside the house.
‘Have we got everything?’ Greg peered over his shoulder to where the bags were piled on the back seat.
‘I bloody hope so.’ I grimaced. Greg reached over and took my hand and squeezed it and I felt a ripple of guilt at the image of Adam that flitted through my mind at his touch.
‘Just try not to let it bother you too much for today, okay?’
‘Easier said than done,’ I grumbled, but acquiesced. I reached over and grabbed a bag from the back seat, and handed it to Greg. ‘Let’s go.’
We climbed out of the car and I pushed open the metal gate, which was half hanging off its hinges, and squeaked as though we were in a horror film. This garden had always been overgrown, but now it was something else; ivy and honeysuckle tugged at the fence, roses extended their creeping hands round the window-frames and knocked gently on the glass. A tree I used to climb had grown so huge it covered most of the windows and soared well beyond the rooftop. The house would be completely buried in the undergrowth before too long if someone didn’t do something about it soon. I made a note to call a gardener in the new year, whether my father liked it or not.
I reached the door and knocked. The door probably wasn’t locked but I didn’t like to just let myself in. But as the seconds ticked past and nobody came, my heart began to race. Had something happened to him? Had he been crushed beneath one of the towering piles of junk, the way I’d always feared he would be? I was about to try the door handle when a silhouette appeared through the stained glass. When the door swung open I smiled with relief.
