It’s my turn to stare.
Does she know?
Can it really be possible that sheknows?
‘Claudia,’ she persists. ‘Have you heard a … bird?’
She refuses to tell me how she’s guessed about the bird.
‘Not until you’ve done some more talking,’ she says, and, pushing away her unsweetened tea, suggests we fetch our coats and leave for the cemetery.
‘Are you really sure about this?’ I ask her. ‘You’ve never wanted to go before.’
‘No,’ she agrees, ‘but I think we need to go now.’
‘Why?’
‘Let’s get there first.’
‘Mum, come on … ’
‘No, I’m not saying anything else until we’re there.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll tell you when we’re there,’ she repeats, in a definitive tone that lets me know there’s no point pushing her further.
So, with a frustrated sigh, I tell her I’ll see her outside in five minutes, then head back to my room to layer up.
It’s been cleaned in my absence: the bed made; the bathroom reordered. Nick’s obviously been and gone too; he’s left a note on my pillow telling me to please make use of it and get some more sleep. I touch my fingers to the paper, picturing him here in his costume, and – replaying his kiss this morning, everything yesterday – wish I hadn’t missed him.
You’re enough for me, he told me last night, and it made my heart swell.
I feel it happening again now, remembering.
I think I might actually be starting to believe it.
Believe him.
Perhaps that’s why I’m feeling so guilty that, in the space of one barely eaten breakfast, I’ve opened up to Mum more than I have him. Because how many times has he implored me to confide in him? And how many times have I remained silent, hurting him more, when he’s been hurting so much already? I have no idea, it’s too many to count, and it makes me really ashamed that I’ve done that to him.
Him, who at the start of all this drove from York to Highgate at a moment’s notice, just because I called to ask him to dinner with my family.
Him,who invited Phil and my sisters along with him flying, didn’t flinch when Lisa vomited on his feet, but joked with her about it, then took Hannah and her friends out in London, even though it was undoubtedly the last thing he felt like doing that night.
Him, who I’ve scared enough with my behaviour that he’s been agonising over it with my friends, called Mum when I fell, then sat in a plastic chair by my side all day long yesterday, holding my hand, silently panicking that I’d deliberately thrown myself down that flight of stairs.
Him,who believes I’m beautiful when I’m wearing a shower cap, and can still make me laugh, even when I’m crying.
Him, who today has used his break from a full-on day filming to check on me, and leave a note on my pillow.
Him,whose face I’ve always loved more than any other, until I saw Robbie Grayson’s, and who really does deserve so much better than to share heart-space with a man who died nearly eighty years ago.
Him, who, whatever his own secrets, I need, finally, to be transparent with about that, and everything else I’ve been holding so close.
I’ll do it tonight, I decide, shrugging on my coat.
Then, pocketing his note, I head back downstairs, buzzing with apprehension, and impatience too, determined to get to the bottom of whatever it is Mum knows, and hasn’t been telling me.
