‘About anything. Whatever’s going on in your life that you might be having problems with. I know you’re quite a private guy and I might be barking up the wrong tree—’
‘You are,’ Charlie interrupted.
‘But I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you and I’d said sod all.’
‘Milo, thank you, I appreciate it, I really do. But I’m fine. Honestly. And if there is something worrying me, then I promise I’ll talk to you. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Milo repeated but Charlie knew his friend remained unconvinced.
‘I need a piss,’ Milo said and offered Charlie a half-smile and a pat on the shoulder.
‘Is that an invitation?’ Charlie replied with a wink.
Situation defused, thought Charlie. Alone, he knew the old him would have been grateful to have someone show such concern. Because his former friends wouldn’t have. Now he saw it as an inconvenience.
Later that night and back inside his room, Charlie was changing out of his clothes when the leg wound caught his attention again. He traced its outline with his thumb. It was slightly raised and a crimson colour. He couldn’t cut into it again as it was on Milo’s radar. He would have to challenge his inability to feel through a different means instead.
He recalled the profile Andrew had shown him of Alix. Based on appearances alone, she was very close to his type and once, he would have jumped at the opportunity tomeet someone like her. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his dismissal.
Tomorrow, he would stop by Andrew’s desk and tell him he’d changed his mind. Perhaps Alix might be the one to help him recapture what he’d lost.
Chapter 28
SINÉAD, EDZELL, SCOTLAND
Sinéad sat on a grassy bank by the side of Scotland’s river Esk.
She watched as leaves and twigs floated past, some becoming trapped in mini whirlpools, others sinking or disappearing sharply from view. Last night’s storm had brought silt particles from the riverbed to the surface, leaving the water a murky red colour and of indeterminate depth. Tentatively, she dipped her foot into it, grateful that her muted pain receptors enabled her to endure its icy temperature without fuss. She rolled up her jeans to just above her knees and slowly waded towards the middle. There, she removed six half-pint plastic bottles from a bag hanging over her shoulder. Each bottle contained a handwritten letter, one for each person she hadn’t had the opportunity to say goodbye to before she left Bristol.
It had been one of her therapist’s suggestions; a symbolic gesture and final farewell to the past. The first three letters were to her former closest friends, Imani, Cally and Leanne. Over time, Sinéad’s husband Daniel had made it clear that he disapproved of the time they spent together. He resented their girlie nights without partners when Sinéad returned home smelling of alcohol and fast food. He didn’t appreciate when they’d call or video-message one another. Andonce, when he’d scanned her emails, he exploded with anger when he read a joke she had made about their sex life. To keep the peace, Sinéad agreed to a joint email address, and deleted her own.
Her friends became such a sticking point that eventually, she chose her marriage over them. She’d been too ashamed to offer them an explanation so she avoided their phone calls and messages. It had been better to ghost them than to admit her husband was beginning to control every aspect of her life.
Last night at the dining-room table in her rented house, she recalled the carefree times they’d shared as she wrote her three letters. She thanked them for being loyal friends and admitted they’d deserved better than what she had offered.
Letter number four was to her parents whose sudden death in the Mumbai tsunami had shaped the next decade of her life. She had spent it searching for the same love they had, but in the wrong places.
The fifth letter had been to Daniel and was the most painless to write. She detailed the emotional abuse and suffering he’d caused, why she’d left him but how she no longer blamed him entirely. She was also holding herself accountable for giving him power over her and for not walking away sooner.
Sinéad wasn’t ready to think about the contents of the sixth letter again. Writing it had been emotionally crippling, even with her coping mechanisms in place.
The letters hadn’t included the recipients’ names or addresses, nor did she sign them. She had also pierced each biodegradable bottle to allow water inside so they sank to the riverbed and the ink washed away. But on the off-chance they were found and read, all parties were unidentifiable.
One by one, Sinéad gently dropped each bottle onto the surface and watched as the current swept them away and out of sight, until only one remained in her hand. That,she gripped a little tighter than she had the others. Eventually, and with tears clinging to her eyelashes, she slipped it back inside her bag. Sinéad wasn’t yet ready to completely let go of her daughter, Lilly.
The two-bedroom bungalow was empty and unfurnished when Sinéad signed the lease. Her and Daniel’s apartment had been overloaded with brand new furniture and technology – the washing machine and dishwasher decided for themselves when to run their cycles and their fridge ordered its own food online. Everything she chose for her cottage was second-hand or reclaimed and Wi-Fi free. Already, it felt like the home she had always wanted.
Sometimes she would walk over to Doon’s house for one of her wine-and-rom-com evenings and other nights, Doon would come over and they’d share a meal. She was like the mother figure that Sinéad had missed out on for more than a decade and a half. And she wondered if Doon’s loss of her only child was partially the reason why they connected. They filled a gap in one another’s lives. But their closeness made it even harder for Sinéad to keep secret what she knew about the circumstances surrounding the death of Doon’s daughter’s, Isla. There was so much Sinéad could reveal that would ease her friend’s guilt but it went against all the rules. Sometimes she hated keeping secrets.
Sinéad’s garage was as packed as her days. Inside she stored a headboard, a dining-room table, two chests of drawers and a Welsh dresser – all objects Gail had purchased from online auctions. Sinéad gave them a new lease of life with sandpapers, chalk paints, glazes, stains and varnishes. Then Gail sold them on and they split the profits. Sinéad, however, had no need for a wage so she donated her earnings to a neonatal baby unit at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh instead.
The two women met every other day and Gail frequently brought her daughter, Taylor, with her, something Sinéadwas struggling with. Being alone with a child didn’t sit comfortably with her, especially one with eyes that never stopped following her around the room. Taylor stared at Sinéad cautiously, almost mistrustfully, as if to say,I know what you’ve done.
However, something niggled Sinéad about Gail and Taylor’s relationship. Both mother and daughter paid more attention to her than they did to one another. Gail went through the motions of doing all the practical things a mum was expected to do, but Sinéad sensed a disconnect. Gail didn’t speak proudly of any of Taylor’s developmental milestones and she barely paid her any attention when they were together. There weren’t even any photographs of Taylor on her phone. Individually, they were small quibbles, but together, they were enough for Sinéad to question whether her friend was suffering from postnatal depression. Or perhaps Anthony was to blame; maybe he was undermining her confidence in her ability to parent.
‘Is he a hands-on dad?’ Sinéad had casually asked earlier in the week as she poured Gail a coffee. Gail’s face stiffened.
‘He does his best, yes.’
