‘I remember someone saying,’ he said, his words buried in her hair, ‘that every time they smiled, they felt themselves bleed a little more. The words have always stayed.’
She didn’t reply, just burrowed her face into the soft fleece of his jumper, allowing him to tighten his hold. It wasn’t so much bleeding, she thought, it was more of an arterial flow. After a while, she tilted her face to the side and took a deep breath, allowing it out slowly and deliberately. He took it as a signal, and perhaps that was what it had been. He loosened his hold and stepped away from her.
‘What I mean is, I don’t think anyone who cares about you wants you to do anything except be honest about how you feel. Don’t smile if you feel like crying. Cry if you feel like crying,’ he said.
‘You’re so kind, Tom. It’s just that … Everyone is so concerned about the wayIfeel. And it’s the wrong way around. I don’t deserve it. The thing is, I still get to feel things. Mike doesn’t. Poppy doesn’t. They’ll never feel anything ever again.’ The words hitched in her throat again, but she wanted to finish. ‘They’re the ones people should care about, not me. Everyone’s so concerned about me, and I don’t deserve it.’
Tom stepped forward, attempting to envelop her again, but she edged away.
‘Of course, you deserve their concern. You’ve been to hell. And you can’t seriously expect the people who love you not to want to help, can you?’
‘I suppose.’ It was an inadequate response. She wanted to say that if they knew what really happened, they wouldn’t. They’d understand why she didn’t deserve their care. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell someone, to get it out in the open. To uncork the bottle which she’d been carrying ever since that day.
But her throat was too tight to say anything else, choked up by guilt. She left him standing beside the coffee table and went to her room. Kicking off her shoes and dumping her jumper on a chair, she climbed under the covers, pulling her mobile to her ear as she wrapped the duvet around herself.
Mike’s words flooded her brain as she closed her eyes and listened.
Tell Mummy where we’re going.
To buy ellie babies.Clara strained to hear Poppy’s voice in the background, just as she did every time she listened.
That’s right, Pops. Did you hear that, gorgeous lady? We’re going to buy jelly babies for our favourite person. Which ones does Mummy like best?
Onge ones. Mumma loves onge ones.
And which ones does Poppy like the best?
Green. My like green ones.
Clara clutched the phone harder to her ear as Mike laughed. That warm, open, easy laugh that she had loved so much.
And do you think Mummy’s going to enjoy her bit of peace and quiet without us?
Squeezing her eyes more tightly closed, she fought to stay quiet, fought to stop the scream which was forming somewhere beneath her solar plexus. Willing it to at least remain silent so she could listen to the rest of the conversation before the darkness overwhelmed her again.
Poppy misses Mumma a-ready.
We’re going to have fun, though, aren’t we?
Yes. My want ellie babies, Daddy.
Hope you’re enjoying your lie-in, Clara. Have a great day and let me know if you want me to bring back some takeaway. The traffic is awful on the ring road, we’ve been stuck in it for a while. God only knows what the problem is, it looks clear on the other side, so we shouldn’t be held up on the way back. See you soon. Love you. Bye.
Chapter 23
CHRISTMAS EVE
Christmas Eve dawned deceptively bright and clear. Tania stood at the picture window, thinking how impossible it was to believe that there was a massive storm heading their way. That, if it wasn’t for the array of state-of-the-art equipment telling the meteorologists the weather system existed and was building up momentum even as she stood here taking in the perfect pink halo topping each mountain peak, there was no way anyone in Près du Ciel– or anywhere in the Alps– would believe it. After a while, she turned away and helped herself to some coffee.
Tom took a tray of glossy croissants from the oven, setting them onto the granite worktop, humming along to something Tania couldn’t hear. The smell of freshly baked croissants and coffee was a winning combination, and she savoured a deep breath.
Pulling an earbud free, he looped it into the collar of his shirt. ‘Did you hear they’ve named the storm?’
She shook her head. She hadn’t forgotten her desire to disappear for the week. So far, she’d avoided social media, even though the pull to check her feeds had been verging on impossible to ignore. She hadn’t checked any news providers, either.
Wondering what the media might be fixating on, whether it was anything to do with her or not, was an itch which took enormous amounts of willpower not to scratch. Had there been any further fallout from the situation with Rory, she wondered, or had everybody moved on to analyse another set of people and their inadequacies? With any luck the storm had taken centre stage instead.
Not for the first time, she considered what it must be like for someone like Tom, who checked the news in the same way as he checked his watch. Sometimes with an idle curiosity, sometimes with purpose or even fervour, but never with a feeling in the base of the stomach akin to having been intubated with liquid lead.
