I’d thrown myself into my work at Rochester’s, and I’d tried to start afresh, putting away all reminders of my husband and cutting off all contact with his family.
But Rory had sought me out. One night there’d been a knock at the door, and when I opened it, he’d been standing there, a bunch of flowers in his hand.
‘Don’t blame your parents,’ he told me. ‘I threatened to camp on their doorstep until they gave me your address. Can I come in?’
I’d been awkward, difficult even, but he wouldn’t give up on me.
‘I just want to make sure you’re okay,’ he told me repeatedly. ‘Danny would never forgive me if I didn’t look out for you.’
I didn’t want him to look out for me. I was pretty sure Danny wouldn’t care one way or the other what happened to me now. Wherever he was, he knew the truth about me. He must hate me.
Rory took no notice of my behaviour, even though I made it very clear I didn’t want him there and that I didn’t need anyone to look out for me, especially Danny’s big brother. Bit by bit, with humour and kindness, he chipped away at me, and almost without me realising it we developed a friendship that we’d never really had when Danny was alive. He would visit on the evenings he wasn’t out with his friends, or on a date. Because yes, he’d dated.
I smiled wistfully, remembering how he’d asked me for advice on what Christmas presents to buy for various girlfriends over the years. Did I have any recommendations for a great first date? How could he gently but firmly make it clear to a woman he’d only been seeing for three months that he definitely wasn’t ready for her to move in with him? What was the kindest way to break up with a woman?
Then the dating advice stopped. The dating of other women stopped. And gradually we realised that, against all the odds, our friendship had turned to love. Seven years after Danny’s death, we became a couple. And a year after that we got married.
I’d convinced myself that Rory need never know the truth about me. That I could cope with being part of his family again, even though their delight at our news and their welcoming attitude was hard to bear at times. That after eight years of widowhood, I was over the worst and ready to move on.
But as time went on the guilt crept back. I think the worst time was our seventh wedding anniversary. It hit me hard when I realised I’d been married to Rory longer than I’d been married to Danny. We’d had a wonderful seven years. We’d both been promoted at work. We’d done renovations on the house. We’d had a few amazing holidays. We had friends and family who loved us and an active social life.
And I didn’t deserve any of it.
From that moment, my guilt returned with a vengeance, and it became harder and harder to maintain the facade of a happy, loving wife.
I’d thought I was making a pretty decent show of it, but clearly I’d been lying to myself.
Now it seemed he’d finally had enough of the pretence, because why else would he bring me here of all places, if not to force this marriage into some sort of conclusion? But if he wanted us to stay together and work things out now we were here, why was he suddenly behaving so weirdly?
I took a quick shower and got into bed, reaching for the remote control. There was nothing on the television that grabbed my attention and I turned it off and lay on my back staring up at the ceiling, as I wondered how long it could possibly take someone to drink another cup of coffee.
It was gone ten when Rory finally entered the room. I’d been on the verge of falling asleep, but I sat up immediately.
‘Where have you been?’
‘I told you. I had another coffee.’
‘Where did you go for it? Brazil?’
‘I’m just going to get a shower.’ He disappeared into the bathroom and I stared at the closed door, stunned. His tone hadn’t been abrupt or unkind, but this was so unlike Rory. I was bewildered and didn’t know how to react.
It came to me suddenly that this was what it must be like to live with me. How many times had I, distracted by painful memories, shut off from Rory because I felt unable to vocalise my hurt and guilt to him? How many times had he tried to talk to me, only to have me give one-word answers and walk away? Not because I was trying to be unkind to him, but because I just couldn’t face him, and I didn’t know how to be around him when I felt so unhappy.
Was he acting like this because he really believed our marriage was over? Because he was hurt and scared and didn’t know how to put that emotion into words?
I had to show him somehow that we weren’t done yet. That there was hope. Maybe we could start finding our way back to each other tonight. We always connected in bed. Sex had never been a problem because it had been the perfect way to lose myself. Being with Rory, I’d been able to forget everything else. For a little while it was like nothing else existed outside the two of us – a release and a relief from the relentless shame.
Maybe we could find that place again tonight and remember how good it could be between us if we just let it happen.
The bathroom door opened and I stared in stunned surprise as Rory headed over to the bed and climbed in. He was wearing clean jogging bottoms and a T-shirt.
Rory rarely wore anything to bed. At the most he’d wear boxer shorts. Even on winter nights he couldn’t stand to wear anything else, saying it made him too hot and uncomfortable.
‘Why are you dressed like you’re about to go for a run in the park?’ I asked.
Rory shrugged. ‘It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it?’
No. It wasn’t. But the temperature was dropping fast, that was for sure.
