The Most Difficult Thing. Charlotte Philby
Читать онлайн книгу.
for myself, making my own money.’
I nodded, wondering how much David earned. Not that he needed money of his own, clearly.
As if reading my mind, he continued, ‘My dad wanted me to go into the family business but … I don’t know, I want to do my own thing. The idea of just following my father’s footsteps …’
He blushed, shrugging.
‘Good for you.’ Discreetly, my eyes cast their way up the back of the house, the vast wooden shutters, creepers growing up the walls. The top-floor windows gazed out with hollow eyes over the black expanse of Hampstead Heath.
‘So this is the house you grew up in?’
David took a swig of his drink.
‘Yup. My grandparents bought it in the 1950s, and when they died, my dad inherited it.’
‘And he doesn’t mind you having a party …?’
‘He doesn’t live here any more. He’s got a flat in town, but he’s away most of the time, so it’s just me.’
‘How come?’
‘Work. He’s mainly working in Africa and Asia at the moment. His company has an office over here, but mostly it’s …’
The music stopped suddenly, as if someone had lurched the needle from the record, followed by a wave of indignation from the crowd. Behind David’s shoulder I could see more people spilling into the garden as the music started again, something soulful this time.
‘If you ever want to come over …’
‘Thanks.’ I smiled, not sure what else to say as I watched the party from a distance, David’s guests’ uplit faces devoid of features, like apparitions passing under a cloud.
It was nearly 1 a.m. by the time I left the party. David had called me a cab, his hand lingering on mine as I ducked into the car, his eyes following me down the road.
Within minutes of driving, the wide open streets of Hampstead gave way to Malden Road, sprawling council blocks obscuring my view of the sky. Camden High Street, with its all-night bars and the endless roar of the night bus trundling along tarmac scarred by hidden potholes, faded to a reassuring throb as I pressed closed the door from the street.
A strip of light gently glowed above the tatty carpet at the top of the stairs, warm and inviting, but when my feet reached the upstairs landing, something already felt wrong. I pushed open the front door to find the room darker than I had imagined. Meg’s body, her back to me, was unnaturally taut at the table, an open bottle of wine beside her.
In another life, I would have called out to her. I would have watched her turn to me, holding up the bottle, signalling for me to bring down a glass. Now, though, her body was still. For a moment I felt my joints freeze, imagining the worst, but then she moved, a small, almost imperceptible intake of breath, and my chest loosened, just enough.
Not knowing what else to do, I went to the counter to pull down a mug, waiting for her to make the first move. Holding the cup under the tap, I discreetly glanced at the window, catching an outline of her silhouette.
Taking a gulp of water, I turned to face her. From here, she looked pale and still.
‘Meg?’
When I ran towards her, her head collapsed into my chest, her body heaving with silent tears.
‘Sshh, what is it?’ It was the first time I had ever seen her cry. The first time in my life that I had been alone with someone in tears, whom I was allowed to touch.
Meg shook her head.
‘Anna … I …’
The words dried up after that. I briefly tried to speak, to fill the silence with the sounds she needed to hear. I wonder now how different things might have been if I had. But my throat clammed up. Instead, I led her to her bed and pulled the blankets around her neck, lying down beside her, my arms wrapped in hers, until her breath slowed into sleep.
Meg was standing by the counter when I emerged in the kitchen the following morning. She was facing the window, the glass streaked with rain.
‘I have to go.’ She did not look at me as I pulled a mug from a pile on the draining board.
‘OK, I’ll be off soon, too. I’m going into the office to catch up on a few things.’
Clarissa had assured me there was no need to work this weekend, but we had a big commercial pitch coming up and I knew she planned to go in and crack on – and I knew how much it would please her to see me there as she arrived, perched in front of my computer, notes neatly stretched across my desk. If I was going to climb the ladder the way I needed to, I had to show how keen I was, how much more I was capable of than endless admin.
‘I’m leaving London.’ Meg turned away from me, her voice matter-of-fact.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been offered a job in Bristol.’
Finally, she turned back to face me, her skin bare, free of the heavy eyeliner she always applied within minutes of showering.
‘What? When?’ My eyes scoured her face for signs of something I could hold onto.
‘I can’t talk now. This flat, it’s—’
‘Bristol?’
‘You can stay on, if you can cover the rent on your own, or … It’s paid up until the end of the month. We’ll talk later. I’ve got to go.’
‘Meg, what the fuck? Where are you going?’
I followed her to the front door, willing her to turn around as she gripped the handrail, her free arm raised defensively as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
But I didn’t follow her. Instead, I went to the office, rather than waiting there in the flat for her return, making the effort she would have made to stop me from leaving, had the shoe been on the other foot. If I had, could I have saved us all?
Harry’s phone was off when I tried it at lunchtime, on my way to the noisy coffee shop where I ordered a salad box for Clarissa before heading back to the office. Again, I was met by the monotony of his answerphone as I wrestled with the front door later that evening, the smell of frying meat following me in from the kebab shop, my voice struggling to remain light.
‘Harry, it’s me, just seeing how you are. I’m at the office but I wondered what you were doing tonight, or tomorrow. Call me …’
I paused before I hung up, slipping the phone back into my pocket, darkness descending as I shut the door against the street.
Even before I reached the upstairs landing, something felt different. In the dark, fumbling for the light switch, my key turning quietly in the lock, I pushed the door open with a nervous hand.
‘Meg?’
Inside, the flat was still and instinctively I knew.
I called her name again, already knowing it was too late. Feeling it, the guillotine falling, severing the space between then and now.
It was October, that first year at university in Brighton, and a late burst of summer sun meant the city was awash with life: swarms of Italian tour groups smoking cigarettes in the grounds of the Pavilion; elderly couples walking in companionable silence along the shore, hands held behind their backs.
The beach had been a heaving mass of bodies by the time I arrived late that afternoon. Walking across the pebbles, I was aware of the glances from a group of guys sprawled out by my feet as I made my way towards