The Most Difficult Thing. Charlotte Philby
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of getting it wrong, of being exposed for the fraud I was, I had spent the previous week watching the other students stumble along the path in front of my window, gathering hints about what to wear. In the end I had chosen denim cut-offs, a slick of pink lip gloss, hair pulled away from my face.
David’s skin was lightly tanned and his sandy-coloured hair shaven, self-consciously, into a low undercut on one side of his head.
‘So, what are your plans for Christmas?’ he asked that afternoon as we sat opposite each other outside the Fortune of War, the two of us the first to arrive.
I took a long sip of wine, watching his pupils dilate like two dark wells in the glare of the sun.
‘Not much. Studying. My dad’s still in Singapore, so I’ll stay with my aunt.’
‘You said your dad’s in the RAF?’
I smiled, taking a sip of my drink.
‘So where do you stay when you’re in the UK?’
‘I have an aunt, in Surrey. It’s dull but convenient.’
We were silent for a moment, him drawing lines with his finger on the sweat of his glass.
‘How about you?’
He looked up again, a flicker of embarrassment immediately succeeded by pride.
‘Maldives, probably. My dad has lots of international clients and that’s where they … It’s work for him, but you know, could be worse …’
My mind flicked to my parents’ dining room, the sound of my mother’s best cutlery scratching against our plates at the mahogany table laid for three – the empty chair filling every inch of the room.
I had nothing to say, but needed to push the conversation on, away from my life.
‘So you travel a lot?’
David shrugged. ‘We spend most of the summer between the South of France and Greece. My dad has a place on the edge of this island, in the Sporades.’ He looked at me, as if to ask if I had heard of them.
I took another sip of my drink, waiting for him to continue.
‘It’s a few islands along from Skiathos. Our one’s much smaller, though, low-key.’
‘Cool.’ I nodded, working to suppress my jealousy as a cube of ice slipped down the back of my throat.
By the time Meg arrived, followed by a stream of faces I didn’t recognise from campus, David had already bought three rounds, insisting he was closer to the bar whenever I made a half-hearted attempt to stand. The moon hovered precariously above the water as we made our way along the beach, hours later, towards Concorde 2.
‘Have you seen LCD Soundsystem live before?’ David asked, holding back as Meg and some of the others took off their shoes, screaming with laughter as they waded through the low waves, their voices drowned out by the thrashing beats as we approached the club.
The temperature had dropped dramatically and I felt ripples moving across my arms and legs as I pushed my hands into the pockets of my shorts. David at once started to unzip his hoodie.
‘Take this.’ His eyes worked hard to hold mine as I went to take the sweater. His mouth opened to speak but then Meg appeared, her wet clothes clinging to her skinny frame. Without saying anything, she laughed, tugging the hoodie from his fingers and wrapping it around her.
‘Jesus, Meg,’ the disapproval in my laughter was laced with awe, my envy of her total lack of inhibition so potent that I could almost taste it.
Even as I pushed open the door to Meg’s room, the rumble of Camden High Street clattering through the glass, I knew she was already gone. Even before my eyes adjusted to the light, to the empty wardrobe, the bed stripped bare.
‘Meg, where are you? You can’t do this. You have to call me. Please.’
My mouth pressed against the phone, tears streaming down my cheeks.
Harry’s number went straight to voicemail. The urge to run to his flat might have been overwhelming if I had not already known what a false move it would be. As he said himself, he was hardly ever there, his freelance investigative career taking him off in far-flung directions that he refused to discuss. Besides, from the time we had spent together, it was clear he did not respond well to being needed, always preferring to be the one to give chase.
Without Meg, the flat was too big and yet the walls seemed to press in on me, her absence everywhere I looked.
Outside, Camden Town was a drizzling sky, illuminated grey pavements, Saturday night drinkers passing by in a sea of strangled faces, their corners smudged.
I pulled out my phone. Other than work, there were four numbers in my past calls list. Harry, Meg, Mum, David.
Leaning my back against the wall to steady myself, I pressed ‘call’.
He answered after two rings. ‘Anna? What time is it …’
‘Hi.’ My voice broke then.
‘What’s wrong?’ I could feel him freeze whatever he was doing, his attention, as always, focused on me.
‘It’s Meg …’ The words caught in my throat.
‘Where are you?’
‘I don’t know what to—’
‘Anna, just tell me where you are and I’ll be there in a minute, just tell me …’
‘I …’ But the words wouldn’t come; the lights on the street were too bright, a blast of noise exploding from inside the Irish bar along the high street as the doors swung open.
David’s voice was calm and firm at the end of the line. ‘OK, look, just jump in a cab, OK? Find a taxi, I’ll stay on the line. Come to the house, I’m waiting. Everything’s going to be all right.’
Compared to the last time I had seen it, the wide entrance hall felt eerily devoid of life. As I stepped inside, the air lightly hummed with the smell of stale booze and stale bodies.
‘Sorry about the mess.’ David led me through the hallway, scooping up half-drunk glasses as he went, placing them on the kitchen table.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
He moved to the fridge, his hair flattened on one side from where he must have slept. When he turned, he was holding two bottles of beer. ‘There’s not much else. I could pop out to the shop.’
I shook my head, gratefully accepting the drink, wondering for a moment how he could live like this while holding down a job in the City.
‘What is going on?’
He leaned back against the table as I took a sip of beer.
‘Meg’s gone.’
He moved onto the other foot, ‘What do you mean, gone?’
‘She’s gone. Taken all her things. She said something about a job in Bristol this morning and then when I got home after work, she had cleared out.’
‘She can’t have done.’
‘She left a note.’
‘What did it say?’
‘Nothing. “Take care of yourself.” I just don’t fucking get it – why would she just leave?’ I raised the bottle to my lips again, the glass knocking against my tooth.
‘You’ve tried calling her? I’ll try now …’
He walked into the living room, the phone pressed against his ear, and I followed. There was something mausoleum-like about the inside of the house, like a set of family life, frozen in time. Framed pictures of David as a baby were neatly scattered across the surfaces of a huge pine dresser. Heavy woven rugs, William Morris curtains, an oil painting hanging above the fireplace.