The Most Difficult Thing. Charlotte Philby
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rusty greens.
‘That is the view from my parents’ house in Greece when they first bought it. It was just a shack really.’ He spoke as if to himself.
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘My mum fell in love with it, she did loads of these after we first moved in. For a while …’
‘Your mother painted this?’
‘That’s how they met. My mum grew up on the island and when she was in her early twenties she used to have a stall at the top of the village, selling her paintings. Dad was on holiday, stumbled upon her shop and …’
The thought of Meg popped back into my mind and I shook my head.
‘She said I have to move out, unless I can cover the rent on my own, which obviously I can’t …’
Pushing his phone back into his pocket, David looked at me.
‘Move in here.’ He said it straight away, as if the sounds had been poised on his lips all his life.
‘I mean it, why not? Move in.’
Even if I had wanted to hold back, my face would not contain itself. Lips curling at the edges, my chest lifted my whole body with something between gratitude and excitement, and something else too – an unease, a feeling I could not place, creeping in from the side.
‘Really, but …?’
David rose then, unwilling to hear it. ‘No buts.’
A moment of doubt, that is all there was. And then I felt myself nodding, pushing away the lingering sense of discomfort, stifling it with all my will until, just like that, it was gone.
The weeks passed slowly and then quickly in the months following Meg’s disappearance.
David spoke to Meg’s mother who told him she was surprised Meg had not been in contact with either of us directly and confirmed she was in Bristol, working for a paper, and was, for want of a better explanation, probably just busy.
Why had I refused to call? I told myself I was too hurt, but perhaps even then I was instinctively fearful of what I might find out.
There was a moment, one morning at the office not long after she left, when I found my hands hovering above the keyboard of my computer, her name at the tip of my fingers. But what would be the point? I moved my attention towards something else. I was not on Facebook, and neither was she; what would be gained from trawling the internet for her most recent press cuttings, other than confirmation that she had moved on – and that I should, too?
At first, I had taken Harry’s response to the news I was moving in with David as a form of contempt. There was a note in his voice that I did not recognise when I told him of my new living arrangements, and it pleased me.
‘I never knew you and David were so close …?’
‘We’re not. Well, not like that, obviously. He’s an old friend, and he’s living in this massive house on his own and … where else am I going to go?’
I swallowed, knowing I was crossing a line.
‘Anna, you know if I could, I would ask you to stay at mine. But it’s not …’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Would it help if I said I was jealous?’
‘Maybe.’ I smiled reluctantly, leaning forward to kiss him, but he was less easily distracted than I was.
‘So, this house, it belongs to David’s parents but they don’t live there?’
I was touched that he cared enough to want to understand my life.
‘Exactly. His dad is mega-rich, he’s usually away on business and when he’s in town he has a flat he uses. So that just leaves David and the house …’
‘And now you.’ He thought for a moment before nodding. ‘OK.’
It did not hint at anything out of the ordinary at the time, the excitement shining in his eyes as he raised his glass to his lips, his eyes holding mine as he drank.
It was a while later that he pushed the parameters of our relationship beyond the generally permissible limits, broaching the matter one night as we lay side by side, our legs entwined, between the sheets.
‘I know I said I was jealous of the idea of you and David sharing a house, but I wouldn’t mind if you and he …’
My body tensed. Sensing my reaction, he placed his hand gently in the small of my back.
‘That’s not because I don’t want you – you know that, right? It’s just … You and me, there’s no question over what we have.’
Swallowing, I chose to ignore that questions blew between us like sheets billowing precariously on a line.
His lips pressed against mine and the thought was pushed away. He was a free spirit, that was all it was. There was no reason to feel alarmed.
‘It’s just, if it makes life easier, you know? I have no problem with it.’
I tried to forget Harry’s words over the following weeks, but no matter how hard I tried to run from them, they chased me. The thought of his indifference, the ease with which he could accept the possibility of another man’s body on mine, following me into sleep … But there was an excitement too. The seed of a possibility of something I could sense if not name.
And over time, I suppose, the idea lost its menace. Was it that simple? Perhaps it wasn’t, but in the end it felt like little more than an inevitability.
We had been sitting on the sofa, David and I, flicking through magazines, a half-smoked spliff resting in the ashtray on the coffee table. It was not planned, not consciously at least. David leaned forward to reach his glass of water and I felt my fingers stop him, my hand on his shoulder. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, I was leaning in, my fingers lifting to his face, cupping his chin.
His mouth was dry from the weed, and I moistened it with my tongue, leaning him back against the sofa and lifting his shirt in slow, gentle tugging motions. His eyes were bloodshot and his face temporarily frozen. Throughout, I felt his want driving me, spurring me on, wondering how many times he had envisaged this moment.
Once he had finished I sat up and lifted the spliff from the ashtray, lighting it and inhaling deeply while he trembled on the sofa.
It was two months to the day after my first time with David that I stumbled upon the notes on Harry’s desk. We were lying on his bed watching a film on the laptop balanced on the duvet between us, the sound of a party flooding in from the flat above.
‘Do you want me to ask them to turn it down?’ I had asked as he fidgeted beside me, his hands refusing to settle.
‘What?’
‘The music …’
He looked confused and then batted his hand. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’
For a moment he was silent, and then he continued, shaking his head dismissively. His timing was perfect.
‘Sorry. It’s nothing, it’s just work.’
‘Anything I can help with?’
‘It’s just this story I’m working on.’ Leaning forward, he took a swig from his glass. ‘It’s nothing. Let’s just watch the film.’
The following morning I woke to find him already seated at his desk on the other side of the bedroom, his body folded over the table.
I