If I Were You

Chapter 52 Flynn

She isn’t in our room, the hotel quiet, the lights dim as I pad down identical soft carpeted corridors searching for her, the bag of ice leaving dots on the spotless cream carpet like a trail of crumbs.

‘Amy … Amy!’ It’s a while before I recognize that the voice is calling me.

Trish is marching down the corridor, lilac dressing gown pulled tightly round her, toothpaste on the side of her mouth. ‘Amy darling, what were you thinking?’

‘Trish, I …’

‘… I’ve had Laura in with me telling me you proposed to Flynn … tonight … is that true? I told her she must have been mistaken but she insist—’

‘It’s true,’ I say in a weary voice, cutting her off. I don’t have time to explain, needing to keep searching for Amy.

‘True,’ Trish says quietly, eyebrows shooting up, ‘Oh darling, what were you thinking?’

‘Well,’ I say, cross with why everyone in Amy’s family seems so opposed to my proposal. ‘Because we love each other, because we’re great together, because I want to spend the rest of my life with her … with him …’ I correct quickly, passion making me louder than I mean to be.

‘But this weekend, Amy, honestly. To be so thoughtless,’ Trish says, shaking her head. ‘Oh dear, and I was rather dismissive of Laura, now I feel guilty.’

‘Why is this weekend such a terrible time?’ I ask, frustration building. ‘It was meant to be a good thing, a wonderful thing.’

‘Well yes, of course it is, but a surprise.’

‘We’ve been together almost two years,’ I say, a petulant whine to Amy’s voice.

‘And I’m glad you’re not where you were a few years ago.’

Where was Amy a few years ago, I wonder. She seems so sure of things, so certain in herself, it surprises me to hear this might not always be the case.

‘But last week you told me you barely knew a real thing about him!’

This other nugget of information is another blow. My toes curl, there is truth in the statement. This was why I needed to propose; I can learn how to open up, I can try.

‘Laura says you obviously planned it and hid it from her.’

‘I didn’t mean to … I didn’t think …’ In alarm a peculiar sensation comes over me, a thickening in my throat, something pushing behind my eyes. Am I going to cry? I blink rapidly, tilt my head back.

It must be because I’m in Amy’s body, I never cry.

‘Well, this won’t have helped anything, Amy. And you have been very peculiar this weekend. Geoffrey and I have been concerned.’

Swallowing, I realize that in my eagerness to show Amy how committed I am, my desire to make her family part of our celebration, I have royally messed up.

‘I can sort things, with Laura,’ I say. ‘But I really need to go now and find Am— find Flynn,’ I say quickly, water leaking more rapidly from the bag, concerned water might leak from my eyes.

‘Just promise me you’ll think about things, marriage-wise,’ Trish adds. ‘I mean, I know you get on, he’s great fun and you’re right to think he brings out the best in you, but it’s a long time, forever, you know.’

I’ve been conditioned to believe all women wanted was a man to get down on one knee, but has Amy ever actually said that? An uncomfortable feeling washes over me. She’s been gently trying to put the brakes on – her querying whether we should move in, her probing me about some of the subjects I didn’t want to delve into. Instead of sharing more, I’d assumed this dramatic show of love would distract her from all of those worries.

‘I need to find Flynn,’ I repeat, too many thoughts crammed into my head.

‘I hear Eddie gave him a black eye over some girl he liked.’

‘I … that is … that was a misunderstanding.’

‘Well darling, if you want my advice, I’d fetch Flynn, tuck yourselves up into bed and start again tomorrow. You’ve got some work to do to mend things with your sister. And I don’t want you fighting, darling, life’s too short. And you need each other.’

Is it my paranoia or does she suddenly look rather pained saying that?

‘Love you, darling,’ Trish says, pulling me towards her.

‘Yes … yes … er, me too,’ I mumble into her dressing gown. Better than the thank you I gave her earlier. She pats my face and I feel that strange sensation in my eyes again, unable to stop comparing this motherly concern with my own mother’s total apathy.

‘I really do,’ she repeats, her own eyes filling. Trish seems particularly emotional this weekend.

The hotel has quietened now to barely audible sounds: whispers coming from other people’s rooms, televisions on and the hum of the lights that line the hallways. I’m about to admit defeat when I see the door that leads to the roof terrace of the hotel.

The cold air hits me the moment I step onto the enormous flat roof, shivering in Amy’s green dress. Along the balustrade large stone pots of lavender fill the space between stone benches in small alcoves. It’s in one of them that Amy sits, hunched over herself, in crumpled tennis whites, her head in her hands.

Practically blue with cold, my heart lifts at finding her, her eye now a ripe, blackish blue from Eddie’s punch, even in this light.

‘Lovely view,’ I say, still trying to lighten the mood. When she doesn’t respond I realize how often I deflect moments like this with humour. ‘We really should put ice on that,’ I say gently, showing her the bag of ice.

‘Worried about your face?’ she snaps.

She is right to be angry with me. I should have told her about things long before now, not just on seeing Tanya here this weekend. I should have told her months ago. Trish has brought that home even more.

‘Amy,’ I say, clearing my throat, trying to order my thoughts. Where do I begin? Unused to talking about the past, it seems strange to be attempting it now. How far back do I need to go? I blink as I remember Tanya emerging from her bathroom, holding out the white plastic stick that changed my life forever. How I’d felt when she’d shown me, the months that came after, the tiny bundle in the hospital.

‘I can’t even look at you right now.’

‘I … I’m so sorry,’ I say, fear for the first time hitting me in the gut. This mustn’t derail us, I can’t let it. How have I allowed things to get this bad?

‘Do you know how humiliating this is? To learn about Charlie now?’

So, Tanya did talk to her. Of course she did, Tanya would assume she’d been talking to me.

My skin feels clammy as she stares up at me, the look making me flinch.

‘Two years and I barely know you, Flynn. I can’t believe you would keep something so huge from me.’

‘Charlie doesn’t have anything to do with you, with us,’ I say, thrown by the intensity in her look.

Her mouth gapes open. ‘It’s got everything to do with us, Flynn. For fuck’s sake! How can you say that, how can you stand there and be so cold? I literally don’t know you at all.’

‘You do,’ I say, panic seizing me. ‘You do know me. I just, I don’t know how to talk. I’ve wanted to, but the longer time went on, the harder it got.’

‘That isn’t an excuse, Flynn.’

I rake a hand through my hair, surprised all over again when my fingers catch in her long curls.

‘This weekend is practically the first time I’ve even known Tanya exists. Do you know how messed up that is?’

My head droops.

‘What kind of man are you?’ Amy says, her tone harsh, judgemental. ‘She showed me the photo, Flynn. You and Charlie.’

I frown. Photo? What photo?

With a punch I think back to the day Charlie was born, my heart twisting. Tanya pulling out her mobile as I sat, stunned, in the corner of the room looking down at my daughter. I am so blown away by the pain that slices through me that I barely hear Amy’s next words. There’s a photo of me with Charlie. I am desperate to see it.

Amy gets louder now, ‘You always talk about having kids in the future, a family. “We’ll live here, Amy, we’ll have three, four!” And all this time you have a child, Flynn. A child you clearly don’t even see …’

I come to, as her words sink in, knowing I need to explain, to get her to understand. ‘Wait! No—’

‘Well, you don’t need to worry about any more kids. We’re done, Flynn. I’m done.’

My head is spinning with this. That is the conclusion she has reached? The verdict is in and she hasn’t even waited to ask me. She has just assumed the worst about me, despite everything. Is that really who she thinks I am?

‘You’ve made up your mind,’ I say slowly.

My fists curl as my messy feelings morph into anger. Unsaid things I’ve swallowed down swim into focus. ‘Of course you have. Because it suits you when it’s my fault. Like everything. Your colleagues are idiots, the world is on fire because of everyone else, your mum is forcing you to stay in Bristol, your sister abandoned you, your dad dying is the reason you don’t sing—’

She glares up at me, matching my rage, ‘Don’t you dare talk about Dad.’

‘So now you don’t want to talk,’ I say, throwing up both hands, letting rip in a way I never allow myself to. The whole sorry weekend coming crashing down. ‘Just because I don’t tell you everything doesn’t mean you have to always think the worst. We all have stuff going on, Amy. You don’t have a monopoly on the shit stuff.’

‘I never said I did!’

There’s a noise from nearby and a porter appears, surprise on his face as he steps outside, a silver circular tray in one hand.

‘Oh, I had no idea anyone was up here, I’m sorry,’ he stutters, taken aback by the sight of us. ‘I came to lock up.’

Amy is standing mouthing uselessly at me through her one good eye.

‘Wait,’ I call to him; the porter wavers. ‘I’m not staying,’ I say, stalking past him, ‘Please do lock up.’

The porter pulls out a jangling keyring. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

I turn back meet her eye, ‘We’re all done.’