Chapter 11
11
SIX DAYS BEFORE HE LEFT ME
Kit’s hand skates up and down my arm while we watch TV, and my eyes begin to grow heavy.
The evening is passing by quickly. We eat pizza and I try to search for Rebecca Bevitt on my phone but nothing comes up. We watch the latest episode of The Night Manager . I tell him he looks like Tom Hiddleston. He laughs and says maybe when he’s older. Tears prick my eyes, a reflex to the years where I accepted his death, accepted that he would never age and would remain forever young in our minds. I picture the man in the distance on the morning of my wedding. That man didn’t have the brown curls that are currently resting on my chest. I try to picture an older version of Kit but I can’t. Instead, I try to recall this evening from the depths of my memory but it’s still just out of my grasp, as is the name Rebecca Bevitt. I can feel the answers to Kit’s disappearance rubbing at my skin, like a blister after a long walk.
More disconcerting is how normal Kit is being. He still swipes the last piece of pizza and splits it in half with me; he still adds a running commentary during an eighties film that follows The Night Manager , because neither of us can be bothered to change the channel. He adds his own voices as funny anecdotes: ‘Of course I could just tell you the truth, but then there’d be no plot to this film.’
I reply, ‘And then how would I be able to simper at your smouldering eyes?’
I’m trying to concentrate on the film, but my thoughts are spiralling. This all feels so normal but what I’m going through is anything but. Will I still be here tomorrow? Maybe I will wake up and relive the day over and over again like Bill Murray. I glance at Kit. Can I stop him leaving?
‘Bed?’ Kit asks, catching me yawning for the seventh time. I want to say no. I want to say I’m too scared. Because if I fall asleep, I might be back in the Grange Hotel, without the answers I need. Without Kit, questioning if James has lied to me.
Kit gets up, walks over to the window and peeks out. He spins around, a glint in his eyes.
‘What?’
‘It’s snowing.’ His eyes are alight. I feel that familiar but distant recollection of how it feels to be with Kit. Everything has potential; everything has the chance to be something magnificent.
Now I remember. It snowed tonight. Winter’s last rebellion against the coming spring. By the time we got up the next morning it had all turned to slush. I join him at the window. There are four inches at least covering the ground. It’s coming down in great feathers of white, drifting past the orange glow of the street lights.
‘Let’s go,’ Kit says, a wide grin across his face.
I have a flicker of memory, this night coming back, soft and slightly out of focus. I had said I was too tired; I had been asleep on the sofa when he’d noticed it snowing. But that was last time. I don’t know how many last times with Kit I will have .
Half an hour later and we’re running down the bank on to the field at the back of our estate. In the summer, this field is filled with families and picnics, with teens playing football with goals made of discarded T-shirts. But tonight, there is only us. His hand in mine, our laughter echoing in the muted silence that snow brings.
Kit dashes ahead, no hat, his hair already curling and glistening under the full moon.
He releases my hand and cartwheels. I stand back, taking this moment in, watching the way he moves, the whoops coming from his mouth, so effortless despite the snow.
‘Come on, Liv!’ he shouts, doing another cartwheel. I try to bottle this memory of him, to capture that energy that he always had around him, the pure joy in making the most out of every opportunity.
I laugh, a bubble escaping me and tumbling towards him. I follow him, letting my nimble body cartwheel in the snow, my gloves sinking into the ground, the world turning over and over in whites, greys and blues. I lose my balance after the second turn and land softly next to Kit, snow angel-ing beside him.
He gets up, stands over me, snow on his eyelashes, in his hair. He opens his mouth, letting the flakes fall into it before looking down at me with a hand outstretched.
‘Come on,’ he says, nodding towards the bank. It’s not high, certainly by Kit’s standards, but Kit always wanted to go higher, always strove for more than solid ground. I feel that familiar rush, the fear cool and still beneath my skin: try everything, taste everything, just jump .
He grabs my hands and pulls me up. My face is cold, my skin tight, but I’m grinning, happy, thoughts of Rebecca Bevitt, of searching the hills of Pembrokeshire, of police tape all fading as if they too are muted by the snow .
He holds my hand tightly in his, glove to glove, as we head up the hill. Once at the top Kit turns me around in his arms, his lips on mine, and just for now, just for this moment, I push thoughts of James away, letting myself be consumed by my love for Kit. When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me with so much love that I hold my breath.
Why do you leave me, Kit?
He lets go of my hand and peers down over the edge of the hill. In the summer, this peak is a haven for BMX riders – small jumps over the bump, wheels careering down the grass.
I can read his mind; it’s in the raise of his eyebrows, the challenge. Kit grins, takes four, five, six large steps back and then runs past me with a rush of air and energy, jumping off the end. He scissor-splits in the air, landing on the snow neatly. He marks his landing site with a line in the snow and runs back up, his cheeks red, eyes sparking.
I feel myself responding, that need to impress him, to show him I’m not afraid.
This was always the way with me and Kit; why I fell in love with him. I’d spent my life being afraid that something bad was going to happen, spent my life being afraid of the dangers of the world, of sinister men hiding in the shadows. Kit showed me how to be fearless.
I take more steps back than Kit, rub my hands together in challenge. He bends over, hands on his knees encouraging me. ‘You ready?’
‘I was born ready, baby,’ I say, clapping my hands. He laughs, straightens as I ground my weight, sinking pressure down from my thighs into my knees. I run past him. It’s only a small jump, nothing in the vicinity of the jumps we make when we ski, or when we cliff jump. This is child’s play to us.
I land softly, just past Kit’s mark .
I look up to him, performing a little bow. He doesn’t wait for me to return. I see him stepping back, see him propel himself further with more vigour, determined to beat my mark. He overshoots though, lands with a skid and falls onto his bum, then immediately checks his landing point, throwing his hands up. ‘I am victorious!’ he shouts flopping backwards, his arms still raised in victory.
I bend over and gather snow into my arms, running over to him.
‘And to the victor go the spoils!’ I dump the snow over him. He’s taken by surprise and begins coughing through the laughter. I straddle him, his arms circling my neck and pulling me closer. His nose is red, and his face is wet, but he’s high on the rush of jumping, of being taken by surprise.
I’m about to kiss him when in one swift move he rolls me onto my back. My hat has fallen off, the bite of the snow at the nape of my neck, sinking into the back of my scalp, but I’m not cold. The heat from Kit’s body keeps me warm.
‘I love you,’ he says. He’s breathless, his hand reaching towards the zip of my jacket. His eyes are glinting when I feel the hit of snow that he’s just shoved under my vest. I give a yelp and we wrestle about, until he’s back on top of me, my hands held above my head, our mouths meeting hungrily despite the cold.
We bundle ourselves through the door, both of us giggling as though we’re drunk. I hush him and point to next door where the power pair are no doubt asleep in their duvet with sharp creases and designer water bottles beside their beds.
We shake off our coats. It’s as though the last seven years didn’t happen. I join Kit in the kitchen as he spoons instant hot chocolate into mugs adding a large pinch of chilli powder.
I sit down at the small table, drinking in his movements, the sight of him, letting the loss of him simmer beneath the surface of my skin. I look up at the clock, my pulse quickening. What will happen when it turns midnight? Will I suddenly be transported to the Grange Hotel, to my life with James, to my life where the man I’m about to marry may have betrayed me, lied to me for all of our relationship?
Kit opens the fridge door and squirts aerosol cream into his mouth.
‘That’s disgusting, you know,’ I say.
‘What?’ he asks, mouth still full, cream oozing down the sides. ‘Open,’ he commands giving the can a shake and walking towards me in a challenge.
‘No,’ I say but he’s tilting my head back with his free hand. He swallows the cream. ‘Open,’ he repeats. I go to say no again but he blasts my mouth full of cream as I go to speak.
‘See?’ he says grinning. I swallow and shake my head at him. He hums as he squirts the cream onto the top of the mugs and reaches for his phone. The moment stills. The answers I’m looking for expand into the room, a heaviness descending as I watch him. His face is full of concentration. He taps, glances over his shoulder at me with a smile and swipes the screen closed.
Rebecca Bevitt. You in ?
The freedom and happiness I was feeling evaporates with the snow on our clothes.
He joins me and blows over the rim of his drink.
‘Kit,’ I say, my eyes glancing to the clock: 11.45. ‘Is there something going on that you’re not telling me?’
He glances up from his drink, his eyes sharp. ‘No, why?’
I reach across the table and take his hand in mine. ‘You can tell me, Kit. Are you in some kind of trouble?’
A cloud passes across his features. It’s there for a split second before vanishing beneath an easy smile and a confused expression .
‘Why would you think that?’ He tilts his head as though I’m talking utter nonsense.
I take a deep breath. ‘Are you going to leave me, Kit?’
I analyse every movement, every muscle, the way he looks hurt at the question, the sound of his voice as he asks me why I would ever think that, the way he rushes to my side, the way he kneels down and takes my hand in his, the sincerity in his voice.
‘I will never leave you – how could you think that? You know how much I love you. What’s this about?’ he asks, still kneeling, still holding my hand.
‘Who is Rebecca Bevitt?’
His eyebrows crease. ‘I told you, a client.’
‘You’re lying to me, Kit. I know something is going on. Please, just tell me.’
He holds my hand tightly, looks down as his thumb runs across my knuckles. I wait. I look at the clock: 11.56.
‘There is nothing going on. Rebecca is a client. That’s all.’
‘What if I told you I know you’re going to leave me, that in a week’s time you will go and never come back?’
‘I’d say you’ve lost your marbles. I will never leave you.’
Tears swell, pain in my chest, heat and fire simmering beneath my ribcage.
He’s telling me the truth. Right now, the week before he does leave me, he isn’t planning to. Which means something is about to happen to him that forces him to leave. I have to stop him.
‘Can you promise me something? Can you promise me that if something happens, if you’re in trouble…’ He opens his mouth to interrupt to tell me that I have nothing to worry about but I rush on as the minute hand clicks towards midnight. ‘Promise that you’ll ask for my help. No matter what it is, no matter however much you think you need to hide something from me, promise that you’ll come to me for help. ’
He shakes his head, a ready smile already slipping across his mouth. I take his face, hold it fiercely in my hands.
‘Promise me, Kit.’
He takes a beat then nods. ‘I promise.’
I nod. I can help him.
Midnight comes.
I’m still here.
I can fix this.
We finish our drinks, we brush our teeth, we wash our faces. Kit checks all the locks twice. I climb into bed. He turns off the lights, and gets into bed facing me.
‘Hey,’ I say softly.
‘Hey,’ he replies, his hands on my waist, travelling upwards. My body is trapped between, tensing up and then relaxing into his touch.
‘Do you mind if we… don’t?’ His hand stills. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all,’ I say.
‘Sure.’ He pulls me onto his chest, arms wrapped around me, his breathing slowing until I can feel he’s asleep. It feels as though I’m both inside and outside of my body, both here and away at the same time.
I fight against the pull of sleep, focusing on him, his smell, his touch. I stay there as long as I can because I don’t know what will happen if I fall asleep. I don’t know if I’m about to lose him again or if I’m going to find him.
James’s face flashes behind my closed eyes, my heart tripping.
I imagine walking along our street, each light behind closed doors turning off as I pass by until I’m standing outside our house. I look up to our lounge window, blue light from the TV pulsing brightly and dimming with the beats of the storyline. I open the front door, walk into the lounge. He’s wearing his glasses. He looks up, a smile. You’re home, he says and I lie down with my head in his lap, his fingers running through my hair. Can he sense it? Can he sense that I’m here in this timeline? Can he feel the loss of me?
As my eyes begin to grow heavy, the absence of him aches like a phantom limb.