Chapter 15 #3
I reach up, running my finger over my necklace, feeling the small hump of my wedding ring. Xavier hasn’t seen it, and he won’t. I don’t need him knowing how pathetic I am, that what was drunken revenge for him has become the compass around which my life is directed. It goes everywhere with me.
No matter how many years pass, I can still remember with febrile intensity the way he’d turned up at my hotel room in Vegas.
He’d been on a shoot, and I’d turned up making the excuse that I was meeting the photographer, who was a mate.
In reality, it had been months since I’d seen Xavier in person, and after finding out about his photo shoot, I went to a lot of trouble to be there.
He’d ignored me staunchly the day of the shoot, but later on, there’d been a knock at my hotel door.
He’d leaned in the doorway, his face coldly inviting, and I’d reached for him as weak as ever, still hoping to see his face collapse into the old warm intimacy.
But that would never have happened. Our past was dead to me, with no way back, no matter how much I wished it could be different.
We’d fucked furiously. I think we even broke the bed.
And afterwards, when he’d normally be getting up and dressing, he’d lounged in the bed and challenged me to open the minibar.
I rose to the challenge, a fatal misjudgement that had me waking the next morning with a nuclear-level hangover and a ring on my finger and its twin on his.
So, while I clearly remember Xavier’s face, mood, and intensity early that evening, the memory of our late-night wedding is hazy, the precious moment blurry and lost to booze.
I would marry him at any time, but I wish the actual event had been done properly, with all the love in my heart, and have him feel the same.
I’d even settle for remembering the moment I put a ring on his finger rather than the moment the next morning when he’d leaned in and said, “Now you’ll remember me,” and promptly left.
“Reuben.”
I jerk and look at Angus, who nods towards the counter. “You’re next.”
“Thanks.”
I edge up to the counter. “Ah, Reuben,” the postmistress says with a smile. “How are you?” She winks knowingly, and I groan.
“You too? Who told you?”
“No one needs to tell me. I know everything.”
“Well, that’s not even remotely disturbing.” Flora laughs, and I try to corral the conversation. “You have a parcel for me.”
“Yes. Tansy,” she shouts. “Get Reuben his parcel.”
Her daughter appears grinning at me. “Is it true you’ve got your own bloke now, Reuben?”
“That implies I’ve been stealing other people’s men,” I say mildly.
She laughs. “I saw him when you stopped at the lights. He was asleep, but he looked really pretty.”
I soften. “He is that. He’s staying with me for a bit.”
“Oh, will we meet him?”
“I’m sure you will,” I say grimly. “He tends to do and go wherever he wants.”
“Just what you need,” Flora says, patting my hand.
“Really?”
She nods. “You’ve always needed a bit of spice in your diet.”
“I didn’t need a nervous breakdown either, and yet I’m sure that’s on the horizon.”
She chuckles and hands me the parcel. “Got time for a coffee? I’m on my break.”
I shake my head apologetically. “I’ve got to get back, Flora. Xavier hasn’t been well. I don’t want to leave him on his own for too long.”
It’s the truth. Already, I can feel the pull towards him.
I want to be home to check he’s okay. He might have been full of sass and vinegar this morning, but last night had been truly dreadful.
He couldn’t seem to stop being sick, which had made his headache even worse.
I’d rocked him against me, feeling his thin body limp and burning up.
At one point, I’d been so frightened I’d been about to call the emergency services, but then he’d leaned his head against mine and fallen asleep with the suddenness of a child.
I don’t want to go through that again. I can’t stand the idea of him being in any pain, and I would move the earth to make things right for him.
And that’s what this is about, I remind myself.
He needs to get better, and then he’ll go.
He’s going to leave. He always does. Like a bird flying the cage.
But if I can help him in any way, I will.
I would lay my life happily down for him, but it’s a good job he doesn’t know that, because in years past, he’d have wiped his shoes on my corpse on his way out the door.
After smiling at the queue behind me, I make my way outside and put the heavy parcel in the boot.
Then I head into the supermarket and speed around, grabbing food and provisions, including the ingredients for tomato soup.
If that’s what he fancies, then that is what he’ll get.
My cupboards are bare because I was in the South of France for the summer, so it takes longer than I’d like.
Then I compound my error by edging into the little art shop.
They combine selling quality art supplies with being a bookshop.
It’s a treasure trove to me, and I always head in here whenever I’m in town.
I choose him a few thrillers from the top twenty and then grab a basket and race through the art section.
I chuck in a sketchbook and some paints, a watercolour tin, and some charcoals as an afterthought.
I haven’t seen him draw since the Cotswolds, but he used to be an amazing artist. Maybe that will come back to him now.
Maybe I can give him a piece of who he used to be and remind him that he’s more than a beautiful face, hard living, and drugs.
Feeling thoroughly ridiculous and like a sentimental fool, I pay and climb back into the car.
By now, urgency is beating in my body, telling me to hurry.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel, and the cuts on my knuckles smart painfully.
What if he’s fallen? What if he’s been lying there unconscious while I was talking with friends?
It would be my fault if he hurt himself. I brought him here.
He’d joked about kidnapping, but he’s not too far from the truth.
I’d sat in that hospital, hovering over him, counting every slow breath and watching his thin face, and I’d prayed and made promises that I would do anything to help him.
Unfortunately for him, it turned out to be an involuntary journey to the Inner Hebrides, but them’s the breaks.
I signal and turn onto the narrow lane that leads to three cottages, one of which is mine. I spot one of my neighbours walking towards me, her spaniel nosing in the bushes. I slow down and lower the window.
“Maud, how are you?”
“Reuben.” She looks at me and her lip twitches. “More importantly, how are you?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Not really.”
Her tone is amused, and I cock my head. “You okay?”
She bites her lip. “Fine, fine. Absolutely fine.”
I stare at her and then slump. “Oh my god, what has he done?”
She smirks. “Who on earth are you talking about, Reuben?”
“You know,” I say grimly. “He’s six feet tall, extraordinarily beautiful and as contrary as an old billy goat.” She bursts into laughter, and I make a gesture. “Come on. Tell me.”
She pats my hand. “Ah, I think I’ll let you see for yourself, Reuben. It’s more fun that way.”
“Is it really?”
She nods and steps back. “What a charming young man. I’m already thoroughly enjoying your houseguest.”
I grimace and put the car into gear. I hear the music before I even turn the corner. It’s ear-piercingly loud, making my teeth hurt.
“Is that fucking bagpipes?” I say incredulously to no one.
I screech the car to a stop. Mrs Mac, my other neighbour, is standing in her garden leaning on her wall, her hands moving as if she’s conducting an orchestra.
For a moment, I think it’s her music I’m hearing, and then I follow her gaze, and my mouth drops open.
Xavier is standing in my front garden. He’s wearing a pair of fluorescent pink boxer briefs, which he’s paired with my old Russian hat with the flaps down, and combat boots. A cigarette hangs from his mouth, and he’s dancing wildly as if he’s at a rave rather than a cottage garden on Mull.
I climb out of the car slowly. Xavier appears not to have seen me, but that doesn’t fool me. He’s scarily observant, so he’s obviously biding his time.
“What is going on right now?” I say faintly.
Mrs Mac chuckles. “Love your guest,” she shouts. “I’ve never heard bagpipes like this. He’s going to make me a copy.”
“Lovely. Just absolutely super.”
Xavier finally deigns to acknowledge me and waves a languid hand but carries on dancing.
“What is this?” I call above the din.
“It’s techno bagpipes,” he says in a pious voice. “When in Scotland, Reuben.”
His eyes are twinkling, and I want to laugh so badly.
“How lovely to see our customs adopted by the younger generation, Reuben,” Mrs Mac says.
I smile weakly at the fact that she’s just lumped me into the same age bracket as her.
“Lovely. Come with me, please,” I say grimly, grabbing Xavier’s arm and steering him towards the front door.
“See you later,” he shouts to Mrs Mac. “Nice to meet you.” His Russian hat has dipped and is now over one eye, but the other is twinkling with laughter and enjoyment of the situation.
“Lovely to meet you, too, dear. Reuben, you must bring him round for supper.”
“Only after I’ve murdered him in a horribly inventive way,” I say sweetly. Then I push him into the house and slam the door. The music beats at the house, and the walls seem to throb with it.
“Siri, stop,” I shout amid the cacophony.
Silence falls, and we stare at each other. He opens his mouth, and it’s the last straw. I put up a finger to stop him talking, then promptly burst out laughing. I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard in years.
I chortle and snort until I can’t get any air and fall back against the door, sliding to the floor. All the time he watches me, his head cocked to the side like a puppy who’s lost his way.