Chapter 19
LUKE
I have to admire my brain chemistry’s impeccably shit timing.
Why decide to play up now, when I’ve got a man gifting me peace lilies and I’d dared allow myself to hope?
Why didn’t it falter when my kitchen window sill was bare and I was already falling apart, chewing my own arms with anxiety?
Like last Christmas, for instance, when my divorced parents decided it would be nice if the three of us went out for dinner to celebrate.
Separately, and living far away in Edinburgh, they’re great.
Together, visiting me in London, I’m a pawn in a hostage situation.
But no, way too easy. Instead, my mood imbalance waits in the wings until a beautiful, kind, funny man takes me on a date, feeds me Maltesers as an entrée, and sucks my knob for dessert. Then massages my feet. As if to say, don’t you dare start enjoying this.
I come to the cottage in Wales thinking brisk walks in the clean ocean air might reinvigorate me.
And usually, it does. Instead, with my peace lilies staying damp in the kitchen sink—the only precious things I’ve brought with me—I huddle tiredly on the tiny veranda overlooking the murky grey sea and stare at nothing, for hours at a time.
I think a lot about calling Neil, my thumb hovering over his name every time I find myself in a patch of reception.
He was rightly upset at being shut out and deserves a fuller, honest reason for my silence.
But how? How do I explain the whys and wherefores?
How do I admit to him what’s gone before and then watch him battle the temptation to pull away?
Even the thought of explaining feels like dragging a body uphill.
He’d be kind, of course. He’d offer to cook for me when I return home, cuddle me, and insist I’m not a burden. I’d have to face his unreserved caring and not know what to do with it.
Yet, all the same, he’ll like me a little less.
The days of doing nothing pile up. I sleep a lot, take my pills on the dot, attempt not to pull my hair, and check in online with my community psych nurse.
Neil’s sweet, thoughtful texts go mostly unanswered. It’s better this way, I conclude. He’s got his own knotty problem to solve. Distance is kindness, right? Space is good. Less noise in my head.
Except it’s not quiet in there. My mind is crammed full of unsent messages and unspoken conversations.
A month goes by before the first rays of light creep in around the edges of the fog. Boredom is the first reliable sign, along with an itchy restlessness crawling under my skin and a craving for a night in my own big bed in my own cosy flat.
On my return to London, life waits for me, greeting me with piles of junk mail, unanswered emails, bills to be paid.
I don’t mind this part of recovery; each piece of admin sorted is proof that I’m on the mend.
I clean my flat from top to bottom, change the bedding, and complete a month’s worth of laundry (surprisingly little when even changing your socks feels like a huge effort).
In the watery sunshine, I walk the long way round to the supermarket, fill a trolley with healthy ingredients (I’m suddenly ravenous), and then return home for some long overdue personal grooming.
A patch of hair behind my left ear is thinner than before this latest downer struck, and my beads are a touch more worn. Otherwise, no overt harm done.
Desperately in need of physical exertion, I go for a swim. Isaac joins me.
“Looking good,” he comments with a smile. “Ready to face the world again?”
“Yes,” I confirm, after not much deliberating. “Back on an even keel. I’ll take that as a win.”
Isaac swims with me the next day too, and the next after that.
He doesn’t say much, simply turns up at my usual time with a towel over his shoulder and a friendly hug.
Like it’s nothing. When we do talk, we discuss the guy with zero spatial awareness hogging the middle lane, Jonty’s latest scrape at school, Isaac’s most recent shift at the hospital.
I must be feeling better, because, on our third session, I bring up the subject of Neil.
“He texted me every day for a couple of weeks,” I tell Isaac as we rub ourselves dry. “And then he stopped.”
“You didn’t answer,” Isaac surmises. Or perhaps he knows.
“No. I couldn’t. You know how I am when I get like this. I can’t face anyone. Even people who are worrying about me. And I can’t explain all that to Neil. He won't understand.”
Isaac smiles again, though it’s not especially happy. “He still doesn’t know how ill you’ve been in the past, does he?”
I shake my head. I’m no relationship expert, but even I know slipping your involuntary psychiatric admissions into the first couple of dates is hardly the best way of keeping your man keen.
“You could tell him, you know. Underneath all the Neil-ness, he’s a good guy. He’s been a rock for Ez over the years. I think he really likes you.”
Isaac doesn't understand. How could he, when he hasn’t got the whole picture?
Our closeness was built on me discovering Neil’s secret and his need to unburden to someone outside his immediate circle.
His weird attraction to me was an unexpected bonus.
Sooner or later, however, hiding his visual impairment won’t be an option.
And then what? Will we still fit when we no longer need to talk in whispers?
When Neil no longer needs saving? When he realises there are plenty of shoulders much, much stouter and more dependable than mine to lean on?
Such as Ezra’s? Or the pair belonging to this calm, level-headed man quietly supporting me?
“We had a couple of dates,” I reason. “That’s all. And we’re chalk and cheese. He’ll soon cool off if I vanish like this every few months.”
"Don’t bet on it.” Isaac seems unconvinced. “He’s been moping around and generally being a real pain in the arse since you left. He’s drinking heavily again, too. Ez is worried sick there’s something wrong with him, but God knows what.”
“Yeah?” As I busy myself wringing out my swim shorts, I ride out a short, sharp flicker of unease. It’s almost a welcome sensation—at last, I have the mental space to consider someone else’s problems again.
It’s clear Neil still hasn’t told Ezra about his RP.
“He’s become quite erratic and irritable, actually,” Isaac continues, “but he’s a bloody closed shop whenever Ez starts to probe.
And when Ez asks him about headaches and other symptoms, he practically explodes.
I’m wondering if he’s developed a chronic concussion.
I’ve seen him wearing tinted specs a couple of times, as if he’s photophobic.
Concussion syndrome can lead to personality changes, even after a fairly modest injury. ”
“I thought he’d pretty much stopped drinking since he hit his head,” I offer lamely. Shit, sounds like that good resolution has fallen by the wayside too.
Isaac shrugs. “Who knows? But it’s all pretty tense.
Him and Ez have invested a lot of time going over their plans for the refurb.
A big investment is at stake, they’re taking a significant risk, and yet Neil’s acting as if he doesn’t care what happens.
He hardly reads the paperwork or engages in the meetings.
It’s as if he doesn’t care if they gamble and lose the lot. ”
I curse, hating the timing of my depressive episode even more.
Hating myself. Hating this fucking neurological weakness.
I should have been there for him. I should have found the strength regardless.
Why is the right course of action always so fucking obvious afterwards, when I’m better?
Why couldn’t it become crystal clear during my self-imposed exile in Wales, when I spent all that fucking time sitting doing nothing?
All those unread texts and missed calls.
Convincing myself he’d be fine, that I couldn’t possibly be any help whilst drowning myself.
“I need to apologise to him.” I’ve never felt so certain about anything.
I need to say sorry for leaving him—without making it about me—and hope that somehow, we can pick up near where we left off.
“And then I need to explain why I’m keeping myself in balance, why not taking any risks with my mental health is such a big deal for me. ”
“He still hasn’t seen your scars either, has he?” Isaac deduces.
“No. Nor my hair.”
He shakes his head. “You know he doesn’t give a fuck about stuff like that, right?”
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
I time my arrival at Earth just after three, towards the end of the lunchtime shift.
The bar closes from then until five. I’d be fibbing if I didn’t have ideas about how Neil and I could spend the intervening couple of hours.
Ever since deciding I’m well enough for him to see me again, I’ve pictured this moment.
Neil glancing up and his face softening, a flash of his boyish grin at the silly little gift I’ve bought him—a box of Maltesers.
I’ve even rehearsed it a little. The way I’ll hover near the doorway until he notices me.
Maybe a little cough. I might even make a light and witty remark if I can conjure something apposite.
Despite my eagerness, I’m having kittens.
Everything about this surprise visit (personally, I hate being on the end of a surprise) pings my anxiety.
For a start, as Neil received barely any texts from me in reply to his own, the tone of his slowly slipped from upbeat to concerned, to mildly frustrated.
And then petered out altogether. So why will me visiting excite him?
We’d hardly begun, really, and Neil’s never short of willing bed mates.
He’s perfectly entitled to tell me to sod off.