Chapter 66
Josh
I get home late from the funeral, because I met Giles for a drink afterwards, to debrief.
It was weird, attempting to put into words how I felt about Rachel’s father dying.
The man who treated me like a son from the first day we met.
Who never once questioned what I’m sure he probably felt was a fanciful career choice.
Who could make me laugh till I sprayed drink out of my nose.
Who loved Rachel to her bones. Whose speech at our wedding brought me to tears.
Especially when he said that the day Rachel met me was the first time his smile had felt true since her mother walked out.
I saw Lawrence at the service and wake, for the first time in a few years. When our eyes met, he just nodded solemnly. I appreciated this, given Lawrence has a history of trying to get me to punch him.
But that wasn’t the weird bit.
I felt Oliver staring at me the whole time I was there, tracking my every move. I studiously avoided looking at him, but, if our gazes had happened to collide, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him draw an invisible knife across his neck.
On the plus side, I had a nice chat with Emma. Well, I say nice. She cornered me next to the egg sandwiches, before firing a series of dry quips at me. Then she said, ‘I think Oliver’s just jealous, you know.’
‘Um, jealous of what?’ I said, caught off-guard.
Her bright blue eyes in that moment felt like lasers. ‘That you look about half his age.’
Somehow, I managed to laugh. But what I really wanted to do was hug her, the way I used to when she was small, because her face was still pink and puffy from crying.
I don’t hug her these days, obviously. Haven’t for a few years.
She’s growing up, has morphed from excitable, expressive kid into a self-contained, considered teenager.
But I am pleased we have managed to maintain a decent rapport.
I’ve seen her and Rachel more often in recent years, and Emma seeks me out to chat whenever we find ourselves at the same barbecue or pub.
We talk about writing and books, celebrities I’ve never heard of, people upturning buckets of water over their heads on social media.
Before she walked off, she offered up a clenched fist. Gently, we bumped knuckles, a silent show of friendship.
Back home, when I switch on the hallway light, I’m surprised to see Andrea sitting on the communal stairs. She’s wearing her jacket and trainers, red hair knotted on top of her head. At her feet is a stack of packed bags.
I frown. ‘Are you booked on another trip?’ She’s only just back from her last one, a literary festival in Edinburgh.
‘The second run of your proofs arrived this morning,’ she says in a hollow voice. ‘I signed for them.’
My novel, Graveyard Heart, is out in six months’ time. The first run of bound proofs for pre-publicity was apparently quite in demand, so my publisher produced another one.
It’s a love story, unashamedly romantic.
A complete departure from anything I’ve written before.
But it also came to me unnervingly easily – almost as though the novel was fully formed in my head, and all I had to do was transcribe it.
That first draft felt like the purest, truest thing I’d ever put on a page.
‘I read it,’ Andrea says.
I’ve been nervous about this for a while, trying to work up to handing her my laptop or a proof, then backing out at the last moment. Mostly because I think I know exactly what she will say.
She’s been supremely patient so far, respecting my privacy, seemingly concluding this is just the way I like to work. But I guess she got tired of waiting.
I swallow. ‘Great. What did you think?’
At this, she laughs. But it is not a warm laugh. In fact, it’s the kind of sound a person might make just before they whip out a blade and shank you.
‘I think you’ve known for a long time what I would think. In fact, I can see why you’ve not let me near that bloody manuscript since the day you started writing it. If you were going to publish a book about your ex-wife, the least you could have done was warn me.’
This is the accusation I’ve been dreading.
‘Andrea. It’s not about Rachel. I promise.’
‘That you’re not even surprised I’ve said that tells me everything I need to know.’
‘Andrea, I swear—’
‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
‘Of course not. You’re the opposite of stupid.’ I crouch down in front of her, try to take her hands. But she shifts away from me.
‘Did you imagine I wasn’t going to figure it out?’
‘Andrea. You have to listen to me. That book isn’t about Rachel.’
‘God. Even now, you can’t admit it. Which means you’re either deluded, or a liar.
And don’t even get me started on going to her father’s funeral.
And wearing the watch she gave you. And your wedding ring, for nearly a full decade after you broke up.
And so on, and so on. Well, good luck trying to win her back, I guess.
You know it’s actually kind of pathetic? ’
Her words hit me like bullets, one after the other. ‘Okay. Look. I’m sorry. I know there’s boundaries that have been crossed, and I accept that. I get that I’ve been insensitive at times. But it was never intentional. Hurting you is the last thing I want, Andrea.’
‘Is murder still bad if you apologise?’
Assuming this to be rhetorical, I stare miserably down at her packed bags. ‘Please don’t go.’
Apparently unmoved, she folds her arms. ‘Why not?’
‘Because. I love you. I don’t want to lose you. Because I’ve felt more comfortable, more myself, with you than I have with anyone in a really long time.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I wasn’t put on this earth to make you feel comfortable, Josh.’
‘That isn’t what I meant. Could we at least just take a moment and talk about this? Why don’t we get some sleep, and go out for breakfast tomorrow? Just the two of us, no phones, and we can talk.’
She gazes at me for a long moment. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Please just give me a chance to—’
‘I’m not in the habit of seeking out public humiliation. And that’s what publication of this book will be for me.’
I shut my eyes. ‘That’s not what I’m trying to do. I swear. I love you, Andrea.’
‘So why have you been at pains to stop me reading that manuscript?’
I sense a tiny window – although it is more of a spyhole, really, in a door that already seems firmly closed – to persuade her that Graveyard Heart isn’t autobiographical.
‘It’s my first non-crime novel. And you’re a celebrated writer.
You’re Booker-bloody-nominated. I was worried you might hate it. ’
‘Well, you were right. I do hate it.’ She looks at me with narrowed eyes and a faint smile, as if she’s trying to work out what she ever saw in me. As if she’s finally realised how out of my league she really is. ‘In fact, I’ve never read anything I’ve loathed more.’
This hits me harder than even I was expecting. It takes me a while to find my voice, the way it does when you’ve been winded. ‘Well, I’m gutted about that. Obviously. I was really hoping you’d love it. I was hoping . . . you’d be proud.’
She doesn’t say anything else. Just picks up her bags, two in each hand, and gets to her feet. Pushes past me, hauls the whole lot out on to the doorstep.
I just stay where I am on the floor, shaking my head, knowing – because I know Andrea – that I don’t stand a chance of saving this.
A few seconds later, I hear her sports car start up. She revs it pointedly once, twice. And then she is gone.