Chapter 43
As I’m putting the galatoboureko in the fridge, I realise I went through something very similar, after Leo died.
I kept thinking it was up to me to stop anyone else I cared for dying.
Not by doing anything practical – my compulsion was endlessly doing my thirteen times table before bed.
Some nights, I didn’t sleep at all. That’s how obsessed I got.
Thank God my parents found me a therapist who specialised in grief for children. I was younger, and I grew out of it. But it hasn’t occurred to anyone that Pen’s problem might be just as serious – after all, doesn’t everyone get anxious around exams?
Mark returns just as I’ve finished tidying up the kitchen.
‘I’ve got the gin,’ he says, putting the bottle on the counter. He looks at me. ‘You okay?’
‘I think so.’ Except, as soon as I’ve said it, I suddenly realise I’m not. ‘She’s been misdiagnosed this whole time, and I feel so bloody guilty.’
‘Why?’
‘If I wasn’t so wrapped up in my own stuff, I would have seen that something was wrong.
At the very least, I could have checked how she was getting on with her anti-depressants.
Turns out she stopped taking them because they gave her side effects, and she can’t see her doctor now for a couple of weeks. ’
‘Don’t blame yourself. You’ve had a lot on your plate. It’s been the perfect storm for her – Yan’s focused on the restaurant and Tig on the wedding.’
‘It’s funny, everyone always thinks the youngest child ends up the brattiest and most spoiled, but Tig takes that trophy in our family, while Pen just gets …
forgotten.’ I swallow the lump in my throat.
‘I was twelve when she was born. I moved out when she was six. And Tig left when Pen was ten. She’s more like an only child.
Getting on with things by herself, not assuming anyone around her will help. ’
The lump in my throat gets worse. Mark closes the distance between us and wraps me in his arms. I lean into his comforting warmth and take deep, calming breaths until the urge to cry subsides.
His chin is resting on the top of my head, and I can feel the steady beat of his heart against my cheek. He doesn’t try to talk me out of it, he just let’s me be.
After a few moments, he says, ‘I bet I could make you feel better.’
‘How?’
‘I could give you a long, slow, comfortable screw.’
I pull back, smiling in spite of my tears.
‘Oh my God, how long have you been planning that joke? Did you buy sloe gin just so you could say that?’
He tries to look offended. ‘I happen to like sloe gin.’
‘Why don’t you ask me later when Theo’s here.’
He grins. ‘You are a wicked, wicked woman.’
‘Only because you’ve corrupted me.’
In my room, I open up my laptop. I want to get the ball rolling with Rich’s dad. And the obvious place to start is with an email to Rich.
I tap out a quick summary of what I learned today and what Pen’s current and past treatment has been. The waiting time to see Dr Benson can be as long as a year, but I’m hoping he can squeeze her in sooner.
When I reread it, the email feels a little cold. I’m asking Rich a favour, after all. I ask him how he is and tell him I would appreciate any help he can offer, even if all his dad can do is recommend another OCD expert.
I hit send, then lie back on the bed. Inevitably, I start to think about Rich.
If he hadn’t left his phone at home that day, I would be engaged to him now. I let the thought sit for a while, testing my feelings like I would a wobbly tooth. Would I be a blissful bride-to-be? I know the answer immediately, and it shocks me.
No.
What did Mark say earlier? Some people aren’t cut out for marriage.
Am I one of those people?
At least Mark knows that about himself. Is there a chance I’m the same, but I’m just too chicken to admit it?
Rich and I were together five years, and although we always talked about a future together, we never specified quite what that future would look like.
Neither of us ever talked about kids, for example.
Was that just because it didn’t occur to us, or was it more conscious than that?
A couples’ counsellor would have a field day with us.
And if Rich hadn’t had an affair, would he even have proposed? I’m suddenly doubting it now. The mad dash to get a ring, the random weekend in Paris, a few months off our anniversary … Was this Rich papering over a canyon-sized crack in our relationship and hoping for the best?
And if I was still with Rich, would I have been batting away Mark’s attention easily and painlessly, or would I have felt seriously tempted?
Whatever drove Rich to pastures new, was it possible that I could have been the one to throw a grenade into our relationship?
With the man who made me pull the pin on my time with Leo.
For the first time in a long time, things don’t feel quite so black and white.
I’m woken up by the smell of charcoal. It’s 5 p.m. already. I must have slept for two hours. Everyone’s coming for six. I jump up and start getting ready.
I’m still wrapped in my towel, blow-drying my hair, when there’s a tentative knock on the door. ‘Who is it?’
The door opens, and Pen sticks her head around it. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ I motion for her to sit on the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Well, the anxieties are still there, but I realise something else is there, too – the tiniest sliver of hope.’
I come to sit next to her. ‘I’m so pleased to hear it. Remember this feeling because it might come and go. So, even when you feel low and you doubt you will ever feel better, remind yourself of sitting here with your gorgeous sister who has no idea what she’s going to wear tonight.’
Pen laughs. ‘That’s exactly why I’m here. I don’t know, either. Does a pool party mean we have to wear our swimming costumes?’
‘You can if you want. Or you can wear regular clothes, or – and here’s a mind-blowing concept – wear what you like, and you can change halfway through the night.’
‘Tig says she’s going to wear her swimming costume but with full make-up, jewellery, a chiffon shirt cover up and evening sandals.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Really? It doesn’t sound OTT?’
‘Go for it, Pen. It’s our last night. Maybe I’ll do the same.’
It’s funny, things that look run-of-the-mill during a day at the beach give off a totally different vibe at night.
I’m wearing my bikini with a white beach dress that stops mid-thigh.
It’s made of diaphanous chiffon and does up with a bow at the low neckline.
I walk out of my room at the same time Mark comes down the stairs.
He stops dead in his tracks, his gaze starting at my red heels and slowly working its way up.
My toes curl under the microscope of his stare.
‘Too much?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and swallows. ‘Is that the dress you were wearing that night …?’
‘Oh God, no.’ I don’t need to ask which night he’s referring to. ‘I’ve no idea what happened to that.’
The lie trips off my tongue easily. I know damn well that dress is stuffed in a box in the attic along with the Coke he gave me. But he doesn’t need to know how our encounter secretly thrilled my teenage heart. Not when it caused so much pain.
‘This is barely a dress,’ I say lightly. ‘It’s more of a beach wrap.’
‘That dress was barely a dress.’ His low voice rumbles through me. ‘I’d never seen you in anything like that before.’
‘I know – you didn’t recognise me at first.’
‘Of course I recognised you. I just needed time to pick my jaw off the floor.’
His admission surprises me. It never occurred to me that he might have been wrong-footed and was trying to cover it up.
‘You look good, too,’ I say, to change the subject. Not that he doesn’t look good. In his board shorts and unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, he looks good enough to eat.
We head outside where Yan has already laid out three huge skewers of souvla on the enormous brick-built barbecue.
‘Are we going to get through that much food?’ I ask.
Yan nods knowingly. ‘Nothing like the smell of karvouna to whet the appetite.’
‘Agreed,’ says Mark. ‘Can I get you a drink, mate? We bought some nice whisky.’ Yan nods. ‘Nella?’
‘Maybe I’ll start with a vodka and orange.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want a …’ He looks around. ‘Nah, Theo’s not here. Will have to save that for later.’
We end up putting all the food on the big outdoor table as a buffet and eating on plates on our knees on the sunbeds that we’ve formed into a ring on the enormous patio.
Niki and Mario are here lamenting how quickly the time has gone and making us promise to come back soon.
I make sure I’m sitting next to Pen, and I think she appreciates it. She hasn’t told the others yet, but she will in her own time.
Mark stays in charge of drinks all night, apart from when the desserts come out, and he jumps on the galatoboureko like he hasn’t eaten all day.
I’ve got my phone with me, and I discreetly check every now and then to see if Rich has replied.
Inevitably, given the amount we’ve all drunk, someone – probably Tig – suggests we play the Yes or No game.
The rules are simple. Someone is asked a question, and the rest of us have to guess whether they will answer yes or no.
You get a point for every correct guess and the first to fifty is the winner.
Pen gets up to find a pen and paper, but Tig stops her.
‘Forget points. Let’s drink every time we get a question wrong. It’s our last night and I want to get smashed.’
The first few rounds are relatively tame as everyone gets a feel for the game. The first question I have to answer, courtesy of Pen, is: ‘If someone farts next to you on public transport, do you move seats?’
After we’ve warmed up, and more alcohol has been consumed, things get progressively more personal. Tig asks Yan if he’s ever snogged a woman. The boys all guess yes, and the girls no. When he answers yes, I’m surprised and demand to know who.
‘That would be telling,’ he answers coyly.