Chapter Thirty-Three
‘Bloody hell,’ I say as we turn onto my road. ‘What’s Henry doing here?’
He’s waiting on the doorstep, handsome as ever in a crisp white shirt and neat grey trousers. Sunglasses on, hair arranged just so, shirtsleeves pushed up to show off those knockout forearms.
‘You want me to get rid of him?’ River asks, opening the car door. ‘’Cos I’d be more than happy to—’
‘No, no. It’s fine. I’m okay. Weirdly okay, actually. Quite neutral, in fact.’
‘Hi Henry,’ I say neutrally when we reach the front door. ‘Can I help you on this fine morning?’
Okay, maybe not so neutral.
Henry takes off his sunglasses and looks River up and down with a smirk. ‘You two living together now? That was quick, Gertie, I have to say.’
‘Why are you here?’
Henry holds up his hands. ‘I just came to see if you were doing okay. I’m glad to see that you clearly are.’
‘Is that all?’
Henry shoves his hands into his pockets.
‘Look, I’m sorry for not telling you about Marisol, okay?
It’s just … You turned up at the party at the last minute and Marisol had been invited independently of me.
Let’s face it, Gertie, you’ve hardly a history of being able to control your emotions.
I didn’t want it to ruin Jim’s birthday, and that’s why I didn’t tell you. But I was going to, of course.’
‘You’ve got some nerve,’ River growls, and I realise I haven’t heard him use that angry tone of voice since the first day he arrived. ‘I’ve met some assholes in my time, but you take the cake. The biscuit.’
Henry rolls his eyes. ‘Perhaps we can talk somewhere private, Gert? This is all becoming a little Love Island, don’t you think?’
‘Please let me take him somewhere private,’ River says through gritted teeth.
‘You go on up, River.’ I hand him the keys. ‘I’m fine. Promise.’
Not looking at all pleased about it, River curls his lip at Henry, takes the keys and lets himself into the building, closing the door behind him.
‘What do you want from me, Henry?’ I ask once we’re alone.
‘You haven’t been texting me back.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I texted you to see if you were all right and you didn’t text back. You always text back eventually.’
‘My phone’s been broken. And I am all right. Actually, I’m more than all right. I just got back from the—’
‘I value you,’ Henry says then. ‘You know that, right? I value you so much, my Gert.’
Value me?
‘What does that even mean?’ I tilt my head to the side.
‘It means I don’t see why this has to turn sour.’ His face softens. ‘I want you in my life. And while it may no longer be in a … romantic way, I simply can’t bear the thought of losing you.’
My chest starts to heat up with indignation. ‘You put me on hold, Henry!’ I sputter. ‘You put our relationship on hold even though you had zero intention of resuming it. Your “break” kept me in this horrible limbo because you wanted all the options while I had none.’
‘That’s a little rich, don’t you think?’ Henry laughs through his nose. ‘You’re seeing someone else too! You took great pleasure in parading him in front of me at Little Crumpet Manor, in fact.’
‘I asked you that night in the hotel if you were involved with anyone else. You said no. You said you needed time to consider our relationship. But you were lying. You knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted to keep me on a string. A back-up, just in case. How long have you been involved with Marisol?’
I notice then that my stomach is churning, my shoulders hunched.
I feel nervous. Not in a light, excitable way when something new or inspiring is happening, but in a way that means I’m suddenly hyper-aware of what I look like, what I sound like, what I say and if it’s silly or clever enough or useful enough or too emotional.
It’s a heavy feeling that makes me immediately tense.
I rub the back of my neck. Had I been so consumed with melancholia and self-pity that I failed to realise that when Henry disappeared, so did the constant bracing for correction or ridicule?
I wonder if that’s why I didn’t cry when I saw him kissing Marisol. Was some deep-down part of me relieved?
‘Why are you getting angry?’ Henry says, reaching out to lay a hand on my arm. ‘Just relax. Goodness me.’
I shake him off.
‘Because maybe I am angry.’ I glare at him. I never glare, but I suspect I’m good at it because Henry flinches a little in response.
‘You’re behaving very out of character.’
‘Yeah? What character is that? The sidekick? The back-up option?’
He sighs and pinches his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger.
I wonder if he’s about to say sorry. A real, genuine sorry for keeping me on a string for so long, for dangling the possibility of us recoupling so expertly when it’s blatantly clear now that he never actually intended for us to get back together at all.
He just didn’t want me to know that. He wanted to hedge his bets, in case he changed his mind or, more likely, Marisol changed hers.
Keep me mooning on the back burner, which I would have done. Would have kept on doing.
I take a deep breath, ready to hear what he has to say.
But Henry doesn’t apologise. Not at all. Not even a tiny bit. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He leans back onto his heels. ‘Fine. I was seeing Marisol before I moved out, but you have to understand, I wasn’t sure if she was what was best for me.
I thought I wanted more excitement, someone more independent …
but Marisol … she’s perhaps a little too stimulating …
I like your energy in my life. I need it.
You ground me. Say we can still be friends, Gertie. ’
I blink at him. ‘Yeah, I have to go now, Hen. Thanks for checking on me. No need to text again because I won’t be answering.’
As I climb the steps to the front door, Henry says, ‘What about the pages?’
I turn around slowly. ‘Sorry?’
He shoves his hands back into his pockets. ‘Possibly not the best time, but since I’m here … have you had a chance to look at my pages yet? Even just a teeny tiny peek? Any feedback would be appreciated – I have a meeting with my agent this week, so …’
I remember those liminal weeks after Josie died.
Being so wrapped up in this man, desperately using his affection for me to distract myself from the way I was feeling.
I even stopped my grief counselling because I thought he could make all of my pain go away.
That he could somehow heal me with love and flattering romantic gestures and the comfort of his arm flung across me in the middle of the night.
I know better now. He never made the pain go away.
It’s all right there, in every cell of my body, still waiting to be acknowledged.
Yelling to be acknowledged. All being with Henry did was put the worst of my pain on hiatus.
A sudden beam of sunlight shines down on us, blanching Henry’s face so that he squints. I notice then that he has an almost imperceptible bit of dry skin dangling off the end of his nose. Ew.
‘Wait there a sec,’ I say, pressing the buzzer so River lets me back into the building.
I race up the stairs, a sudden torrent of energy in my limbs catapulting me up two at a time.
River is waiting for me, holding the door open.
I fly past him into my apartment and grab the folder containing Henry’s new manuscript.
Then, hurrying over to the big window, I yank it upwards.
I suddenly find myself giggling as I lean out of the window to see that Henry is still standing there on the pavement, blinking at the front door as if he expects me to come back down at any moment with editorial notes.
‘Hey, Henry!’ I yell down onto the street. And then, when he looks up, I shout even louder. ‘Here’s my feedback on your pages!’
I unclip the folder and dangle it out of the window, shaking it so that the pages drift this way and that, down towards the pavement.
Henry reaches up and dramatically tries to catch them as they fall, even though I know for a fact that he’s got a backed-up version on three different email accounts and probably at least another two hard-copy folders.
‘My pages!’ he cries. ‘My work!’
‘Shove ’em up your arse!’ I shout gleefully.
Behind me I hear River laugh out loud. ‘Shove’em up your arse?’ he murmurs. ‘I’m gonna have to take that one home with me. Shove ’em up your arse. Ha! Perfect.’
I close the window and start to pace around the room, body zinging with energy and … power.
‘Is he still out there?’ I ask. ‘Actually, I don’t care. But is he? Is he out there? Is he mad?’
River leans out of the window. ‘He’s running away down the street! Actually running. He’s left the paper behind. It’s everywhere.’
‘Oh my God. I’ll go and clear it up now. I may be a foul-mouthed window harlot, but a litterbug I am not.’
‘Foul-mouthed window harlot.’ River quirks an eyebrow. ‘That’s hot.’
‘You think so?’ I’m smiling at him, trying hard to keep the smile sensibly platonic, when suddenly, I feel a tiny flicker in my brain.
A sort of buzzing and then a clink as if a light has been switched on.
And then the buzz turns into a small chorus of noises – voices and birdsong and the sound of a very familiar clock tower chiming 10 a.m.
I close my eyes, my heart swelling as Bedlam comes sharply into focus in my mind’s eye.
It’s scorching hot, the scent of freshly cooked donuts wafts through the air.
I can hear the sound of Texans laughing and hooting good-naturedly alongside the excitable morning chirrup of the birds and an occasional dog bark.
And then I see her. I feel her. Cassidy.
My protagonist. My girl. My friend. She’s there in the town square, looking down at Ethan and wondering what on earth she’s meant to say to the most important question she’s ever been asked.
She’s excited, but nervous, her heart pounding so hard she’s worried it will explode out of her chest and splat Ethan in the face.
I gasp, pressing my hands to my face. ‘Oh my God.’
She’s here. Cassidy’s here. And she’s loud.
Tears flood my eyes, making my vision blur. I missed you, I say to myself. To her.
‘What is it?’ River asks as I wipe away the tears now tumbling down my face, splashing onto my chest.
‘Pass me my laptop at once!’ I cry, my voice trembling with excitement and relief. ‘She’s back. Cassidy is back.’
‘You being serious right now?’ River bounces a little on the heels of his cowboy boots. ‘Is this for real?’
I start laughing, my brain noisy and full and curious again. At last!
‘Looks like you’re on litter duty, Oakley,’ I say gleefully. ‘Operation The End has moved to the next phase. I’ve got me a book to finish!’