1973 – aged 18
July slipped into August. Her birthday came and went without too much fanfare – her dad made her a delicious coconut cake, her mum sent a padded card with a kitten in a champagne glass on the front, and signed it Love Mum and Derek.
Lilly put it straight in the bin, but first retrieved the book token that was secreted inside.
She didn’t want a card signed from her mum and Derek – just the sight of his name was enough to fire her irritation.
Love Mum and Derek. It was hard to see the name of the couple who had taken the leap, committed to each other no matter the consequences, when all she longed for was to see Wilkie’s face.
Mum and Derek. It would never get easier not seeing Mum and Dad, not for her.
Lilly felt angry with herself all over again for calling her mum that night when excitement had threatened to explode from her!
Angry that she and Jeannie shared a secret, knowing it smacked of duplicity.
The fact that her mum knew of her love while her dad was still in the dark had been a rotten thing to do, disloyal.
And she hated disloyalty.
London grew hotter, the nights almost insufferable in the heat as tourists flocked to the streets to eat ice cream, stare at the buildings, walk in slow, irritating gaggles along the river and marvel at the fountains and lions of Trafalgar Square.
They bothered her, the clusters of grinning, happy strangers.
She wanted them gone so she could fret in peace without having to sidestep on the pavements as they ambled at their leisure, taking in the beautiful city that was her home.
Their happiness only seemed to magnify her sadness, her longing to see the man who had gone quiet.
She spotted him everywhere. The back of a head, the colour of a jacket, a dark beard .
. . Of course it never was him, but that didn’t stop him popping up in her imagination as she rode the bus or stared out of the gallery window, scrutinising every passer-by, willing one of them to be Wilkie.
‘What am I going to do, Bertie?’
‘Eat something?’ was his practical suggestion, looking her up and down as if taking in her rather weakened state. She had no appetite, none at all, and a lack of sleep made her look as if she was suffering from something. This she already knew, heartsick as she was over the lack of contact.
‘I mean, what am I going to do about Wilkie? I still haven’t seen him.’
‘For how long?’
‘Ten days, now.’
‘Might he have been taken ill?’ There was something distinct in his tone that told her he didn’t believe this for a second and was just trying to be nice. It irritated her. She needed practical solutions, not a sticking plaster for her pain.
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged.
‘You know where he’s staying?’
Lilly nodded, thinking about the way the light from the Victorian lamppost had fallen through the sash window, striping the green eiderdown and their naked flesh as they lay gloriously entwined. That beautiful street that had put her in mind of Mary Poppins.
‘Well, that seems like a good place to start. Do you want me to come with you?’ It was a sweet offer and she felt bad for how much he’d irritated her only seconds before.
‘No. I’ll go, but thanks.’ She stared at her friend. ‘What should I say to him?’ She was in equal parts excited and terrified at the prospect of pitching up at the house in Royal Avenue.
Bertie drew breath. ‘I’d let him speak first, allow him to explain his absence for the last ten days, and then, based on what he says, use your judgement to decide whether you believe him or not. And then, when you’ve decided, state what it is you want.’
To be with him every single night, for ever, and for him to never let me go . . .
‘Okay.’ She grabbed her bag, knowing there was no time like the present and to spend another torturous night longing for him was not going to serve her well.
‘I’d also say keep calm, keep your chin up and do not beg, not ever.
Don’t give him the upper hand. If he wants you, Bob, and has a good reason for going AWOL, then be cool and confirm he’s made a good choice, because you are magnificent!
And if he’s had a change of heart, then keep calm, be cool and walk away, allowing him, in time, to understand that he has made the biggest mistake of his life, because you are magnificent! ’
‘I do love you, Bertie Barnes.’ She smiled at the man who was himself most magnificent.
‘The feeling, my dear, is entirely mutual. Go get ’em, tiger!’
Lilly laughed as she left the gallery, feeling more mouse than tiger, hoping she didn’t see Wilkie and squeak.
Thankful for the walk, she tried to figure out what she was going to say to him.
It was conflicting, wanting nothing more than to fall into his arms, sickness or not.
Yet she was also mad that he had not shown up, written her a note, tried to make contact.
She understood her mum didn’t want her, had chosen Derek Manners, but Wilkie .
. . he had made the running! He had flirted right back!
And no matter how poorly, he could have called the gallery, knowing Bertie would take a message.
She smiled, however, knowing that whatever the reason, her joy at seeing him again would elbow out any lingering resentment.
It was Wilkie she was talking about – Wilkie!
Royal Avenue was a little busier than it had been in the late evening when she’d snuck in and the early morning when she’d snuck out.
Unsure of exactly how she was going to introduce herself, she blew the fringe from her forehead, removed her Wrigley’s Spearmint and shoved it in a tissue that she popped into her handbag, and lifting the lion’s head knocker, banged on the door.
‘Can I help you?’ The woman who now faced her on the top step was the very one who had offered the kind invitation for Wilkie to join her and her husband to watch Parky.
Her manner was decidedly frosty, which for Lilly was odd.
She understood the woman’s wariness of a stranger at her door, but at the same time had expected something a little warmer from the woman who was not a stranger to her, Lilly having slept in her sheets, gripped her headboard, cried into her pillows, peed in her bathroom, crept down her stairs . . .
‘Yes, sorry to bother you. I am here to see Mr Jones, Wilkie, who is staying with you?’
‘Oh!’ Helen Horn-Havering agitated her pearls with her pink-painted nails and bit her lip. ‘Was staying with us.’
‘Was?’ Lilly understood the word, of course, but was having difficulty in making sense of it with regard to Wilkie, who would not have left without saying goodbye, without leaving a note, without getting in touch with her.
They had had sex, multiple times. He had held her while she slept.
They had drunk too much in the pub and laughed until they cried.
‘Yes, he was staying with us, but not any longer. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’ The woman made as if to close the door, and Lilly burst into tears, as ten days of pent-up fear, longing and frustration burst from her. ‘Oh, no! Oh dear! Don’t cry!’
It was a pointless instruction that Lilly could not heed as her tears filled her nose and throat and turned her skin blotchy.
‘I need to speak to him, urgently! Where . . . where is he?’ She hiccupped.
‘I’m not in the habit of giving out private information about my residents.
This is a reputable establishment. I am sorry.
’ She spoke softly, as if her regret were genuine, a small act of kindness that only made Lilly cry harder, great, gulping tears, not least because she had the image captured in her mind of Wilkie standing in the doorway, the last time she had seen him after that glorious night, when she had made her confession of love.
‘Oh my goodness! Please don’t cry!’ Helen Horn-Havering looked along the street, as if a little embarrassed by her display.
‘Where is he?’ Lilly squeaked from a mouth riven with distress.
She watched the woman sigh and look skyward as if making a judgement call.
‘He’s gone back to York, packed up and left a few days ago. Paid in full. That’s it. That’s all I know, and I probably shouldn’t be sharing that,’ the landlady whispered.
‘Gone?’ Again, it was a word she understood, of course, and yet it made no sense. None at all! Why would he just go without saying a word, without saying goodbye to her! Without making a plan!
‘Yes, gone, and if you want my advice, young lady, I would say dry your eyes, dust yourself off and get on with life.’
‘I don’t.’ Lilly spoke as she wiped her face on the sleeve of her suede jacket. ‘I don’t want your advice. And I don’t want Bertie’s advice! I don’t want to dust myself off and I don’t want to be cool. I just want him, I want Wilkie!’ she sobbed.
‘I’m sorry. I really can’t help you.’ Helen Horn-Havering shut the front door.
Lilly walked the pavement of Royal Avenue, feeling like her heavy heart might fall right through her body and out on to the floor; not that she needed it any more, broken as it was.
Lilly, quite bereft, had taken to her bed.
It was where she liked to spend her time, eyes closed, sleeping when able, running her hand over the pillow that had felt the weight of Wilkie’s head.
Patting the peachy-coloured silk-edged blanket to her cheek, remembering him wearing it like a toga as she tried to make sense of what had happened.
It was hard for her to accept that she had been duped, used by the handsome charmer, preferring to think of all the plausible, more palatable reasons that he had been unable to say goodbye, to write, or make contact.