Ten Years On (6 page)

‘Here,’ I say, handing him a couple of Cornish pasties that I bought from the bakery. ‘Not quite a fillet steak, but I asked the girl to warm them up for you.’ He takes them gratefully, gives Noodle a piece first. I put the change from my five-pound note into his plastic cup. ‘He said you were an angel, a top girl.’

I must have misheard him. ‘Sorry? Who said that?’

‘How rude. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m James.’ He shakes my hand. ‘But you can call me Jim,’ he adds as if this is a big compliment. ‘Don’t look so scared. You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?’

Jim’s stare unnerves me. ‘How do you know?’ I stammer.

‘Because he’s sitting right next to me.’

‘He wants to talk to you,’ Jim says, when I return. I have spent the last five minutes walking up and down the high street, telling myself not to go back. I am the first to tell people ghosts don’t exist. Nor do guardian angels. It would be comforting to think we have someone out there watching over us, but we don’t; it’s mumbo-jumbo. Yet, here I am, staying put.

‘He’s asking why you don’t believe he’s here?’

This is strange. Walk away, Becca. ‘Because he died! He’s dead.’

This minor point seems irrelevant. ‘He’s fine. Safe. He misses you.’

I burst into tears.

I crouch down next to Noodle, as Jim continues, ‘He’s saying something about a baby? That he’s sorry and you need to look after yourself? Does that make sense?’

I bite my nail, my heart pounding in my chest. Jim can probably see I’m pregnant; nothing he’s said is convincing enough. ‘I’m off,’ I say, not wanting to hear any more.

The man looks at me, grins.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Olly says you always bite your nails when you’re nervous.’

‘Bye.’ I gather my shopping and walk away as quickly as I can, determined to walk away for good this time. This is mad, crazy. I’m not falling for it. But then I stop to catch my breath. How did he know Olly’s name?

‘He says go and buy a new dress or something,’ Jim calls out. ‘Your jeans are about to burst.’

I glance down. The button is about to explode.

‘He told me you wouldn’t believe me; you’d think it was all mumbo-jumbo.’

A small smile surfaces. Boldly I walk back to him. ‘Don’t mess with my head,’ I beg.

‘I’m not, I swear.’

‘This is weird.’

‘Welcome to my world,’ Jim smiles. ‘I didn’t ask to hear these voices, never believed in any of this crap, and if you want to know the truth, I could do without it. But, hey, that’s life.’ He shrugs with resignation, as if life has dealt him a difficult hand. ‘I’ve never been to this city before,’ he continues. ‘Noodle and I felt like a change of scene, didn’t we, old boy?’ He tucks into his second Cornish pasty. ‘But now I know. You’re the reason I’m here.’

‘Will you tell him I love him,’ I whisper. ‘I miss him.’

‘No can do,’ he says, finishing off his mouthful.

‘Why? Why not?’

‘You need to do that yourself.’

In a state of semi-shock I stare down at my banana split. I look around the cafe in a daze. How did I end up here? I can’t remember ordering a banana split. I don’t even like bananas.

‘Excuse me,’ says the waitress as I head towards the door. ‘You haven’t paid.’

‘Oh, right.’ I head over to the counter and fish out some change with a trembling hand. ‘Sorry. How much?’

‘Four ninety-five.’

‘Rip-off,’ the voice says.

As I’m about to leave she calls over to me again. ‘Your shopping?’ She gestures to the supermarket bags by the table.

I need to go home, make sense of this morning. I definitely can’t face Joe today.

I walk past the bakery shop. Jim, his sleeping bag and Noodle have gone. Disappeared.

Did I imagine them? Am I going crazy?

7

The following day I am taking Olly’s advice and trying on a green maternity sundress. Then I shall see Joe.

Yesterday, after not eating my banana split, I’d rushed home, raced upstairs and sat down on my bed with my laptop. I googled the word ‘medium’ and glanced at the flood of information on psychics and people who could communicate and relay messages from the deceased to their living relatives. The information also warned me that there were a lot of fraudsters out there, so beware. I slammed the lid shut when Mum knocked on my door. ‘Everything OK up here?’ she asked.

‘Fine, absolutely great,’ I replied, incredulous that I’d almost believed Jim. Imagine if I’d told Mum about my mysterious encounter. They’d think I’d gone mad. I was beginning to think it too.

I look at myself in the mirror. I hesitate to ask him,
chew my lip, bite my nail. ‘What do you think, Olly, of the dress?’ I whisper.

‘Great,’ a voice says inside my head.

I lean one hand against the wall of the changing room to steady myself. ‘The colour suits you,’ he continues.

A shiver runs down my spine. I scan the cubicle, look under the chair. What am I expecting to find under the cushion? I draw the curtain open. The assistant stares at me. I pull the curtain shut again and breathe deeply.

‘Can I help you?’ she calls.

I clamp a hand over my mouth. She must have heard me talking.

‘That dress is lovely,’ he says. ‘You’re a knockout.’

In a frenzy I whip it off, and then slip it back on, unsure what to believe any more.

‘How much is this?’ I ask the shop owner. She has mad blonde frizzy hair; I’m certain she looks familiar.

‘Rebecca?’

‘Annie?’

We both laugh, as if to say we have recognized each other for the past five minutes but neither one has dared say anything just in case.

‘Rebecca Harte!’ She rushes over to me and we hug.
It’s pretty Annie Stoner, one of my old school friends, who was a wizard at maths and also an incredible gymnast. She’d fly across the blue games mats in an impressive series of backflips and somersaults that made my eyes water. Annie left our school at thirteen, when her army father was posted abroad.

‘Is this your place?’ It’s a stylish maternity clothes shop with stripped wooden floors and white-painted shelving housing tunic dresses and T-shirts of every colour. There’s an island in the middle with a circular glass vase filled with pink lilies.

‘Uh-huh. Opened a couple of years ago and on the verge of going bust.’ She gestures to the deserted shop floor. ‘Are you pregnant? Stupid question,’ she adds, rolling her eyes at herself. ‘How many months?’

‘Just under four.’

‘Your first?’ She dives into the changing room and returns with a plump cushion. ‘Try it on with this. Go on,’ she enthuses when she clocks my hesitancy.

I lift up the dress, shove the cushion against my waist and turn to the side. It reminds me of being a twelve-year-old and stuffing socks down my bra. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to get this big,’ I say, examining my profile.

‘Oh yes, and if you’re lucky you’ll get all kinds of other treats like varicose veins too,’ she laughs huskily.

‘How many children do you have, Annie?’

‘Two. Amy and Bella. Six and four. Started way too early! What the hell was I thinking!’ She pulls a deranged face. ‘Summer holidays soon. Heck!’ She’s hopping energetically from one foot to the other. ‘And you? You haven’t changed at all!’

‘That can’t be true,’ the voice says. ‘I’ve seen a few old school pics and you had two long plaits and were a porker.’

I find myself smiling for the first time.

‘Becca?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Are you just down for the day?’ she asks, bright blue eyes glowing.

‘Er, long story.’

She waits, expecting it to be exciting, or at least hoping it might be.

A young dark-haired woman wearing leggings, flipflops and a flowery top enters the shop carrying a cup of coffee.

‘Listen, you have a customer,’ I point out, relieved as I scurry back into the changing room, the cushion falling out of the dress on the way.

‘Customer? Don’t be daft. That’s Lucy, she works here,’ Annie calls.

‘Oh, right!’ I pull the curtain across and fight to get back into my jeans.

‘Have you got time for a coffee or a quick lunch?’ Annie asks me when I emerge red-faced from the cubicle, telling her I’ll take the dress. ‘There’s this great wine bar in the square …’

‘Maison Joe?’

‘You know it?’

‘I know Joe.’

‘Lucky you,’ Lucy says, impressed.

‘Half of Winchester wants to marry him,’ Annie confides. ‘I just want to have a steamy affair with him.’

‘Here we go again,’ says the voice, disgruntled.

‘How do you know him?’

‘University – but we lost touch,’ I add.

‘Why? I mean,
why
would you do that?’ Lucy asks, as if it’s as stupid as throwing a winning lottery ticket away.

‘Oh, you know how it is.’

‘Lucy, it’s as dead as a dodo in here, but if by some miracle it gets busy, call me and I’ll shoot back,’ Annie says, gathering her handbag. ‘Shall we go?’

We walk through The Square, past my favourite old art shop and a couple of cafes, a new hairdresser’s and a
boutique clothes shop. From the distance I can see Maison Joe is a handsome building with a rich wine-coloured awning. Tables with stripy parasols line the pavement and many people are eating outside today.

Annie is saying something about how working in this part of Winchester is dangerous for her credit card. She thinks Cadogan is one of the best men and women’s clothes shop; even her husband Richie doesn’t mind shopping there. ‘Becca?’

‘Um?’

‘It’s a great location too, isn’t it?’ Ahead of us is the view of the cathedral grounds, with the avenue of lime trees framing the stone paved pathway. Bicycles are chained to the black railings. ‘Lovely,’ I say, watching students and tourists sunbathing on the grass. A man wearing a straw boater sells ice cream; schoolchildren pile out of the City Museum in a stream of noise, one boy laughing and bending down to stroke a spaniel walking by. The sight of an old couple sitting, hand in hand, on a bench with their packed lunch, touches me.

We enter the wine bar. It’s a large open space, bigger than I’d imagined, set on two levels, with stairs leading down to a basement floor. I look around. Now that I’m here I don’t feel quite as brave as I did this morning.
How can I tell Joe about Olly? I should have asked him to the funeral. I realize it was not only a mistake; it was unforgivable. I can excuse myself for not being in my right mind, for being numbed by grief, but deep down the truth is I was, I
am
, a coward. I thought about trying to get hold of him but did nothing. What will Joe think of me? What if he hates me? He has every right to.

But there’s no sign of him. It’s noisy and packed; the sound of clanging plates coming from the kitchen is accompanied by the whirring of the coffee machine in the background. I recognize the music playing. It’s ‘Volare’ by the Gipsy Kings. Olly and I played this song in our holiday apartment in Spain, dancing, laughing and fooling around … Don’t cry, Rebecca.
You owe this to Olly. You must tell Joe
.

‘Relax. Take a deep breath,’ the voice says, ‘and then when you see the bastard, slap him.’

A young waiter rushes past me, moving in time with the music as he balances three plates of food. ‘I’m starving,’ Annie says. I don’t feel as if I could eat a thing.

Annie introduces me to Edoardo, who’s serving behind the bar. He has a mop of dark wavy hair that reminds me of a 1980s Top of the Pops singer and he tucks his shirt neatly into his snug-fitting trousers.
Prosecco is on tap, and behind the bar are wooden shelves lined with spirits and sweet wines. ‘This man makes the best cocktails,’ Annie informs me, sitting down on one of the leather stools, ‘not that that’s much use to you when you’re pregnant. Where’s Joe, Edoardo?’

‘Downstairs, teaching,’ he says in a strong Italian accent, talking as he serves a couple of customers. ‘He has a lunch tasting session on wines from Alsace.’

‘You should nip down, say hello,’ Annie suggests.

‘Maybe later.’ I grab a menu and tap it against the bar.

Annie registers my agitation. ‘Rebecca? What’s going on? You’re nervous, aren’t you?’

‘Not at all!’ comes out a high-pitched squeak.

She swivels round on her stool, examines my face, my eyes. ‘Rebecca Harte! It’s something to do with Joe, isn’t it? Why did you two really lose touch?’

I look away, pretending to examine the specials on the blackboard. ‘Oh, it’s complicated, Annie.’

‘Was he an ex? I mean, if he’s an ex …’

‘He’s not. He wasn’t … I mean.’

‘… oh my God, of
course
it’s going to be weird for you seeing him again! I don’t keep in touch with any of my old boyfriends. Ugh!’

‘He wasn’t an ex, nothing like that. We shared a house at university, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, but what happened next? You said it was complicated?’

When I catch Edoardo listening behind the bar, I ask her if we can sit down. Then I’ll tell her the whole story. Or at least part of it anyway.

Annie and I find a table in the corner of the restaurant. We each order a slice of spinach-and-bacon tart with a green salad.

As I tell Annie about Olly and why I am living with my parents, she doesn’t utter a word. I don’t imagine she shuts up very often.

‘Fuck,’ she says finally, pushing her plate aside, her food only half eaten. ‘I don’t know what to say, Becca.’ She leans towards me, takes my hand. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m lucky,’ I reply, determined not to cry. ‘My parents are being really supportive and my sister lives close by, and at least I will get to know her twins a little better and …’

‘But how are
you
?’ she asks again when she sees tears in my eyes.

I think of the scan, of Olly’s voice, the events of yesterday. No one will believe me. ‘Alone,’ I say.

*

‘We met at university,’ I tell her. ‘Later he qualified, became a music teacher and taught the piano. He was talented, had a real gift with children.’ I have kept the letters Olly’s pupils wrote to me. Barnaby, Olly’s star pupil, who played the piano at his funeral, had drawn an elephant, and along the trunk he wrote, ‘I will never furget Olly. He was very speshell’.