Page 58 of The Moment I Met You
I realise that I am not all right. That she was right to pause, because I do not want this reaction to be filmed. I realise that I am not prepared for how all of this is affecting me. I haven’t done a good enough risk assessment – even hearing her talk about Alex, even the thought of being back in touch with him, triggers so many different emotions. I never thought it was possible for one human being to make me feel so much.
‘Is he all right?’ I manage to ask, still dealing with the aftershock of Em’s small revelation.
‘Yes. He asked if you were doing this too … are you? You seem a bit shaky. You knew I was going to try and find him, didn’t you? Is that a problem? What’s upsetting you so much, and can I help?’
I did know, of course, that she would probably track him down. But knowing it in theory and knowing it’s happening are two different things.
It’s not just that, though, it’s not just the prospect of Alex being involved in my life again, however tangentially – it’s everything. Being asked to describe that night. Being asked to feel it and remember it and relive it. Emotions I’ve buried for so long are coming back, and I’m starting to think I was a fool for even considering this.
I know she will want me to talk about the time I was below ground, the time I spent trapped – and even considering opening up about it, making it real again, is making me panic. I know she will want to talk to me about my time in hospital, and that will make me think about the baby I lost. About the way I felt when Harry first proposed.
These are difficult subjects, and I am starting to think that I have fooled myself. Told myself I was ready when maybe I am not yet brave enough.
Em is gazing at me from across the table, her expression soft and worried. I think she is concerned for me as well as her footage, and there is no reason she can’t be concerned for both. For a moment she looks so young, and I flash back to that teenaged version of the woman she is now. To the girl who was screaming beneath a table, her father dying in his attempt to protect her.
She has been more than brave. She has been extraordinary – and this is for her as much as me. If Em can try and face the past, then I can try too.
‘I’m fine,’ I manage, and see a visible sag of relief in her shoulders. ‘It’s just … a lot.’
Ollie disappears for a diplomatically timed cigarette break in the garden, and Em asks, ‘When did you last see him, Alex?’
‘Years ago, like I said. We used to meet up once a year; it was … well, I suppose it was good therapy for us both. Harry used to call him Dr Alex.’
‘And why don’t you see him now?’ she asks gently.
There is no such thing as gentle enough for this particular subject not to hurt, though, so I shake my head and say, ‘Stuff and things, you know.’
‘Stuff and things? Brilliant. Obviously a conversation for another day.’
‘Yes. Maybe. Shall we carry on? I feel a bit better now.’
Once Ollie is back and we are filming again, she says, ‘One of the questions I’ve asked people is how it affected you – how it changed you?’
‘Well, there was the break in my arm,’ I reply. ‘Bruising and cuts. This delightful scar.’
I point to my forehead as I say it, and wonder why I’ve never grown a fringe, or tried to hide it. I intended to, but in the end it felt right to leave it there. To see it every morning. To have that reminder, like Alex once said, that I survived – that I will continue to survive. Battered and scarred, but still here.
‘Nothing too serious,’ I continue, moving on swiftly, worried that Em will spot that I am hiding something about my injuries, about my scars. ‘Compared to lots of others, it was nothing at all.’
‘I always tell myself that,’ Em replies. ‘But we’re allowed our own pain, aren’t we? Not everything has to be compared to other people. We do that to belittle it, to make it manageable, to stop ourselves from going down the road of self-pity. But sometimes maybe it’s okay to feel sorry for ourselves?’
I nod, and find myself smiling. Olivia said something very similar a while back, and I am starting to see the truth in it. We’re always raised to be positive, to comfort ourselves by saying things like ‘there are people far worse off than me’. Which is odd, isn’t it? Taking consolation from the fact that the world is even shittier for others?
‘You’re right,’ I answer. ‘And it was awful. It wasn’t just the broken arm, or the physical pain, or the dehydration. The way our lungs were clogged, and I never thought I’d take a relaxed breath again. It was the terror. The terror of being trapped underground, not knowing if I’d ever get out. Being down there for so long, in so much pain, in so much fear. I don’t think I’d have made it alone – if he hadn’t been there …’
‘Alex?’
‘Yes. Alex. We got each other through it,’ I say, reluctant to discuss him again, but knowing that this story – my story – is intertwined with his
‘Tell me about that,’ she says. ‘About the time underground. I know what it was like up above, but where you were … I can’t imagine how terrible, how frightening, it must have been to be there for all those hours, not knowing if you were close to rescue or not.’
I stare at her, and fumble for words. My throat is dry, and even thinking about it is making me feel short of air.
‘Can we come back to that?’ I say. ‘Or do it another day, even? I’m sorry …’
‘There’s no need to apologise. And of course we can. I have some TV news footage from the aftermath, and some photos, if you want to see them.’
I’m not at all sure that I do, but I nod my agreement. I missed most of the live coverage due to being buried, and then I was out of it in the hospital for a while. I’ve seen some clips – the lights, the digging, the interviews with survivors and rescuers, faces smeared in dirt, hard hats on, clutching plastic water bottles – but none of that night. The night I rose like a supremely battered phoenix from the ashes. The night I became the ‘poster girl’, as Em once described it.
