Page 31 of The Start of the Story
I heard his bedroom door open and close then and, in a kind of silent horror that he might decide to get in the shower with her, I fled along the twilit landing and down the stairs, to stand in the living room. What did I do? Leave them alone to sort out their differences, possibly in my spare room, and loudly? Pretend not to be here listening to every word, gasp and sigh? No, the prospect was too dreadful to bear.
I’d go out, that was what I’d do. It was only – I glanced at the little clock, a wedding present from friends who’d bought it in an antiques shop and told us it would fit in right with our aesthetic, even though it was the wrong period and decorated all over with quite dreadful enamelled birds – half past seven. It might be as dark as midnight outside, but beyond this drenched valley with the hushed river, people would be going about normal life. Shopping and… well, yes, I could go shopping, couldn’t I?
I scuffled my way into coat and boots and ignored the fact that I was wearing the fleecy tracksuit that I lounged around at home in. My bag, phone and cards were hunched on a corner of the worktop as though trying to hide from the conflict, so I grabbed the lot and flung open the kitchen door and then stopped on the step when a flurry of rain blew in and rebounded off my booted toes. This wasmy house!What was I doing, being driven out into the night by a soggy visitor? I should stay, call a taxi for the pair of them and send them off to a hotel with good wishes for the future and a sense of doom averted!
I rocked, hesitantly. Upstairs the boards creaked, and I heard Connor’s door open again. There was a moment of pause, and then steps set off towards the bathroom, making each board groan under their weight as they went. The thought of having to listen to groaning of a more personal nature sent me flying out into the night to take myself and my car far, far away from here and to somewhere where bright lights and crowds would helpme forget whatever might be going on in my poor, beleaguered cottage.
I drove to Malton, where it was late night shopping night, and a Christmas market was spread surprisingly around the streets, lashed by the rain and blown half sideways. Awnings thrashed and sent sudden dumps of collected water flying onto heads, everyone was huddled into the shelter offered by the bigger buildings, and an inflatable Santa dashed to freedom along the main road, pursued by a crowd of happily anarchic children.
It helped. There were things to do, there was shopping to get. I could convince myself that this was a necessary errand rather than an avoidance tactic. I parked the car among the others that had braved the night, gathered my coat close about my neck and, shoved along by a following wind, went for a browse.
I bought a bright knitted beret for Chess’s Christmas present and realised that it finished off my Christmas shopping. My parents lived now in southern Spain, their card and presents had been despatched weeks ago to make the last posting day. The half-instinctive twitch towards ‘things Elliot might like’ had largely stopped now. This would be my fourth Christmas without him, and I’d managed to make myself a new routine, a day of TV and chocolate; building up the fire and sitting in front of the flames under a blanket with an M&S Christmas dinner on my lap, convincing myself that it wasn’t so bad, really. Others had it worse. Opening the presents from my parents, making a Zoom call to watch them open theirs, stilted chat broken by my dreadful Internet connection, and then an early night to eat cake in bed and listen to the silence.
I reallywasgoing to get a cat. Sooner rather than later.
I bought a pack of freshly fried doughnuts and ate them defiantly in the middle of the square, dripping fat and sugar down my front as I watched some stallholders give up thefight with the elements and start to dismantle trestle tables and bunting. One man, standing under the banner ‘Malton History Society’, took a full-force gust to the goods and his entire collection was tossed into the air and bowled along the ground, so I stuffed the empty doughnut wrapper into my pocket and went to help.
‘Thank you,’ he panted, as we scoopedRoman Maltoninto a basket, illustrations and booklets and pens all damp and crinkled. ‘It’s a rubbish night for the Christmas market. I did try to persuade them to hold it earlier in the month, but nobody listened.’
I nodded and fielded a collection of plastic figures that were all face down in a nearby puddle. ‘I suppose that might have been worse.’
The man grinned. ‘It’s that time of year, isn’t it? Can’t expect twenty-degree sunshine in December.’
The figures were Roman centurions, about ten centimetres tall, all in full armour, with sandals and complete with cloaks flapping in a plastic breeze. On a sudden whim I bought one, a disgruntled-looking soldier with a plumed helmet and chilly bare legs, who had a most lifelike expression of utter disdain on his painted face. He could stand on my desk, I decided, and remind me that things endured. Roman remains under medieval buildings. Life went on, built on the ruins of what had gone before.
I roamed around the supermarket and bought a week’s worth of groceries, wondering whether Connor would be around to help cook them. Or, horrors, would he ask for Saoirse to stay too? I went to put another set of noodles into the trolley, then changed my mind and replaced them on the shelf. No. They could go to a hotel. I was only accommodatinghimunder sufferance, any extra people would be masochistic, and besides… besides…
I couldn’t stay out any longer without it looking sarcastic, and some of this food needed to be in the fridge, so I turned the car for home and the windscreen wipers to maximum. It was more like sailing a yacht than driving a car, coasting down the narrow lanes with the water spraying up either side and sudden blasts twitching the bonnet in an alarming way so that I had to concentrate hard all the way back.
I stopped at the top of the hill and looked down into the pool of black that was the cottage and the ford. I could hear the water rushing now, pouring down the leat and over the road, and there was, if I strained my eyes, one light on, at the back of the cottage. The living-room light.
Well, if Connor and Saoirse had packed up and gone, at least he’d thought to leave a light on for me to return to. I glided into my parking space and turned off the engine. No sound apart from the water. Good. At least there wasn’t noisy sex going on.
Leaving my Christmas market purchases on the back seat, I grabbed the bags of food shopping and went to the kitchen door, which surprised me by being unlocked, and I burst my way in, in a flourish of carrier bags, water and boot prints. The door through to the rest of the house was closed, which was unusual. I normally left the whole ground floor open, so as not to worry myself with what might bebehindany closed doors, and somehow it was nicer to come in to find the house open and welcoming me. I dumped all the shopping on the table and began to unpack, whilst crumbs of left-over sugar fell from my coat like fake snow.
The kitchen door opened slowly, making me jump, and Connor stood there, wearing pyjamas and thick socks, with his hair on end. ‘Rowan?’
‘Well, yes, I live here.’ I carried on shoving food into the freezer, ignoring the slight lift that my heart gave on seeing him.It was the adrenaline of the door opening, that was all it was. ‘Remember?’
He scuffled further into the room and closed the door behind him. I straightened, wondering what he didn’t want me to see. Saoirse, spread naked in front of my fireplace? I wasdefinitelygoing to have words if that were the case.
‘Sorry, yes, I just woke up. I’m a bit…’ He scrubbed both hands over his head as though he could scour himself awake. ‘What time is it?’
‘About ten. I think.’ I went back to unpacking and, after a second, Connor came over and started to help, pushing tins into the store cupboard.
I wasn’t going to ask. In fact, I wasn’t even going to mention Saoirse. Mostly because I couldn’t think of a single way to frame the question that didn’t sound snarky. I kept quiet, and so did he, and in near silence we unpacked all the food, crumpled up the bags and put them away, and I put the kettle on. Connor sat at the table, hunched over his elbows.
‘So,’ he said, and then stopped.
‘Yes.’ It was all I could come up with. I turned my back to make tea, as elaborately as I could, to avoid looking at him. It was odd. He didn’tlooklike a man who’d been passionately reunited with his lost love. If Elliot had come through that door right now, I would have stapled myself to him and never let him out of my sight again. Wouldn’t I? The awkward thought that, if Elliothadcome through that door, I would have had a lot of explaining to do struck me. But then, so would he, so that would be all right.
‘Saoirse is up in my room. I hope that’s all right. I couldn’t turn her back out on a night like this.’ Connor had a note of justification in his voice and, when I turned to hand him a mug of tea, a look of total confusion on his face.
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’m on the floor in the living room.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘In there.’
‘I’m aware of where the living room is in my own house, Connor.’
