Always and Only You

Chapter Fifty-Two

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Present Day

I’m running through the flat, tights on, no shoes. My dress is only zipped halfway up my back because I can’t contort myself enough to pull it all the way to the top without Simon’s help. ‘Si!’ I yell. He’s in the bedroom, doing up his tie. ‘You haven’t seen my handbag anywhere, have you?’

‘No!’ he yells back. ‘What about the basket thingy by the door?’

My blood pressure climbs another couple of notches. ‘If it was in the basket, I would have found it by now, wouldn’t I?’

I can’t seem to remember where I put anything down these days, so the strategy has become to have a place for everything and everything in its place. I have a pot for my keys in the hallway and a nice little rattan basket that I put my handbag in when I walk in the door, along with a variety of other receptacles for further essentials all around the flat.

I run from the living room into the kitchen, scouring the counters. It’s only two-bedroomed flat, for goodness’ sake! It’s got to be somewhere.

It wouldn’t be so bad, but Simon and I are supposed to be wgoing out to dinner with his sister Rachel and her husband to celebrate their tenth anniversary. We’re already late, partly because I was on hold to the Royal Marina hotel to see if they’d got any cancellation dates for later this year. And at the same time, Replacement Rob kept texting me because he’s having some kind of existential household management crisis that only I can solve.

I know, I know … But I kinda got suckered in a few days ago when Kalinda and her family were preparing to move to their villa in Majorca for a couple of months and everything went pear-shaped.

Anyway, the upshot is I was late getting ready and now I have an absolutely thumping headache and I can’t find my painkillers because they’re in my bloody handbag.

I turn a circle in the kitchen and make myself slow down. Breathe, Erin …

I keep finding things in the strangest places, so I’ve learned not to look in just the obvious places, but all the really weird places too. I’ve already been through the living room, the bathroom, our bedroom and the spare bedroom/study, so this is the only room left.

I walk to the kitchen cabinet right beside the door, open it up and look inside. Nope, just plates and cups and glasses. I close it again. And then I go onto the next one. I repeat this procedure, working round the room. I check the cupboard under the sink last, and then, just because it’s sitting right next to it, I open the door to the washing machine.

And there it is, my lovely leather handbag. I instantly burst into tears.

Simon finds me sobbing, cross-legged on the kitchen floor, my face in my hands. Sometimes I feel as if I am going crazy. I know I’m not. I know it’s just the results of the head injury, but it still feels as if I haven’t fully got a grip on reality, and that’s both scary and frustrating.

‘Erin … What are you doing … Oh!’ He crouches down beside me.

‘I found my handbag in the washing machine!’ I’m shouting, even though he’s right next to me. I want him to get it, to understand how maddening this is, but he just looks on, clearly bemused but also very calm. That just makes me angrier.

‘And it doesn’t help that I was late because I was doing wedding stuff,’ I tell him. ‘I mean, you’re getting married, too. Why can’t you help with some of this? Why is it all left to me?’

Simon pulls away. ‘But I thought you enjoyed doing all of this. You begged me to let you do it.’

‘That’s not the point! You should know … You should have …’ I swallow the rest of the sentence, not wanting to say it out loud.

‘That’s a bit unfair, Erin. Until now, it seemed as if you were perfectly happy to take it all on board.’

I make a noise that is somewhere halfway between a snort and a gurgling sob. Whatever it is, my nose runs. I stand up, grab for a piece of kitchen roll, and blow my nose loudly. ‘Well, I’m not coping, okay? Is that what you want to hear?’

I’m right up in Simon’s grill now. He backs away, looking pretty pissed off.

I don’t care. I’m on a roll.

He’s going to make me say it, is he, instead of working it out himself? Well, he might as well have it, both barrels. ‘You know what people tell me? You know what they say all the time if I tell them what happened to me?’

Simon shakes his head.

‘That on the outside, no one would ever be able to tell I’d suffered a traumatic brain injury almost six months ago. On the outside, apparently, I seem to be pretty much who I used to be – confident, together, on top of things. The doctors told me I’ve been a star patient, working hard at my physiotherapy and neurological programmes. I’m gearing up to go back to work. I’m getting married … But you know what the problem is, Simon? The outside is a lie. One I can’t stop myself from telling.’

He looks at me, more confused than angry. ‘I didn’t … Why didn’t you tell me?’

Because I wanted you to know! I scream inside my head. But he doesn’t.

‘I say nothing because I see the relief in my mother’s eyes when she knows that her remaining baby is going to be okay. Because I see how tired you are of all of it.’

Simon’s eyes widen, and even though I hoped I was getting it wrong, I know I’ve hit the nail on the head.

‘I don’t blame you. I probably have no idea how bad it was while I was unconscious or still in my post-traumatic amnesia stage, or even how taxing I’ve been since then. But I can see that it’s wearing you down just as much as it’s wearing me down. And I don’t want to be that person. I just want to go back!’

‘Back to what?’

‘Back to my life! Back to who I am.’ And then I just start to cry harder, like a big fat, whiny baby.

‘I don’t want to say I told you so, Erin—’

‘Then don’t!’ I flip from soggy to fiery with frightening speed. ‘And I know I’m being unfair. I know I’m being a nightmare. But I can’t help it, Simon. And I hate it …’ Uh-oh. We’re back to the waterworks again. Even I can’t keep up with my own emotions this evening.

Simon advances warily again, and since I don’t lash out at him, he puts an arm round me loosely. ‘I’ve been mulling something over, something …’ He shakes his head, as if he realizes he’s about to go into too much detail and needs to keep it simple. ‘I think you need to take a break.’

The thought of that just makes me want to cry harder. ‘I don’t want to go backwards … I want to go forwards. I want to make progress.’ My gaze is snagged by the oversized clock on the chimney breast, ‘Oh, God … We’re so late. I haven’t got time to have a breakdown now. Will you zip me up?’ I say, trying to hold back the sniffles and not doing a very good job.

‘No,’ Simon says.

I spin around to look at him. A wave of tiredness crashes over me, except it’s more like an avalanche than a wave, weighing me down. I sway on my feet.

‘It doesn’t matter that we’re late,’ Simon says. ‘Rachel and Tim will have another anniversary.’

I’m filled with relief. He’s going to say we don’t have to go, and while I feel horribly guilty for letting his sister down, I’m just so happy that Simon knows this is exactly what I need.

He takes the handbag out of the washing machine and puts it on the counter. ‘Listen, get yourself changed into your pyjamas.’ I nod, filled with relief we can just collapse on the sofa and do nothing, but then he adds, ‘I’ll go to dinner and explain.’

I go still. ‘You’re not staying with me?’

‘I’ll feel bad if one of us doesn’t go,’ he says, very reasonably. ‘And you probably should get some sleep.’

He’s right. I should sleep. The doctors have said it’s an important part of my healing process. So ten minutes later, I’m lying in bed, propped up on a couple of pillows. A single lamp is on on the other side of the room, but even that is verging on being too bright for my overstimulated optic nerves. Simon gives me a kiss on the cheek, then moves towards the door. I want to grab his hand, to pull him back, but I don’t.

‘I’ll see you later,’ he says, even though we both know I’ll be out for the count by the time he returns. The bedroom door closes softly, and a few moments later I hear the front door close too.

I don’t know what time it is when he comes back in, although I rouse from sleep long enough to feel the mattress dip as he gets into bed.

Once upon a time, he would have snuggled up tight behind me, maybe even run a cheeky hand up my thigh or stroked my bottom, but tonight he keeps his distance. I know it’s probably because he’s being considerate, that he doesn’t want to wake me, but I can’t help being weighed down by this tiny rejection.

I feel completely unsexy. Broken. Who would want to marry this anyway?