Before You Say Goodbye

Chapter 8

It was 7 a.m. on a Thursday morning and Bowie was staring despondently at a stranger at the front door.

“I’ve been calling your home number but nobody ever answers.”

“And you didn’t take the hint?” Bowie asked, stepping back to invite him in. He sounded amused, if not a little irritated. Bowie led the way to the kitchen, his fluffy blue dressing gown floating dramatically behind him like a cape.

Autumn, who had come to investigate, could barely manage a friendly smile. She, Marley and Bluebell had shared an entire bottle of rum and a whole bottle of vodka between the three of them the night before. Her head felt like someone had taken a chainsaw to it. Bowie put the kettle on, inviting the man to sit down.

“Autumn, this is Larry Ross. Larry Ross, this is my girlfriend, Autumn.”

“Nice to meet you.” He reached out to shake her hand. Autumn took it and shook it, but could not summon interest in Larry Ross or whatever it was he wanted. She wished she hadn’t left their bed to answer the door with Bowie and wondered if it would be rude to bid them goodbye and slither back into their bedroom. She was about to do it when she noticed Bowie had taken three mugs from the cupboard, one for each of them. She sat down, dejected. Larry was making small talk. She focused her attention on his bony cheeks, hollow green eyes and pointy, middle-aged nose.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Bowie. How long have you two been together?”

“A couple of months. We met right before I came home.”

Autumn saw judgement flicker across Larry’s face. She scowled at the kitchen counter. Who was this stupid Larry Ross, with his stupid opinions and his stupid, expressive face? She was not in the mood for this.

“Nice,” he said.

“What do you want, Larry?” Bowie asked stiffly, handing him a mug of coffee. Larry took a sip and set it down. He clasped his hands in front of his face and blinked theatrically. Bowie rolled his eyes.

“I need you, Bowie,” he said. Bowie shook his head.

“I’m retired.”

“I know that, but I need you.”

“I know that, but I’m retired,” Bowie repeated shirtily.

“How much do I need to pay you?”

“I have enough money.”

“Then what do I need to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do. I don’t want to work.”

Larry guffawed dramatically, quietening himself with a hand across his mouth. His laugh echoed throughout the house. He mouthed a silent sorry at each of them in turn, hiding a smirk behind his fingertips. His playful manner succeeded in making Autumn smile. If she hadn’t been seriously considering the possibility she might have alcohol-induced kidney failure, she imagined she might even like him. Bowie glared at him.

“If my mother comes down those stairs and finds you here, she’s going to kill us both,” he said warningly.

“I know. I’m sorry. But, seriously, Bowie, everybody who knows you knows that your work is your life.”

Larry Ross had a stupid face, but he was right about that. Bowie was still working constantly, no matter what he said. Emma disapproved, but he often hid himself away to scribble down melodies or play compositions on his piano. He and Marley would sit for hours with their guitars in the garden. They talked and wrote and sang together, while the other Whittles enjoyed the sunshine and Autumn tried to focus on writing her own work. Emma, always desperate for attention from her sons, whined incessantly about it.

“Nobody ever wishes they’d spent more time at work when they’re on their deathbed.” She would remind them of this at least once a day and Marley would argue back every single time.

“That saying only applies to people who hate their job.”

“Do something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life,” Bowie might add, depending on if he had the energy.

Autumn knew Bowie loved his job as much as she loved hers. He’d been far too ill to do it now for several months. The theatre needed reliable people and Bowie’s unpredictable fatigue meant he couldn’t be relied upon. One evening, as they’d lain side by side on the sofa, she’d asked him if he missed being able to work and he’d almost burst into tears.

“Yes. More than anything. I have stuff in my head that I want to write down all the time, but it’s so painful to work on ideas I know I’ll never be here to see.”

“You should do it,” Autumn said encouragingly. “It’s your art and art should be expressed. Let other people feel it. Imagine if Freddie Mercury hadn’t written ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ because he had AIDS.”

That made him smile.

“Freddie Mercury wrote ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ in 1975 and wasn’t diagnosed with AIDS until 1987.”

“That is ridiculously pointless knowledge!” she said. He laughed. “You know what I mean. How many people are there like you, stopping themselves from being creative for one reason or another? How many songs like ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ have we missed out on because people were too afraid to write stuff down?”

“You think about things differently,” he said, kissing her on the tip of her nose. “I love that.”

“Not everyone is capable of creating things. If you have something magic inside of you then you owe it to the world to set it free.”

He pondered her words for a minute.

“I wish you’d say this to Marley. He’s wasting so much potential, lying around here singing with me. He should be setting up a future for himself. Perhaps if he was, things would be different . . .”

She couldn’t disagree. Autumn had seen something special in Marley the night she’d watched him play — the night she’d met Bowie. She’d bet her life hardly anyone in that room had taken their eyes off him for more than a minute all evening. He rarely actually performed anymore, preferring to spend his time writing with Bowie. The songs they wrote together were catchy, creative and conscientiously crafted. Autumn was always impressed by how quickly they could take a melody or a lyric and turn it into something that sounded exceptional. They sometimes wrote two or three songs a day.

Like his brother, Autumn knew Marley was struggling to cope with a lack of purpose. He’d seen little success with his band — they’d performed at small venues and weddings mostly — but his bandmates had kept him busy and he’d confessed to her over a cigarette one evening that he was finding it tough to stay strong without some sort of distraction.

“When I was in New York with the band, I could forget all of this shit. I could focus on the music. Now, I have nothing to do but think about what’s happening to Bowie. It’s driving me mad.”

He was compelled to write almost all day, every day. He took his guitar wherever he went. The songs he wrote were haunting and beautiful. Bowie and Autumn often implored him to upload them onto music-sharing platforms but he always refused. Every piece he produced was written from a place of pain. Strangers hearing them was absolutely not what he wanted.

Autumn understood how he felt. She’d split her time that summer between writing her manuscript and penning poetry, something that did not typically come naturally to her. The bedroom she shared with Bowie was littered with pieces of paper she’d made him promise he would never pick up and read. She didn’t know what was happening to her, why she felt so suddenly inspired. She’d never been able to pull words together in this way. Inspiration flowed through her brain and out of her fingertips at all hours of the day and night. She never read anything she wrote twice. One day, probably long after Bowie was gone, she would throw the scraps of paper away, but for now she was using them as therapy and it offered her a little bit of relief to be around people who understood how it felt to be utterly overwhelmed and frustrated by the constant urge to be creative. At least the three of them were facing that unusual form of torture together.

Lifting her head from her reverie, Autumn heard Bowie lie to Larry.

“Work used to be my life,” he said.

Larry sighed. He looked defeated.

“I have two days until previews and I cannot get my finale to work.”

“Where’s your musical director?”

“He’s there. But he’s no Bowie Whittle.”

Autumn was surprised to see Bowie’s chest swell, almost imperceptibly. Bowie was not typically the type to take comfort in compliments but his reputation as a musical director meant a lot to him, she knew. Larry clearly knew it too. She suspected this wasn’t the first time he’d used flattery to manipulate Bowie.

“I need you to have a look at it and tell us what to do with it,” he said. Bowie paused to think. He shook his head again.

“I can’t. I’ve already said goodbye to it all.”

Larry gripped his coffee cup and stood up to reach across the kitchen counter. He touched Bowie’s hand. It was an incredibly intimate thing to do. Bowie had never mentioned Larry to her, but the two were obviously friends.

“Bowie, don’t make me beg you. Please. Please. We need you. You’re the only one who can help us. Most of the cast is asking for you. Why else would I come all the way out here? It’s going to go to shit unless you sort it out. Think of it as—”

“If you say the words ‘lasting legacy’, you dickhead, I’m going to throw this coffee in your face.”

Larry made a show of rolling his lips tight shut and clasped his hands together, shaking them towards Bowie in a pleading motion that made them both smile. Bowie was beginning to waver, Autumn could tell. She silently willed him to agree to do it. He’d been feeling well recently and he quite clearly missed his life in the theatre.

“Please?” Larry whispered when Bowie still said nothing. Bowie groaned, slamming his coffee cup into the sink. Larry’s stupid face had won.

“There had better be an endless supply of soya cappuccinos there when I arrive,” Bowie said.

* * *

“Bowie!”

There were no fewer than forty people up on the stage and they sang out his name like a chorus. Several of them ran down to greet him. He opened his arms to receive them in a group hug.

“Be careful with me,” he said cautiously.

They were dressed in the most fabulous nineties costumes: oversized T-shirts, garish jumpers, pedal pushers, sequined crop tops and platform Union Jack boots she was sure she’d seen on the Spice Girls. Some of the women were wearing blue hair mascara and had glitter gel daubed on their faces. They were all wearing too much lip gloss. The stage was dressed as a nightclub, complete with disco ball and adequately dingy-looking carpet. There were streamers everywhere.

“The nineties are vintage now.” Larry nudged Autumn and smiled. Now that her head was a little less tender, she’d decided she did like him after all. Larry was a big character: dramatic, exuberant and entertaining.

“When did we get so old?” Bowie asked, hugging everyone.

“How are you, hon?” asked a gorgeously tall man. He was wearing an impressively sparkly bodysuit and block-heeled sandals. Bowie embraced him a little harder than the others.

“I’m doing OK, Phil, thanks. This is Autumn, by the way.”

Autumn waved shyly.

“We miss you,” said a petite blonde girl. Her waist-length hair was slicked back in a perfectly tight high ponytail.

“I miss you all too.”

“Lies!” Larry shot back. “If you missed us then you’d answer when we call.”

“No, I do. It’s just . . . hard.” Bowie swallowed, turning to look at the stage. The cast exchanged sad smiles. Phil looked as though he might cry. Autumn had wondered what had happened to Bowie’s friendships. He’d never spoken of any friends, or wanted to meet anyone, nor mentioned them in passing. She’d wondered if perhaps he’d been a bit of a loner like her, but now she knew the truth. Bowie had friends here, in the theatre, hordes of them, but he’d already chosen to let them go. His apprehension about helping Larry had never been about not wanting to work, he just didn’t want to have to say goodbye to the people he loved all over again.

“One more time, eh?” Larry gripped Bowie’s shoulders affectionately. Bowie slapped him playfully in the chest.

“Oh, go on then. It can be my bloody ‘lasting legacy’ can’t it? Now get on the stage, you group of legends, and sing me this shitty finale, will you?”

* * *

On their way to the theatre, Larry had explained the premise of the musical to them.

“It’s about a young devout Christian couple who get married at eighteen and then realise he’s gay and that she’s sexually inquisitive, too. Phil is the lead. You remember Phil? It’s all jazz hands and love and passion and death and cheating and scandal and liberalism. All the things you adore, Bowie, basically. You’re going to love it. But this fucking finale. This fucking finale! I just can’t get it to work. It just doesn’t have that zazz, you know?”

Autumn didn’t know what zazz was but Bowie seemed to agree that the finale did not have it. He folded his arms across his chest two lines in and they stayed folded until the cast had sung the last notes, held their position for applause and collapsed in a heap of sweaty despair. Autumn watched him with keen interest. She had never seen Bowie so engaged in anything before. His eyes darted around the stage in every direction, taking in all that he saw. She was quite sure that there was not a single movement or facial expression in the entire eight-minute performance that Bowie did not absorb. Autumn clapped enthusiastically when they were done. She genuinely liked it. Larry and the cast thanked her graciously. Bowie did not applaud. He motioned for the cast to sit on the edge of the stage, unfolded his arms and leaned on the table in front of him.

“Do any of you like this song?” he asked. The cast remained still and silent. A few of them tittered uncomfortably. Bowie turned to Larry, who was hiding his face in his hands.

“Don’t do this to me, Bowie,” he said pleadingly.

“You need to rewrite the finale.”

“I preview in two days !”

“You’re not going to get what you want from them if your cast don’t like the song.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck!” Larry threw himself down into a chair. “Why didn’t any of you tell me?”

“It isn’t their job to tell you, it’s your job to know.” Larry peered sheepishly back at Bowie over his steepled fingertips.

“Can you do it?” he asked tentatively.

Bowie winced and hesitated. “Possibly. Probably. Yeah. If I have Marley.”

Larry stiffened. His gaze moved to meet the eyes of the cast. He was taking his time to think about it. Autumn bristled. She found herself surprised by how fiercely offended she was on Marley’s behalf, realising in that moment that she felt as close to him as she was to Bluebell. Their friendship had bloomed in the very same way, with speed and intensity. She couldn’t stand a bad word said about him and had to force herself not to react audibly.

Larry sighed. He shook his head, defeated.

“OK, call him,” he said.

* * *

Marley watched the finale with a sickly expression on his face, shaking his head unapologetically as it came to a close.

“It’s shit,” he said. Bowie nudged him. His brother could be far more direct than Bowie and Autumn knew this embarrassed him at times.

“I think we’ve already established that,” Larry said irritably. “Can you rewrite it or not?”

Marley mused over the question. “You probably don’t deserve me to. But, yeah, I think we can.”

He handed Autumn the laptop she’d asked him to bring so she could work on her own stuff alongside them.

“I don’t know who you’re trying to kid,” Marley muttered to her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she replied indignantly.

“There’s no way you’re going to do anything except stare at Bowie all day.” Marley enjoyed teasing the two of them about their romance in a way that was, she was assured by the others, entirely normal for siblings who were close.

“We can stare at him together.” Phil hooted with laughter. “God, I’ve missed his face.”

“What about my face?” Marley asked.

Phil grinned. “He’s the better-looking one.”

“I’ve always thought it.” Marley nodded.

“I’d climb either of them like a tree given a shot.” Phil nudged Autumn playfully.

“You had your chance,” Marley said jokingly.

“Give me another one.”

“I’d eat you for breakfast.”

“Still banging strangers in public bathrooms?”

Marley guffawed. “You bet,” he said.

“Dirty, dirty bastard.” Phil laughed. Their frivolity made Autumn happy. Whatever was happening between Larry Ross and Marley, there was clearly no animosity between him and Phil.

While Bowie, Marley and Larry conferred in a corner, the cast regaled Autumn with tales of Bowie’s theatre work, delighting in one particular story in which he’d been forced to perform because the lead actor and understudy had both fallen ill just before the curtain was about to go up on a performance.

“Half of us went down with it — it was the chicken kebabs they served at lunch, we think,” Phil said. “But Bowie, the vegan, hadn’t had any chicken. He was the only one who knew it off by heart and had the talent to perform it. He hated every fucking minute. Anyone who knew him well enough could see it written all over his face. He’s so fucking fabulous, but he’s so damn shy.”

Phil was right. Autumn had no idea how Bowie had managed to become so successful in an industry that favoured extroverts and the unashamedly eccentric. Her lover was quiet and bashful — a private and contemplative man, even when around those he loved the most. When they ate together as a family, Marley, Bluebell, Pip and Emma dominated the conversation. Bowie, Ben and Maddie would listen attentively, involving themselves only if they were addressed directly.

“We still wind him up about it,” said the blonde with the perfect high ponytail as she bit her nails. They were the first words she’d spoken to Autumn directly, and Autumn knew what that meant. This woman — Clara — seemed unnecessarily self-conscious, but curious, too. Experience and intuition told Autumn that Clara didn’t know how to behave around her. She had almost certainly been involved with Bowie before. Autumn made an extra effort to be friendly towards her, laughing a little louder than she usually would. She couldn’t care less if the woman had slept with her boyfriend some time in the past. It was over now. Autumn was invading her environment, if anything, and there was no need for Clara to feel awkward around her.

Hannah — a tall, pretty actress with a short dark bob — did not share Autumn’s desire to avoid drama stoked by times gone by. Someone mentioned Marley next and Hannah burst into noisy tears.

“I can’t believe he had the gall to turn up when he knew I’d be here,” she said between sobs. Autumn eyeballed Phil for an explanation.

“He broke her heart three years ago.” He turned to Hannah. “Are you sure he knew you were here?” he asked with kindness. Hannah nodded.

“We had phone sex three weeks ago and I told him I got the gig.”

Phil rolled his eyes.

“She’s a glutton for punishment,” he muttered. “Marley isn’t boyfriend material. He’s told her. He’s told her over and over again, but she won’t listen. She thinks he’ll change his mind. Look at her, she’s stunning and Marley can’t keep his dick in his pants. They go round in an endless circle of shit.”

Autumn was not surprised. Marley had once told Autumn that he’d never found himself wanting anything from any woman except sexual gratification. Once that had been fulfilled, he tended to lose all interest.

It had been raining that evening and they’d been smoking on the porch together while watching the world darken, dangling their feet over the edge of the ledge and into the rain.

“I always tell them what it is I want,” he’d said. “Or don’t want, as the case may be. I tell them before anything happens. But sometimes they’re adamant I might change my mind, then they blame me when I don’t. It’s almost enough to put you off sex all together.”

She raised her eyebrows at him from her spot on the floor in the corner of the porch.

“Actually, that might be a bit extreme.” He grinned stupidly, then knocked theatrically on the wooden floor in what Autumn knew was meant to be a superstitious physical retraction of his statement. “Why do women do this, though?”

“It’s not just women. Remember Adam? Your mate from the band. He treated Bluebell the exact same way. This isn’t a problem with women. It’s a problem with everybody. They’re obsessed with the notion of love.”

They talked long into the evening that night, safe in the knowledge that Bowie was distracted by mother-son time Emma had insisted they have. When she looked back on it, years later, she wondered if that was the night Marley became one of her best friends.

* * *

Bowie and Marley wrote and performed a new version of the finale for the cast, then spent hours working with them alongside a clearly irritated orchestra and an angry-looking choreographer. Autumn watched them perform together, enthralled. She could see what Bowie had meant about Marley and his showmanship. His voice was deep and powerful; he threw every fibre of his being into performing the song they had written. Bowie looked awkward and uncomfortable, as though he would rather be doing absolutely anything else, but Marley, in contrast, was truly captivating, an absolute natural, and she could tell he really didn’t know how good he was, he just loved it and it showed.

By the time the cast had confirmed they were happier with the piece, it was late and Bowie could barely keep his eyes open. He insisted they go home, but promised to return in the morning to fine-tune the dynamics. Marley opted to stay behind with the orchestra and help them write up the changes to the music. Marley’s ex-lover, Hannah, said she would stay too. They’d been looking anywhere but at each other all day, but Autumn saw them smile shyly at each other now.

Bowie climbed sulkily into a taxi. Autumn knew the extreme fatigue his lymphoma brought with it frustrated him more than any of his other symptoms because he so desperately wanted to be active. He wanted to stay with Marley and finish the job, but it was impossible, and she knew his mood would plummet as a result. Still, she thought she might know a way to cushion his disappointment.

“Don’t fall asleep.” She pinched his thigh flirtatiously. His whole body flinched and she knew he had been dozing. He groaned, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Am I on a promise?” he asked, shuffling closer to her. She laughed and kissed his hand, running her fingers up the inside of his thigh and nibbling playfully on his earlobe in an attempt to thwart his exhaustion.

“Yes, you are.” She kissed him deeply. The initial urgency they’d once felt to make love had worn off a little, though neither took much persuading if the mood took the other. Still, these days they were in agreement that an evening spent eating snacks and watching movies in bed was an equally intimate use of their time. But not tonight. Autumn had always been incredibly aroused by talent, and watching Bowie when he was so wanted, so needed for his unique abilities, had driven her to distraction all afternoon. She’d watched his loping frame bound around the room and desired him so deeply she’d had to talk herself out of following him into the toilet to beg him to take her in a cubicle.

They kissed the whole way home and were relieved to find everyone was either in bed or out of the house when they got back. Bowie pulled her straight into the bedroom and kicked the door shut, slamming her back against the nearest wall. She hitched her leg around his waist and he hoisted her up, holding her hands above her head and biting gently at her neck.

“You’re so sexy, Bowie,” she whispered. He groaned and carried her to the bed. They undressed each other frantically. She hadn’t wanted him this badly for a while.

“Autumn . . .” She gripped his back with one hand in anticipation, but nothing happened. He hovered above her, his face twisted and awkward. “I need a little more time,” he said softly.

She realised she was grappling with him and stopped, embarrassed. He opened his mouth as though to say something, but nothing came out. She didn’t know what to do. She’d never encountered this before. They watched each other for a moment. She willed herself to do something. Bowie was blushing and she didn’t like his unease.

“Should I . . . touch myself, or something?” he asked.

“Here.” She pushed him away from her, gesturing for him to lie on his back on the bed. Ignoring the concern in his eyes, she straddled him, hovering a few inches above him and leaning down to kiss him hard on the mouth. He moaned. His hands gripped her hips, driving her down into his groin. His skin was burning. He wanted her, she could feel it in every move he made, hear it in every sound that rose from his throat, but there was no response where they needed it. He muttered something. Autumn didn’t catch the words, but she did hear frustration and concern. Desperate, she took him in her hands.

“Autumn—”

She shushed him and kept trying. He fell silent and she could tell he was waiting for her to stop. After a few minutes, she sat up beside him, defeated.

“I’m sorry.” He reached out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. She shook her head, then took up residence in her usual spot, wrapped in his arms with her head on the dip in his chest, her favourite part of him.

“It’s OK,” she said.

They lay still for a minute.

“It isn’t you,” he said.

“I know.” She kissed his bare skin.

They were silent again.

“We can still do . . . other things?” Bowie said. She looked up at his face in the moonlight, trying to ignore the burning desire his impotence had left between her legs. He was making himself a martyr to her needs. Any action he could not participate in fully would torture him, she knew, so she lied to Bowie for the first time ever.

“I think the moment might have passed for me too,” she said.

* * *

Autumn slipped into the shower beside Bowie the next morning, hoping his body’s reaction had been due to tiredness and stress, but they kissed passionately for close to ten minutes and nothing happened. This time, Bowie forgot his graciousness, slamming his fist so hard into the tiles above Autumn’s head that Emma ran to the bathroom door to check on him.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“OK, love. Be careful in there,” his mum said.

They stood motionless in the shower. The water — so erotic to Autumn just moments before — battered her unpleasantly in the face. The senior Whittles’ only house rule was that nobody had sex outside of their bedroom, out of respect for the rest of the household and to avoid any embarrassment. Emma would not be happy if she caught them in the shower together, so Autumn had no choice but to cling to Bowie until they were sure his mother had gone. Even then, she surprised herself. She didn’t move. She was frozen rigid.

“I’m sorry,” Bowie whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Scared was an understatement. She hadn’t been this frightened in years. Her heart was racing in a way it once had, a way long forgotten to her until now. She realised she’d let down a guard she hadn’t known she’d had up until now, and that was because she had never expected such aggression from Bowie. He attempted to hug her, but gave up when he realised she was not responding, and tried to explain.

“I’m frustrated, but not with you.” Those were not the words she needed to hear. The idea they may have shared their last ever tryst was torturous for her too — he didn’t need to explain that. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the way he had reacted. She couldn’t tell him it was OK, because it wasn’t.

“I know.” She peeled him off her and stepped out of the shower. Feeling vulnerable, she covered herself immediately with a towel. Mercifully, Bowie stayed where he was. He let her leave the bathroom and left her alone to get dressed. She yanked on a pair of jeans and one of his T-shirts, loading her fingers and neck with costume jewellery and popping a leopard-print headband on her head. She was perfecting its positioning when he appeared. Her heart had slowed by then, but the surprise was still there, pouring through her veins and flushing her face an irritated red. Bowie was dry and she knew he’d been waiting in the bathroom to give her some space. He loitered in the doorway in his dressing gown.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was a disgusting thing for me to do.”

She turned to face him. She didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he added.

“Well, you did,” she told him. He flinched and looked down at his feet.

“I know. I’m so sorry. If anyone threw that kind of weight around my sisters, for any reason, I would punch them through a fucking wall.”

Autumn turned back to the mirror. She wasn’t done being mad at him yet. She stared at their reflections — hers pink with upset and his white with sorrow — and acknowledged her anger at his violence was more complicated than she’d realised. Autumn’s stepfather had thrown his fists around as easily as that. After a year or two, her mother had become his punchbag of choice, and eventually Autumn had made it onto his list of things it was OK to hit. Her sister hadn’t been immune, either. Any time anyone had done anything he hadn’t liked, if he’d been in a bad mood or had just felt like hurting someone, he would beat them until they’d begged him to stop. When she was fifteen, Autumn had called her father and asked if she could live with him, but he’d said he thought it best that Autumn stayed with her mother. Autumn had always suspected her father didn’t really care about her, but she hadn’t expected him to turn her away when she’d explained what was happening to her at home.

It had been the first time she’d realised she’d had nowhere to run. Autumn had learned to deal with the punches over time, bracing her body to make sure that her bruises had been in places people couldn’t see, but she had never forgiven her mother for staying with her stepfather, nor her father for turning her away when she’d needed him so desperately. Eventually, her stepfather had left her mother for another woman. Katherine had been heartbroken for weeks. Autumn had promised herself she would never again allow any man to act so violently around her, and she hadn’t. Bowie had been the last man she’d expected to find herself so disappointed in.

She could feel him staring at her now. She’d never told him any of her story, but her reaction to his outburst, although appropriate, was undoubtedly uncharacteristically raw, and Bowie had recognised that instantly. She’d seen a sense of realisation flicker across his face, followed by a look of fear and then a deep remorse. She hated the potential for pity that came with being a victim. She’d never used what had happened to her as an excuse for anything. Ever. Now, because of Bowie, she’d behaved in a way that made her vulnerability obvious and she hated the fact she’d been forced to confront her demons, and to do so in front of him. She was madder at him for that than she was the act of violence in itself. She watched him now, still standing in the doorway.

The softer part of her, the bit he had awakened when he’d burst into her life, wanted to soothe his concern, but the old version of Autumn wouldn’t let her. She wondered if this was what being comfortably in the middle felt like. Open, but not completely.

“I’m not one of them, Autumn,” he whispered.

“Every violent man I’ve ever known has insisted he ‘wasn’t one of them’,” she said.

“I know.” He swallowed.

“Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I won’t.” He shook his head.

She watched him in the mirror for a minute. Eventually, she turned and held her hand out to him. He padded across the room and scooped her up in his arms. She held on to him tightly. The teenage Autumn inside her — the tough girl from the council estate — felt cheated by her adult self and her readiness to forgive, but Autumn pushed that part of herself aside. She would not make excuses for him, but she wanted to acquit him.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked, and she realised she was crying. She held him tighter and closed her eyes.

“Can you take me for breakfast first?”

He laughed and nodded. Autumn’s appetite had been growing at the same rate as her happiness. The Whittles presented her with delicious vegan food alongside a healthy dose of appetite daily, and Autumn found it difficult to restrict her eating anymore. She knew now that there was something psychological there — something about control and insecurity — but she wasn’t ready to psychoanalyse it yet. Instead she ate more intuitively and exercised with Bluebell and Maddie in the garden almost every day, mainly yoga, but sometimes they’d do laps of the house.

There were many healthy rituals and one of those was breakfast with Bowie in a local café on Friday mornings. Despite their commitment to return to the theatre that day, they’d been showering early so as to stick to their routine. Autumn had been looking forward to it. It was one of her favourite things they did together, probably her favourite now it seemed they could no longer have sex, and she didn’t want to miss a single one. If she’d known their last time together would be their last time, perhaps she’d have taken it slower. Savoured it more. Done it more often. She had taken that part of their lives for granted and she didn’t want to do that with this.

They walked to the coffee shop, placed their order and waited for their breakfast to arrive. She knew he would barely eat any of it. He’d writhed with stomach pain all through the night. His anxiety about the musical was not helping. They chatted about it while they waited. Bowie wanted to do his absolute best for Larry, and Autumn was certain he was managing it.

They came to a natural pause in their conversation as their food arrived and Bowie eyed her anxiously across the table. She knew what he wanted to ask. Autumn smiled sadly at him.

“I don’t need to tell you about it. It won’t help me if I do. And whether or not what happened to me happened to me, what you did this morning was wrong.”

“I know that,” he said. “I’m not trying to make myself feel better about it. I just want to be there for you if you need me.”

Autumn sighed.

“I hate the narrative that goes with it.” She almost spat the words. “It’s so frustrating. Women are not these delicate little flowers, you know? But almost half of the human population of the planet could kill us any time they wanted to if the mood took them. That must be a really difficult position to put yourself in, as a man. I think it’s something that most women subconsciously recognise but don’t really think about until something happens to them. Something like what happened this morning.”

He reached sheepishly for her hand. She let him hold it gently in his.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are, Bowie.”

He took a sip of his coffee, his pancakes virtually untouched. He looked sad in a way she hadn’t seen him before.

“I know it was a mistake. I don’t think you’d ever hit me. You just surprised me and I reacted.”

“I surprised myself, too. It’s just . . .” He hesitated.

“Go on.”

“No. It’ll sound like I’m making excuses and there really are none. I shouldn’t have done it; it’s as simple as that.”

She was glad to hear him acknowledge that his sudden impotence and the way he’d reacted in the shower were two entirely separate problems. She knew why he’d done what he did — he was overwhelmingly frustrated and afraid of letting her down — but that didn’t excuse it. She understood — sex had always been their thing. Even when Bowie had been feeling unwell, they’d always found ways to be intimate with each other. It was inevitable this would challenge his sense of who he was and the way their relationship worked, and — although it was not unexpected — it was premature. Neither of them had counted on it happening while he was still as physically capable as he seemed to be at the moment. It made her wonder.

“Can we talk about your penis now?” she asked.

He laughed, spitting out coffee into his saucer. She smiled.

“Sure,” he said. “Why the hell not.”

“Do you think it could be related to your medication?”

A person in Bowie’s condition would ordinarily be in the early stages of a palliative care plan, but Bowie had made it clear he didn’t want any of that. Easily embarrassed and frustratingly private, he’d checked his family were happy to nurse him until he succumbed, then rejected his GP’s offer to arrange for community nurses to come to the house and help him manage his pain. He had a professional carer at home in the form of his sister. Maddie could look after him just as well as anyone else. His GP had reluctantly agreed to honour his wishes, prescribing him a cocktail of drugs to ingest every day to help him manage his symptoms.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“Is there anything on your mind?”

“No.” He shook his head. She had no real reason not to believe him. She felt sure he knew that he could talk to her about literally anything. Still, something had been bothering her since the day before — their day at the theatre — and she felt she needed to ask him about it.

“This isn’t because of Clara, is it?”

She knew he’d been surprised, and he was. His head snapped up at the mention of her name. Autumn’s heart sank. Her gut rarely lied to her when it came to reading people, but she realised she’d been hoping her suspicions about the two of them would be wrong.

“You have had sex with her, haven’t you?” she asked his questioning expression. He took his hand from hers and rubbed it across his face.

“How on earth did you work that out?” he asked.

“Female intuition. She avoided me at all costs and then became my very best friend, all in one afternoon. Women tend not to do that unless they’ve slept with your boyfriend.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have told you.”

“I don’t care if you’ve slept with half of London,” she said, mimicking the words he’d said back in New York. “I only care that you’re happy and about the way you treat me.”

“Nice circle back.” He smiled. “You should be a writer.”

“So, if it’s not her, what is going on, then?” she asked again.

“It isn’t anything to do with her. I really hope you’ll believe me. We were together for a little while, three or four years ago, then Marley wanted to move to New York and I wanted to go with him. She wanted to stay here and I didn’t ask her to come anyway. She’s nice, we got on well, but she wasn’t what I was looking for. I think she felt the same about me. Clara is great. I can only assume she avoided you to begin with because she didn’t know how to handle the situation, then acted like your best friend because she wanted to make up for her weird behaviour.”

Autumn could tell Bowie was being honest. She hated the fact she’d felt the need to ask him about it, but she felt better for hearing his answer. She’d lain awake for hours pondering Bowie’s sudden inability to perform and arrived at the conclusion Clara must have something to do with it in the very depths of the night, when thinking rationally was always most challenging. Now, she felt a sudden urge to spill her darkest fears to him.

“I believe you, Bowie. Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure.”

“Do you promise not to think I’m neurotic?”

“Promise.”

“When we first met, you told me you’d never slept with a woman like me before. You said I was flawless or something like that. I really liked you, so I don’t think I’ve ever felt so good about myself in all my life. Now I’ve met Clara, it feels as though you lied to me. She’s perfect. Stunningly beautiful. Suddenly, I don’t feel so confident that I’m the most beautiful woman you’ve ever been with. That would have been fine if you’d never implied it, but you did. I’m afraid that you flattered me to get me into bed.”

Autumn became suddenly tearful. Bowie looked close to tears himself. He moved his chair alongside hers and put his arm around her shoulders. She waited for him to answer, but he didn’t. She knew he was thinking carefully about whatever it was he wanted to say to her, but she couldn’t bear the silence.

“I know that this all sounds ridiculous and I hate myself for feeling this way, but you’re the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me, Bowie. You were this wonderful surprise. I never expected it. But we haven’t known each other for very long. For all I know, you could really be the type of man who punches walls and talks shit to get women to sleep with you. It frightens me.”

“That isn’t who I am, Autumn.” He rested his forehead against hers. He was panicking, she could tell. Every feeling she’d associated with Bowie until now had been warm and fuzzy. Bowie liked that. He loved that she loved the type of man he was. She knew he’d be afraid his reputation with her might be in jeopardy, but she had to get it off her chest. She wanted to know he really was who he said he was. He stared straight into her face.

“When I said I’d never slept with a woman like you before, I didn’t only mean that you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen — which you are, by the way — but that I’d never been with anyone like you in any way. I’d never been with anyone with a mind that works like yours, or who makes me laugh the way you do, or any of the other countless things I loved about you that night. And still love about you. You were smart and funny and kind and curious in bed, and totally in control of yourself. I was totally overwhelmed by your appearance in my life and the consequences of your timing. You marched into my world and blew it up completely. I was afraid to do or say anything that might make you go away. That’s why I stopped to tell you about my scar. I was telling you the truth about that too, by the way. I usually do keep my top on when I have sex. You can ask Clara if you like, although she may think it’s a little weird. But with you, I felt completely at ease. Like we’d done that before, or something. Like you wouldn’t be frightened away by them because you’d already seen them, I guess. Like you were already a part of me, of this. I’m not as good with spoken words as you are — I can’t describe it properly. I’m sorry if I gave you the impression I was inexperienced. I’m a straight man who works in theatre. There’s no shortage of attractive women looking for men like me. I like sex, that’s the ugly truth of it. I’ve slept with lots of women, enough of them to know you’re the only one I’ve ever been able to reveal myself to completely, physically and emotionally.”

She was ashamed she’d chalked the depth of his comment that night down to her appearance only. She felt like she should apologise, but didn’t know how to apologise in the middle of an apology.

“I think you’re pretty good with words,” she said instead.

He tilted her chin up to look at him and wiped away her tears with his thumb. She smiled and saw his features flood with relief. He stared deep into her eyes.

“I could tell you I’m in love with you,” he murmured. “But I’ve never said that to anyone before and I certainly didn’t want to say it to you for the first time as the crescendo to a conversation like this. I had other plans. More romantic ones. But I do. I love you. So, can I say it, then can we pretend this isn’t the first time I’ve told you? Save the real declaration for a happier day?”

She smiled, nodding her head.

“I love you, Autumn,” he said.

She kissed him.

“I love you, too,” she said.