I swallowed. ‘I did. But I’m much better. I’m completely fine. Well, fine except I walk with a slight limp.’
‘Happens to the best of us,’ he said, with a small smile. I smiled back. Someone tried the door. I moved so that my weight was against it.
‘So what was the hardest part?’ Mr Gopnik said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Of working for William Traynor. It sounds like quite a challenge.’
I hesitated. The room was suddenly very quiet. ‘Letting him go.’ I said. And found myself unexpectedly biting back tears.
Leonard Gopnik gazed at me from several thousand miles away. I fought the urge to wipe my eyes. ‘My secretary will be in touch, Miss Clark. Thank you for your time.’ And then, with a nod, his face stilled and the screen went blank and I was left staring at it, contemplating the fact that I had blown it, yet again.
That night, on the way home, I decided not to think about the interview. Instead I repeated Marc’s words in my head, like a mantra. I ran through the things that Lily had done, the uninvited guests, the theft, the drugs, the endless late nights, the borrowing of my things, and ran them through the prism of my group’s counsel. Lily was chaos, disorder, a girl who took and gave nothing in return. She was young, and biologically related to Will, but that didn’t mean I had to assume total responsibility for her or put up with the turmoil she left in her wake.
I felt a little better. I did. I reminded myself of something else Marc had said: that no journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days. Today was just a bad day, a kink in the road, to be traversed and survived.
I let myself into the flat, and dropped my bag, suddenly grateful for the small pleasure of a home that was just as I’d left it. I would allow some time to pass, I told myself, and then I would text her, and I would make sure our future visits were structured. I would focus my energies on getting a new job. I would think about myself for a change. I would let myself heal. I had to stop at that point because I was a little worried that I was starting to sound like Tanya Houghton-Miller.
I glanced at the fire escape. Step one would be getting back up on that stupid roof. I would climb up there by myself without having a panic attack and I would sit there for a full half-hour, breathe the air and stop letting a part of my own home have such a ridiculous hold on my imagination.
I took off my uniform and put on shorts and, just for confidence, Will’s lightweight cashmere jumper, the one I had taken from his house after he died, comforted by the soft feel of it against my skin. I walked down the corridor and opened the window wide. It was just two short flights of iron steps. And then I would be up there.
‘Nothing will happen,’ I said aloud, and took a deep breath. My legs felt curiously hollow as I climbed out onto the fire escape, but I told myself firmly that it was just a feeling, the echo of an old anxiety. I could overcome it, just as I would overcome everything else. I heard Will’s voice in my ear.
C’mon, Clark. One step at a time.
I grasped the rails tightly with both hands, and began to make my way up. I didn’t look down. I didn’t let myself think about what height I was at, or how the faint breeze recalled an earlier time gone wrong, or the recurring pain in my hip that never seemed to go away. I thought about Sam, and the fury that invoked made me push on. I didn’t have to be the victim, the person to whom things just happened.
I told myself these things and made it up the second flight of steps as my legs began to shake. I climbed inelegantly over the low wall, afraid that they would give way under me, and dropped onto the roof on my hands and knees. I felt weak and clammy. I stayed on all fours, my eyes shut, while I let myself absorb the fact that I was on the roof. I had made it. I was in control of my destiny. I would stay there for as long as it took to feel normal.
I sat back on my heels, reaching for the solidity of the wall around me, and leaned back, taking a long, deep breath. It felt okay. Nothing was moving. I had done it. And then I opened my eyes and my breath stopped in my chest.
The rooftop was a riot of bloom. The dead pots I had neglected for months were filled with scarlet and purple flowers, spilling over the edges, like little fountains of colour. Two new planters mushroomed with clouds of tiny blue petals, and a Japanese maple sat in an ornamental pot beside one of the benches, its leaves shivering delicately in the breeze.
In the sunny corner by the south wall two grow-bags sat by the water tank, with little red cherry tomatoes dangling from their stalks, and another lay on the asphalt with small frilly green leaves emerging from the centre. I began to walk slowly towards them, breathing in the scent of jasmine, then stopped and sat down, my hand grasping the iron bench. I sank onto a cushion that I recognized from my living room.
I stared in disbelief at the little oasis of calm and beauty that had been created from my barren rooftop. I remembered Lily snapping the dead twig from a pot and informing me in all seriousness that it was a crime to let your plants die, and her casual observation in Mrs Traynor’s garden, ‘David Austin roses.’ And then I remembered little unexplained bits of soil in my hallway.
And I sank my head into my hands.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I texted Lily twice. The first time was to thank her for what she had done to my rooftop. It’s so gorgeous. I wish you had told me. A day later, I texted to say I was sorry that things had become so tricky between us, and that if she ever wanted to talk more about Will, I would do my best to answer any questions. I added that I hoped she would go and see Mr Traynor and the new baby, as I knew as well as most that it was important to stay in touch with your family.
She didn’t reply. I wasn’t entirely surprised.
For the next two days I found myself returning to the rooftop, like someone worrying a loose tooth. I watered the plants, feeling a creeping, residual guilt. I walked around the glowing blooms, imagining her stolen hours up there, how she must have carried bags of compost and terracotta pots up the fire escape in the hours I was at work. But every time I thought back to how we had been together, I still went around in circles. What could I have done? I couldn’t make the Traynors accept her in the way she needed to be accepted. I couldn’t make her happier. And the one person who might have been able to was gone.
There was a motorbike parked outside my block. I locked the car and limped across the road to get a carton of milk after my shift, exhausted. It was spitting, and I put my head down against the rain. When I looked up, I saw a familiar uniform standing in the entrance to my block, and my heart lurched.
I walked back across the road straight past him, fumbling in my bag for my keys. Why did fingers always turn into cocktail sausages at moments of stress?
‘Louisa.’
The keys refused to appear. I riffled through my bag a second time, dropping a comb, bits of tissue, loose change, and cursing. I patted my pockets, trying to work out where they might be.
‘Louisa.’
Then, with a sickening drop of my stomach, I remembered where they were: in the pocket of the jeans I had changed out of just before leaving for work. Oh, great.
‘Really? You’re just going to ignore me? This is how we’re doing this?’
I took a deep breath, and turned to him, straightening my shoulders a little. ‘Sam.’
He looked tired too, his chin greyed with stubble. Probably just off a shift. It was unwise to notice these things. I focused on a point a little left of his shoulder.
‘Happens to the best of us,’ he said, with a small smile. I smiled back. Someone tried the door. I moved so that my weight was against it.
‘So what was the hardest part?’ Mr Gopnik said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Of working for William Traynor. It sounds like quite a challenge.’
I hesitated. The room was suddenly very quiet. ‘Letting him go.’ I said. And found myself unexpectedly biting back tears.
Leonard Gopnik gazed at me from several thousand miles away. I fought the urge to wipe my eyes. ‘My secretary will be in touch, Miss Clark. Thank you for your time.’ And then, with a nod, his face stilled and the screen went blank and I was left staring at it, contemplating the fact that I had blown it, yet again.
That night, on the way home, I decided not to think about the interview. Instead I repeated Marc’s words in my head, like a mantra. I ran through the things that Lily had done, the uninvited guests, the theft, the drugs, the endless late nights, the borrowing of my things, and ran them through the prism of my group’s counsel. Lily was chaos, disorder, a girl who took and gave nothing in return. She was young, and biologically related to Will, but that didn’t mean I had to assume total responsibility for her or put up with the turmoil she left in her wake.
I felt a little better. I did. I reminded myself of something else Marc had said: that no journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days. Today was just a bad day, a kink in the road, to be traversed and survived.
I let myself into the flat, and dropped my bag, suddenly grateful for the small pleasure of a home that was just as I’d left it. I would allow some time to pass, I told myself, and then I would text her, and I would make sure our future visits were structured. I would focus my energies on getting a new job. I would think about myself for a change. I would let myself heal. I had to stop at that point because I was a little worried that I was starting to sound like Tanya Houghton-Miller.
I glanced at the fire escape. Step one would be getting back up on that stupid roof. I would climb up there by myself without having a panic attack and I would sit there for a full half-hour, breathe the air and stop letting a part of my own home have such a ridiculous hold on my imagination.
I took off my uniform and put on shorts and, just for confidence, Will’s lightweight cashmere jumper, the one I had taken from his house after he died, comforted by the soft feel of it against my skin. I walked down the corridor and opened the window wide. It was just two short flights of iron steps. And then I would be up there.
‘Nothing will happen,’ I said aloud, and took a deep breath. My legs felt curiously hollow as I climbed out onto the fire escape, but I told myself firmly that it was just a feeling, the echo of an old anxiety. I could overcome it, just as I would overcome everything else. I heard Will’s voice in my ear.
C’mon, Clark. One step at a time.
I grasped the rails tightly with both hands, and began to make my way up. I didn’t look down. I didn’t let myself think about what height I was at, or how the faint breeze recalled an earlier time gone wrong, or the recurring pain in my hip that never seemed to go away. I thought about Sam, and the fury that invoked made me push on. I didn’t have to be the victim, the person to whom things just happened.
I told myself these things and made it up the second flight of steps as my legs began to shake. I climbed inelegantly over the low wall, afraid that they would give way under me, and dropped onto the roof on my hands and knees. I felt weak and clammy. I stayed on all fours, my eyes shut, while I let myself absorb the fact that I was on the roof. I had made it. I was in control of my destiny. I would stay there for as long as it took to feel normal.
I sat back on my heels, reaching for the solidity of the wall around me, and leaned back, taking a long, deep breath. It felt okay. Nothing was moving. I had done it. And then I opened my eyes and my breath stopped in my chest.
The rooftop was a riot of bloom. The dead pots I had neglected for months were filled with scarlet and purple flowers, spilling over the edges, like little fountains of colour. Two new planters mushroomed with clouds of tiny blue petals, and a Japanese maple sat in an ornamental pot beside one of the benches, its leaves shivering delicately in the breeze.
In the sunny corner by the south wall two grow-bags sat by the water tank, with little red cherry tomatoes dangling from their stalks, and another lay on the asphalt with small frilly green leaves emerging from the centre. I began to walk slowly towards them, breathing in the scent of jasmine, then stopped and sat down, my hand grasping the iron bench. I sank onto a cushion that I recognized from my living room.
I stared in disbelief at the little oasis of calm and beauty that had been created from my barren rooftop. I remembered Lily snapping the dead twig from a pot and informing me in all seriousness that it was a crime to let your plants die, and her casual observation in Mrs Traynor’s garden, ‘David Austin roses.’ And then I remembered little unexplained bits of soil in my hallway.
And I sank my head into my hands.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I texted Lily twice. The first time was to thank her for what she had done to my rooftop. It’s so gorgeous. I wish you had told me. A day later, I texted to say I was sorry that things had become so tricky between us, and that if she ever wanted to talk more about Will, I would do my best to answer any questions. I added that I hoped she would go and see Mr Traynor and the new baby, as I knew as well as most that it was important to stay in touch with your family.
She didn’t reply. I wasn’t entirely surprised.
For the next two days I found myself returning to the rooftop, like someone worrying a loose tooth. I watered the plants, feeling a creeping, residual guilt. I walked around the glowing blooms, imagining her stolen hours up there, how she must have carried bags of compost and terracotta pots up the fire escape in the hours I was at work. But every time I thought back to how we had been together, I still went around in circles. What could I have done? I couldn’t make the Traynors accept her in the way she needed to be accepted. I couldn’t make her happier. And the one person who might have been able to was gone.
There was a motorbike parked outside my block. I locked the car and limped across the road to get a carton of milk after my shift, exhausted. It was spitting, and I put my head down against the rain. When I looked up, I saw a familiar uniform standing in the entrance to my block, and my heart lurched.
I walked back across the road straight past him, fumbling in my bag for my keys. Why did fingers always turn into cocktail sausages at moments of stress?
‘Louisa.’
The keys refused to appear. I riffled through my bag a second time, dropping a comb, bits of tissue, loose change, and cursing. I patted my pockets, trying to work out where they might be.
‘Louisa.’
Then, with a sickening drop of my stomach, I remembered where they were: in the pocket of the jeans I had changed out of just before leaving for work. Oh, great.
‘Really? You’re just going to ignore me? This is how we’re doing this?’
I took a deep breath, and turned to him, straightening my shoulders a little. ‘Sam.’
He looked tired too, his chin greyed with stubble. Probably just off a shift. It was unwise to notice these things. I focused on a point a little left of his shoulder.
