Beat the Rain Page 11
* * *
Louise’s dad left her a decent inheritance. She was at A-level college but she was alone. Casual sex filled the void for a while, and she quickly built a reputation for herself at college – one she knows she’d never have had if she’d been male. But so what? She needed those moments where she felt someone was with her, that someone needed her. They helped her and she didn’t care what people thought. At least, that’s what she told herself, but then, as the despair and loneliness threatened to end her, to push her to a place she hadn’t imagined she was capable of, she’d bumped into a beautiful guy in the local newsagents, with his t-shirt riding up slightly, revealing a tiny bit of his midriff. And she’d been immediately transfixed. In no time, Tom had moved in and she had a new life, something to live for. For a while, anyway. But she’d never been able to share everything with him, never been able to tell him about her past, about the guys she’d slept with. Tom had only slept with three girls before her, so she matched him, told him that she’d only slept with three guys as well. Even Stevens.
“We’re not Romeo and Juliet,” Tom had said in his DVD, and he’d been right, even if she didn’t want to admit it. The things she couldn’t explain to Tom, she could explain to Adam, his twin. They’d stay up late one night, talking about the loss of her dad, while Tom snoozed drunkenly on the sofa. She’d told Adam of the loss she felt, how it had changed her in ways she didn’t understand. About the hole she had inside somewhere, that she couldn’t fill. She told him how she’d lost all sense of security and she’d tried to find it in other places. She told him how she’d lost her virginity and began looking for love and affection in all the wrong places – in the sloppy affection of the boys at school. She told him of the reputation she’d earned and that she now understood the short-lived intimacy sex gave her wasn’t a replacement for real love or affection. She knew that the boys had pretended to like her and had pretended to be interested in her. She knew once she’d given them what they wanted, they were gone – usually to tell their friends what a dirty slag she was.
“She gave me my brown wings, lads. You don’t have to ask, just slip it in, she loves it.”
As Adam listened, nodding, not offering advice, not judging, Louise had continued. She had money, her dad’s insurance and the sale of the house have left her well enough off not to worry about her finances. She had a flat and she was smart. But she was young and alone, with few friends and a reputation. And meeting Tom saved her from destruction. Adam had flinched slightly when she’d said that, she remembers. But she’d leant forward and touched his hand.
“Oh, Adam, when I think of the path I could have gone down…drink, drugs, nameless fucking. Anything to take the edge off life, anything not to feel. But Tom saved me. I saw him in that newsagents and I knew he could fix me. Isn’t that weird, there and then in the newsagents, I knew. And not in a needy, negative way, but because we fit. We work together.”
Adam had smiled and looked over at his sleeping brother.
“What does Tom think of all this?” he asked. Louise remained quiet, shaking her head.
“I’m too ashamed to tell him any of this,” she said.
“Oh, Louise, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Some of the guys you mentioned – they’ve got things to be ashamed of, but you? Never.”
Louise forgets these things too often. She forgets what Adam gives her, that he can often say the right thing when she needs him to. Yes, she and Tom were comfortable and easy, but Adam has always been genuinely interested in her. He asks what she thinks about things, what she feels. He encourages her to talk about her dad, her mum, Tom. Everything, even Narinda and the bullying, because he knows it left scars, left her mistrustful of friendships with other women, even her friends Imogen and Alice. Adam is happy to talk about how she used sex to make herself feel better. He doesn’t care about any of that, he doesn’t think she was a slag. And actually, thinking about it now, she never discussed half of that with Tom. And Tom certainly never discussed anything with her, he was a closed book. Did Tom support her in the way she remembers he did? All this time, Louise has been putting Adam up against the impossibly perfect spectre of his brother, but actually, who was the better brother? The better partner? The one who knew he was dying and wouldn’t even tell her, or the one who stayed and helped pick up the pieces? The one who’d given her two children, who had done what few men would do and become a stay-at-home dad to them because she wasn’t up to the task?
She might not be everything she hoped to be, but she’s something. She’s a business owner and a mother. She’s a wife. She forgets that sometimes. Often, even. After throwing her clothes into her suitcase, Louise lies down on her bed. First thing in the morning, she’s going home. It’s time to leave it behind. She can’t keep lying to Adam, she has to accept her life as it is now, not for the thing she thought it once might be.
I’m going to make this marriage work, she thinks as she lies back, naked on top of her bed sheets and closes her eyes. I’m going to be a good wife and mother, whatever it takes. I will not be like her. I’ll never be like her.
Chapter Twelve
The children can always tell if Adam is stressed or distracted. It’s the morning after Imogen’s visit and they’re taking advantage of his lack of control. He feels stupid, like the biggest idiot that’s ever lived. Do café owners even have conferences? What would they talk about, how to steam milk and serve a Victoria sponge on top of a serviette effectively? He’s trying to get Maria to dress for school and he needs to get Matthew ready for nursery. Instead, both are currently climbing on the windowsills and neither will even contemplate sitting still for breakfast. First thing this morning, Maria found some aftershave and emptied it all over the bedroom floor, ruining the carpet, and Matthew managed to find the poster paints and palm them all over the walls. Adam had shouted at Matthew then, telling him he had to listen to Daddy, that he couldn’t go around doing whatever he liked when he liked.
“Daddy, you’re shouting,” Maria said. He hates it when he’s too pre-occupied to do his best for the children, when he loses his temper and shouts. They had forgotten about it in seconds, of course, but he remains feeling guilty, like he’s a terrible father. Just yesterday, he’d been feeling so happy and content, looking forward to Louise’s return, enjoying the time he was having with the children. Now he doesn’t know how to think or feel, it’s like his marriage is in turmoil and it’s blindsided him, he hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe he is too wrapped up in himself and the children and hasn’t paid Louise enough attention? But it’s been a good few years for both of them, he doesn’t feel like they’ve been struggling. Louise bought the café and she’s making it a real success. He started writing again and actually managed to get a novel published. They have had two children together. Okay, so Louise struggles with motherhood a bit, but it’s not like she’s a bad mum, far from it. She doesn’t stay at home with them, but so what?
* * *
Adam’s first novel, It feels like I can still smile, was published before Maria was born. He’s always loved to write. It was one of the things that differentiated him from Tom. His brother loved books, like Adam, but he never felt compelled to write them. Not so with Adam, who wrote his first attempt at a book when he was twelve on an electric typewriter his parents got him for his birthday. At first, after Tom died, Adam found it increasingly difficult to put pen to paper – or more factually, fingers to keyboard. He was consumed by the enormity of losing his twin, so he channelled his emotions into Louise and looking after her and helping her through everything. She’d already lost her parents – losing her lover on top of that before she was even out of her twenties? It was so cruel. And helping her helped him, if he’s honest. It gave him something to focus on, to concentrate on. It allowed him to bury his grief and incorporate the loss and aching sadness into his skin, his veins, his internal organs, making it part of him everywhere he could as long as it wasn’t inside his mind. He couldn’t have it in his head, couldn
’t think about it, couldn’t deal with it that way. Some pain can’t be consciously endured.
With Louise, he could avoid thinking about losing Tom by supporting her loss. It suited him. He got to listen to someone talk about his brother without having to lay himself bare about it. Louise rarely asked much about his feelings, so he didn’t feel uncomfortable. Everyone gained something from the relationship – but he realised his writing had suffered. For the first time in his adult life, he wasn’t a writer. It wasn’t even like he was ignoring the constant itch, the manic need to create something of his own with words – he hadn’t even thought about it. He knew why, even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself. It was because the story that kept appearing in his head, the one his deep inner self wanted to write, was about Tom. And his conscious self wanted to avoid that. Adam couldn’t bear to tell it. He didn’t want to explore those feelings in reality or on paper. He knew if he let that pain out through his fingers it would make it real in a way he could never cope with. But the calling was so strong, every time he sat down in front of the keyboard, he found himself thinking about it, wondering if he should explore his brother’s last months and how it must have felt to be the keeper of such a secret. But he would never do that, he’d never let himself enter that headspace, he couldn’t. He’d never recover from it. So he stopped writing completely, almost overnight.
Tom used to say Adam was a good listener, but Adam knew it was more than that. It was an avoidance tactic. It meant he didn’t have to answer questions about himself or his thoughts or feelings. He was the man who nodded his head with his neck tilted to an angle while talking to you. He was the man who listened and nodded in agreement, who offered advice, who helped you to open up a little. He was the man who laughed or joked, but he didn’t offer any of himself in return, not the real Adam. He knew all about keeping people at a distance and he’d never thought it would cause him too many problems.
It was Louise who had changed things, made him open up. And she’d known how important his writing was to him, known how it drove him.
“Why don’t you do an MA in Creative Writing?” she’d said casually one day. “I’ve still got enough money from Dad’s inheritance to keep us going. Why don’t you do it? Might help the writer’s block.”
And that was it. He hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t questioned it, he’d applied for it and done it. And weirdly, it hadn’t been as hard as he’d imagined it would be. The writing workshops started small – write sixty-six words about the beach or write a scene of dialogue where nobody says more than three words at a time. None of which lent itself to Tom or his death. And then, all of a sudden, Adam realised that Tom’s death wasn’t rearing its head begging for attention, and he was writing again and enjoying it. And he and Louise were enjoying each other and not spending all of their time poring over Tom and how he’d kept them in the dark and how the world felt empty without him. They were slowly becoming Adam and Louise, a couple with a life of their own, not a painful shared history.
Within a few months of starting his MA, he wasn’t writing small dribs and drabs, but reams and reams of material, real words with real meaning. His output became nothing short of prolific and before he knew it, he had written a novel: It feels like I can still smile.
When he looks back at that time, he knows the feelings that flowed through him were like gold dust for a writer, rich emotions and characters with lives more vibrant than half the people he knew in real life. Friends, of a sort, happy for his attention and waiting for their stories to be written. Not directly related to Tom or what Adam was going through but influenced by it, informed by it in a way he’d never have been able to write before.
Adam hasn’t been succeeding at Louise’s expense, though, far from it. She bought a café and has turned it around and made it a success. They’ve got two wonderful children. Things are good, aren’t they? He can’t understand why she’s lied to him or what she’s doing. It’s true that he doesn’t have the time for Louise he once had, but that’s the same vice versa. She has the café and they have two young kids. He’s trying to write a second novel, juggling that with childcare and the odd freelance writing job. Life is hectic, but that’s the nature of having a family and both having a career, isn’t it? And they are always there for each other when it matters.
One day, shortly after It feels like I can still smile was published, Louise had sat on the edge of the sofa and asked Adam why he wrote.
“I don’t have a choice,” he answered quietly, sure she’d understand. And she had. She’d sat with him, stroking his arm and not speaking. But now he has to acknowledge that things have changed, and he’s not entirely sure why.
* * *
Adam has done the school and nursery run and is now sitting in the sunshine at a café in the local park, stirring his coffee despite the fact he doesn’t take milk or sugar and there’s nothing to stir. Staring blankly at the patchy grass and weeds beneath his feet, he can’t work out what to do for the best. Should he call Louise now? Confront her, tell her he knows there’s no conference and demand the truth. Or should he wait for her to come home, wait for her to tell him what’s going on?
He knows that sometimes, Louise feels he’s stolen the kids’ affection from her, she’s said as much. Maybe it’s that? Maybe she’s right, in a way. Before Maria and Matthew were born, he remembers people – parents – smugly saying it was something you couldn’t understand until you were a parent yourself. He’d hated those people and would happily have told them to their faces they were up their own arses. But now he’s become that person. The love, the physical pain that comes with worrying about Maria and Matthew, the joy when they give him a smile or a cuddle, these things make him feel complete in a way he hasn’t felt since Tom died. His kids are a part of him, like Tom had been. Maybe Louise is on the outside of that? But he’d needed to step in, because Louise was struggling to cope.
And then it hits Adam, a revelation so horrible he doesn’t want to admit it. He’s been so caught up in the day to day, in being a father and trying to write his second novel, he hasn’t noticed that she needs his help and attention. Louise is an outsider in her own family, standing outside, looking in, desperately trying to find a way to be part of her children’s lives.
He sips his coffee, jolting slightly as his mobile starts ringing, buzzing and vibrating on the table in front of him, a little dance of nerves and anticipation. Louise. He sits still for a moment, contemplating whether to answer it or not.
“I’m on my way home,” Louise says, when he finally picks up the handset. “I’ll pick Maria up from school, take her to the park for a while. Then I’ll get Matthew from nursery.”
“Okay,” Adam replies, cradling the phone in his neck. She sounds happy enough. She sounds like everything is completely normal. “So you’ll be back about five?”
“Bit before.” she pauses. “My train leaves in an hour or so, I’ll grab some lunch on the way. You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says breezily, “I’m fine. We’ve had a good few days.” He pauses, taking a breath and holding it, trying to calm his beating heart. “How was the conference? Useful?”
“Oh, you know,” she says nonchalantly, “boring stuff, but might have found some new suppliers. I’m looking forward to seeing you all, though. I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you too,” Adam says. And at that moment he knows what he’s going to do and say: absolutely nothing. When she says she’s missed him, she sounds like she means it and that’s enough for him. If she wants to tell him what she’s been doing she can, but if not, he can wait. And he can start listening to her, trying to understand what’s going on with her. He owes it to her to be the husband she always wanted him to be, not someone so caught up in his own career and being a parent that he doesn’t notice her. He doesn’t think he’d gain anything from forcing her into a conversation about where she’s been or what she’s been doing. She’s coming back, that’s the main thing. If she’s worked through whatever
she needed to, then great. All he can do is try to be the best husband he can be.
With a rush of something like excitement, he decides to go home to have another shower and a shave. Then he’ll get some clean clothes on, tidy the house up to make their home look presentable. Maybe he’ll prepare a nice meal for when the kids have gone to bed, Persian chicken or a Thai green curry? Yes. No point sitting about thinking what ifs and maybes, he’s got to do his bit to get things back on track, to notice the things he hasn’t been noticing.
* * *
When Louise gets home that afternoon with both kids in tow, she seems perfectly normal. The children are happy to have their mum back and are racing around and laughing and the house feels filled with energy and excitement again. She smiles and kisses him and they do the kids’ story times together and he starts to think he should never have listened to Imogen or his mother in the first place. Louise is fine, there’s nothing wrong at all. Later, lying in bed next to one another, getting their post-coital breath back, Louise says, “The fog’s lifted.”