Me Before You
Page 122
I sat down beside my sister on the sofa and we stared in silence at the three thirty Maiden Stakes, then the four o’clock handicap stakes, and the four races that followed it, with the fixed intensity of people who might actually have all the money in the world on the winner.
And then the doorbell rang.
Louisa was off the sofa and in the hallway in seconds. She opened the door and the way she wrenched it open made even my heart stop.
But it wasn’t Will there on the doorstep. It was a young woman, her make-up thick and perfectly applied, her hair cut in a neat bob around her chin. She folded her umbrella and smiled, reaching round towards the large bag she had over her shoulder. I wondered briefly if this was Will Traynor’s sister.
‘Louisa Clark?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m from The Globe. I wondered if I could have a quick word?’
‘The Globe?’
I could hear the confusion in Lou’s voice.
‘The newspaper?’ I stepped behind my sister. I saw then the notepad in the woman’s hand.
‘Can I come in? I’d just like to have a little chat with you about William Traynor. You do work for William Traynor, don’t you?’
‘No comment,’ I said. And before the woman had a chance to say anything else, I slammed the door in her face.
My sister stood stunned in the hallway. She flinched as the doorbell rang again.
‘Don’t answer it,’ I hissed.
‘But how – ?’
I began to push her up the stairs. God, she was impossibly slow. It was like she was half asleep. ‘Granddad, don’t answer the door!’ I yelled. ‘Who have you told?’ I said, when we reached the landing. ‘Someone must have told them. Who knows?’
‘Miss Clark,’ the woman’s voice came through the letter box. ‘If you just give me ten minutes … we do understand this is a very sensitive issue. We’d like you to put your side of the story … ’
‘Does this mean he’s dead?’ Her eyes had filled with tears.
‘No, it just means some arse is trying to cash in.’ I thought for a minute.
‘Who was that, girls?’ Mum’s voice came up the stairwell.
‘No one, Mum. Just don’t answer the door.’
I peered over the banister. Mum was holding a tea towel in her hands and gazing at the shadowy figure visible through the glass panels of the front door.
‘Don’t answer the door?’
I took my sister’s elbow. ‘Lou … you didn’t say anything to Patrick, did you?’
She didn’t need to say anything. Her stricken face said it all.
‘Okay. Don’t have a baby. Just don’t go near the door. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t say a word to them, okay?’
Mum was not amused. She was even less amused after the phone started ringing. After the fifth call we put all calls through to the answerphone, but we still had to listen to them, their voices invading our little hallway. There were four or five of them, all the same. All offering Lou the chance to put her side of ‘the story’, as they called it. Like Will Traynor was now some commodity that they were all scrabbling over. The telephone rang and the doorbell rang. We sat with the curtains closed, listening to the reporters on the pavement just outside our gate, chatting to each other and speaking on their mobile phones.
It was like being under siege. Mum wrung her hands and shouted through the letter box for them to get the hell out of our front garden, whenever one of them ventured past the gate. Thomas gazed out of the upstairs bathroom window and wanted to know why there were people in our garden. Four of our neighbours rang, wanting to know what was going on. Dad parked in Ivy Street and came home via the back garden, and we had a fairly serious talk about castles and boiling oil.
Then, after I’d thought a bit longer, I rang Patrick and asked him how much he had got for his sordid little tip. The slight delay before he denied everything told me all I needed to know.
‘You shitbag,’ I yelled. ‘I’m going to kick your stupid marathon-running shins so hard you’re going to think 157th was actually a good result.’
Lou just sat in the kitchen and cried. Not proper sobbing, just silent tears that ran down her face and which she wiped away with the palm of her hand. I couldn’t think what to say to her.
Which was fine. I had plenty to say to everyone else.
All but one of the reporters cleared off by half past seven. I didn’t know if they had given up, or if Thomas’s habit of posting bits of Lego out of the letter box every time they passed another note through had become boring. I told Louisa to bath Thomas for me, mainly because I wanted her to get out of the kitchen, but also because that way I could go through all the messages on our answerphone and delete the newspaper ones while she couldn’t hear me. Twenty-six. Twenty-six of the buggers. And all sounding so nice, so understanding. Some of them even offered her money.
I pressed delete on every one. Even those offering money, although I admit I was a teeny bit tempted to see how much they were offering. All the while, I heard Lou talking to Thomas in the bathroom, the whine and splash of him dive-bombing his six inches of soapsuds with the Batmobile. That’s the thing you don’t know about children unless you have them – bath time, Lego and fish fingers don’t allow you to dwell on tragedy for too long. And then I hit the last message.
‘Louisa? It’s Camilla Traynor. Will you call me? As soon as possible?’
And then the doorbell rang.
Louisa was off the sofa and in the hallway in seconds. She opened the door and the way she wrenched it open made even my heart stop.
But it wasn’t Will there on the doorstep. It was a young woman, her make-up thick and perfectly applied, her hair cut in a neat bob around her chin. She folded her umbrella and smiled, reaching round towards the large bag she had over her shoulder. I wondered briefly if this was Will Traynor’s sister.
‘Louisa Clark?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m from The Globe. I wondered if I could have a quick word?’
‘The Globe?’
I could hear the confusion in Lou’s voice.
‘The newspaper?’ I stepped behind my sister. I saw then the notepad in the woman’s hand.
‘Can I come in? I’d just like to have a little chat with you about William Traynor. You do work for William Traynor, don’t you?’
‘No comment,’ I said. And before the woman had a chance to say anything else, I slammed the door in her face.
My sister stood stunned in the hallway. She flinched as the doorbell rang again.
‘Don’t answer it,’ I hissed.
‘But how – ?’
I began to push her up the stairs. God, she was impossibly slow. It was like she was half asleep. ‘Granddad, don’t answer the door!’ I yelled. ‘Who have you told?’ I said, when we reached the landing. ‘Someone must have told them. Who knows?’
‘Miss Clark,’ the woman’s voice came through the letter box. ‘If you just give me ten minutes … we do understand this is a very sensitive issue. We’d like you to put your side of the story … ’
‘Does this mean he’s dead?’ Her eyes had filled with tears.
‘No, it just means some arse is trying to cash in.’ I thought for a minute.
‘Who was that, girls?’ Mum’s voice came up the stairwell.
‘No one, Mum. Just don’t answer the door.’
I peered over the banister. Mum was holding a tea towel in her hands and gazing at the shadowy figure visible through the glass panels of the front door.
‘Don’t answer the door?’
I took my sister’s elbow. ‘Lou … you didn’t say anything to Patrick, did you?’
She didn’t need to say anything. Her stricken face said it all.
‘Okay. Don’t have a baby. Just don’t go near the door. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t say a word to them, okay?’
Mum was not amused. She was even less amused after the phone started ringing. After the fifth call we put all calls through to the answerphone, but we still had to listen to them, their voices invading our little hallway. There were four or five of them, all the same. All offering Lou the chance to put her side of ‘the story’, as they called it. Like Will Traynor was now some commodity that they were all scrabbling over. The telephone rang and the doorbell rang. We sat with the curtains closed, listening to the reporters on the pavement just outside our gate, chatting to each other and speaking on their mobile phones.
It was like being under siege. Mum wrung her hands and shouted through the letter box for them to get the hell out of our front garden, whenever one of them ventured past the gate. Thomas gazed out of the upstairs bathroom window and wanted to know why there were people in our garden. Four of our neighbours rang, wanting to know what was going on. Dad parked in Ivy Street and came home via the back garden, and we had a fairly serious talk about castles and boiling oil.
Then, after I’d thought a bit longer, I rang Patrick and asked him how much he had got for his sordid little tip. The slight delay before he denied everything told me all I needed to know.
‘You shitbag,’ I yelled. ‘I’m going to kick your stupid marathon-running shins so hard you’re going to think 157th was actually a good result.’
Lou just sat in the kitchen and cried. Not proper sobbing, just silent tears that ran down her face and which she wiped away with the palm of her hand. I couldn’t think what to say to her.
Which was fine. I had plenty to say to everyone else.
All but one of the reporters cleared off by half past seven. I didn’t know if they had given up, or if Thomas’s habit of posting bits of Lego out of the letter box every time they passed another note through had become boring. I told Louisa to bath Thomas for me, mainly because I wanted her to get out of the kitchen, but also because that way I could go through all the messages on our answerphone and delete the newspaper ones while she couldn’t hear me. Twenty-six. Twenty-six of the buggers. And all sounding so nice, so understanding. Some of them even offered her money.
I pressed delete on every one. Even those offering money, although I admit I was a teeny bit tempted to see how much they were offering. All the while, I heard Lou talking to Thomas in the bathroom, the whine and splash of him dive-bombing his six inches of soapsuds with the Batmobile. That’s the thing you don’t know about children unless you have them – bath time, Lego and fish fingers don’t allow you to dwell on tragedy for too long. And then I hit the last message.
‘Louisa? It’s Camilla Traynor. Will you call me? As soon as possible?’
