Still Me
Page 88
I stared at my screen, frowning. I reread what he’d written, twice. Then I typed:
Lily told you that?
Yes. And the thing about you thinking it was a bit soon and not wanting him to think you were doing it for the residency. But how his proposal made it impossible for you to say no.
I waited a few minutes, then I typed, carefully:
Sam, what did she tell you about the proposal?
That Josh had gone down on one knee at the top of the Empire State Building? And about the opera singer he hired? Lou, don’t be angry with her. I know I shouldn’t have made her tell me. I know it’s none of my business. But I just asked her how you were the other day. I wanted to know what was going on in your life. And then she kind of knocked me sideways with all this stuff. I told myself to just be glad you were happy. But I kept thinking: What if I had been that guy? What if I had – I don’t know – seized the moment?
I closed my eyes.
So you wrote to me because Lily told you I was about to get married?
No. I wanted to write to you anyway. Have done since I saw you in Stortfold. I just didn’t know what to say. But then I figured once you were married – especially if you were getting married so quickly – it was going to be impossible for me to say anything afterwards. Maybe that’s old-fashioned of me.
Look, I basically just wanted you to know I was sorry, Lou. That’s it. I’m sorry if this is inappropriate.
It took a while before I wrote again.
Okay. Well, thanks for letting me know.
I shut the lid and leant back against the front door and closed my eyes for a long time.
I decided not to think about it. I was quite good at not thinking about things. I did my household errands, and I took Dean Martin on his walks and I travelled to the East Village on the subway in the stifling heat and discussed square footage and partitions and leases and insurances with the girls. I did not think about Sam.
I did not think about him when I walked the dog past the vomitous ever-present garbage trucks, or dodged the honking UPS vans, or twisted my ankles on the cobbles of SoHo, or lugged holdalls of clothing through the turnstiles of the subway. I recited Margot’s words and I did the thing I loved, which had now grown from a tiny germ of an idea into a huge oxygenated bubble, which inflated from the inside of me, steadily pushing out everything else.
I did not think about Sam.
His next letter arrived three days later. I recognized the handwriting this time, scrawled across an envelope that Ashok had pushed under my door.
So I thought about our email exchange and I just wanted to talk to you about a couple more things. (You didn’t say I couldn’t so I hope you’re not going to rip this up.)
Lou, I never knew you even wanted to get married. I feel stupid for not asking you about that now. And I didn’t realize you were the kind of girl who secretly wanted big romantic gestures. But Lily has told me so much about what Josh does for you – the weekly roses, the fancy dinners and stuff – and I’m sitting here thinking … Was I really so static? How did I just sit there and expect that everything was going to be okay if I didn’t even try?
Lou, did I get this so wrong? I just need to know if the whole time we were together you were waiting for me to make some grand gesture, if I misread you. If I did, I’m sorry, again.
It’s kind of odd to have to think about yourself so much, especially if you’re a bloke not massively prone to introspection. I like doing stuff, not thinking about it. But I guess I need to learn a lesson here and I’m asking you if you’d be kind enough to tell me.
I took one of Margot’s faded notelets with the address at the top. I crossed out her name. And I wrote:
Sam, I never wanted anything grand from you. Nothing.
Louisa
I ran down the stairs, handed it to Ashok for posting and ran away again just as quickly, pretending I couldn’t hear him asking if everything was okay.
The next letter arrived within days. Each was Express Delivery. It had to be costing him an absolute fortune.
You did, though. You wanted me to write. And I didn’t do it. I was always too tired or, I’m being honest, I felt self-conscious. It didn’t feel like I was talking to you, just chuntering away on paper. It felt fake.
And then the more I didn’t do it, and the more you started adapting to your life there and changing, I felt like – well, what the hell do I have to tell her anyway? She’s going to these fancy balls and country clubs and riding around in limousines and having the time of her life, and I’m riding around in an ambulance in east London, picking up drunks and lonely pensioners who have fallen out of bed.
Okay, I’m going to tell you something else now, Lou. And if you never want to hear from me again I will understand but now we’re talking again I have to say it: I’m not glad for you. I don’t think you should marry him. I know he’s smart and handsome and rich and hires string quartets for when you’re eating dinner on his roof terrace and stuff, but there’s something there I don’t trust. I don’t think he’s right for you.
Ah, crap. It’s not even just about you. It’s driving me nuts. I hate thinking of you with him. Even the thought of him with his arm around you makes me want to punch things. I don’t sleep properly any more because I’ve turned into this stupid jealous guy who has to train his mind to think about other stuff. And you know me – I sleep anywhere.
You are probably reading this now and thinking, Good, you dickhead, serves you right. And you’d be entitled.
Just don’t rush into anything, okay? Make sure he really is all the things you deserve. Or, you know, don’t marry him at all.
Sam
x
I didn’t respond for a few days that time. I carried the letter around with me and I looked at it in the quiet moments at the Vintage Clothes Emporium and when I stopped for coffee in the dog-friendly diner near Columbus Circle. I reread it when I was getting into my sagging bed at night and thought about it when I was soaking in Margot’s little salmon-coloured bathtub.
And then, finally, I wrote back:
Dear Sam,
I’m not with Josh any more. To use your phrase, we turned out to be very different people.
Lou
PS For what it’s worth, the thought of a violinist hovering over me while I’m trying to eat makes my toes curl.
31
Dear Louisa,
So I had my first decent night’s sleep in weeks. I found your letter when I got back from a night shift at six a.m. and I have to tell you it made me so bloody glad that I wanted to shout like a crazy person and do a dance, but I’m crap at dancing and I had nobody to talk to so I went and let the hens out and sat on the step and told them instead (they were not massively impressed. But what do they know?).
So can I write?
I have stuff to say now. I also have a really stupid grin on my face for about eighty per cent of my working day. My new partner (Dave, forty-five, definitely not about to bring me French novels) says I’m scaring the patients.
Tell me what’s going on with you. Are you okay? Are you sad? You didn’t sound sad. Maybe I just want you not to be sad.
Talk to me.
Love,
Sam x
The letters arrived most days. Some were long and rambling, some just a couple of lines, a few scribbles, or a photo of him showing different parts of his now-completed house. Or hens. Sometimes the letters were long, exploratory, fervent.
We went too fast, Louisa Clark. Perhaps my injury accelerated it all. You can’t play hard to get with someone after they’ve literally held your insides with their bare hands, after all. So maybe this is good. Maybe now we get to really talk to each other.
I was a mess after Christmas. I can tell you that now. I like to feel I’ve done the right thing. But I didn’t do the right thing. I hurt you and it haunted me. There were so many nights when I just gave up on sleep and went to work on the house instead. I’d fully recommend behaving like an arse if you want to get a building project completed.
I think about my sister a lot. Mostly what she’d say to me. You don’t have to have known her to imagine what she’d be calling me right now.
Day after day they came, sometimes two in twenty-four hours, sometimes supplemented by email but most often just long, handwritten essays, windows into the inside of Sam’s head and heart. Some days I almost didn’t want to read them – afraid to renew an intimacy with the man who had so comprehensively broken my heart. On others I found myself running downstairs barefoot in the mornings, Dean Martin at my heels, standing in front of Ashok and bouncing on my toes as he flicked through the wedge of post on his desk. He would pretend there was nothing, then pull one from his jacket and hand it over with a smile as I bolted back upstairs to enjoy it in private.
Lily told you that?
Yes. And the thing about you thinking it was a bit soon and not wanting him to think you were doing it for the residency. But how his proposal made it impossible for you to say no.
I waited a few minutes, then I typed, carefully:
Sam, what did she tell you about the proposal?
That Josh had gone down on one knee at the top of the Empire State Building? And about the opera singer he hired? Lou, don’t be angry with her. I know I shouldn’t have made her tell me. I know it’s none of my business. But I just asked her how you were the other day. I wanted to know what was going on in your life. And then she kind of knocked me sideways with all this stuff. I told myself to just be glad you were happy. But I kept thinking: What if I had been that guy? What if I had – I don’t know – seized the moment?
I closed my eyes.
So you wrote to me because Lily told you I was about to get married?
No. I wanted to write to you anyway. Have done since I saw you in Stortfold. I just didn’t know what to say. But then I figured once you were married – especially if you were getting married so quickly – it was going to be impossible for me to say anything afterwards. Maybe that’s old-fashioned of me.
Look, I basically just wanted you to know I was sorry, Lou. That’s it. I’m sorry if this is inappropriate.
It took a while before I wrote again.
Okay. Well, thanks for letting me know.
I shut the lid and leant back against the front door and closed my eyes for a long time.
I decided not to think about it. I was quite good at not thinking about things. I did my household errands, and I took Dean Martin on his walks and I travelled to the East Village on the subway in the stifling heat and discussed square footage and partitions and leases and insurances with the girls. I did not think about Sam.
I did not think about him when I walked the dog past the vomitous ever-present garbage trucks, or dodged the honking UPS vans, or twisted my ankles on the cobbles of SoHo, or lugged holdalls of clothing through the turnstiles of the subway. I recited Margot’s words and I did the thing I loved, which had now grown from a tiny germ of an idea into a huge oxygenated bubble, which inflated from the inside of me, steadily pushing out everything else.
I did not think about Sam.
His next letter arrived three days later. I recognized the handwriting this time, scrawled across an envelope that Ashok had pushed under my door.
So I thought about our email exchange and I just wanted to talk to you about a couple more things. (You didn’t say I couldn’t so I hope you’re not going to rip this up.)
Lou, I never knew you even wanted to get married. I feel stupid for not asking you about that now. And I didn’t realize you were the kind of girl who secretly wanted big romantic gestures. But Lily has told me so much about what Josh does for you – the weekly roses, the fancy dinners and stuff – and I’m sitting here thinking … Was I really so static? How did I just sit there and expect that everything was going to be okay if I didn’t even try?
Lou, did I get this so wrong? I just need to know if the whole time we were together you were waiting for me to make some grand gesture, if I misread you. If I did, I’m sorry, again.
It’s kind of odd to have to think about yourself so much, especially if you’re a bloke not massively prone to introspection. I like doing stuff, not thinking about it. But I guess I need to learn a lesson here and I’m asking you if you’d be kind enough to tell me.
I took one of Margot’s faded notelets with the address at the top. I crossed out her name. And I wrote:
Sam, I never wanted anything grand from you. Nothing.
Louisa
I ran down the stairs, handed it to Ashok for posting and ran away again just as quickly, pretending I couldn’t hear him asking if everything was okay.
The next letter arrived within days. Each was Express Delivery. It had to be costing him an absolute fortune.
You did, though. You wanted me to write. And I didn’t do it. I was always too tired or, I’m being honest, I felt self-conscious. It didn’t feel like I was talking to you, just chuntering away on paper. It felt fake.
And then the more I didn’t do it, and the more you started adapting to your life there and changing, I felt like – well, what the hell do I have to tell her anyway? She’s going to these fancy balls and country clubs and riding around in limousines and having the time of her life, and I’m riding around in an ambulance in east London, picking up drunks and lonely pensioners who have fallen out of bed.
Okay, I’m going to tell you something else now, Lou. And if you never want to hear from me again I will understand but now we’re talking again I have to say it: I’m not glad for you. I don’t think you should marry him. I know he’s smart and handsome and rich and hires string quartets for when you’re eating dinner on his roof terrace and stuff, but there’s something there I don’t trust. I don’t think he’s right for you.
Ah, crap. It’s not even just about you. It’s driving me nuts. I hate thinking of you with him. Even the thought of him with his arm around you makes me want to punch things. I don’t sleep properly any more because I’ve turned into this stupid jealous guy who has to train his mind to think about other stuff. And you know me – I sleep anywhere.
You are probably reading this now and thinking, Good, you dickhead, serves you right. And you’d be entitled.
Just don’t rush into anything, okay? Make sure he really is all the things you deserve. Or, you know, don’t marry him at all.
Sam
x
I didn’t respond for a few days that time. I carried the letter around with me and I looked at it in the quiet moments at the Vintage Clothes Emporium and when I stopped for coffee in the dog-friendly diner near Columbus Circle. I reread it when I was getting into my sagging bed at night and thought about it when I was soaking in Margot’s little salmon-coloured bathtub.
And then, finally, I wrote back:
Dear Sam,
I’m not with Josh any more. To use your phrase, we turned out to be very different people.
Lou
PS For what it’s worth, the thought of a violinist hovering over me while I’m trying to eat makes my toes curl.
31
Dear Louisa,
So I had my first decent night’s sleep in weeks. I found your letter when I got back from a night shift at six a.m. and I have to tell you it made me so bloody glad that I wanted to shout like a crazy person and do a dance, but I’m crap at dancing and I had nobody to talk to so I went and let the hens out and sat on the step and told them instead (they were not massively impressed. But what do they know?).
So can I write?
I have stuff to say now. I also have a really stupid grin on my face for about eighty per cent of my working day. My new partner (Dave, forty-five, definitely not about to bring me French novels) says I’m scaring the patients.
Tell me what’s going on with you. Are you okay? Are you sad? You didn’t sound sad. Maybe I just want you not to be sad.
Talk to me.
Love,
Sam x
The letters arrived most days. Some were long and rambling, some just a couple of lines, a few scribbles, or a photo of him showing different parts of his now-completed house. Or hens. Sometimes the letters were long, exploratory, fervent.
We went too fast, Louisa Clark. Perhaps my injury accelerated it all. You can’t play hard to get with someone after they’ve literally held your insides with their bare hands, after all. So maybe this is good. Maybe now we get to really talk to each other.
I was a mess after Christmas. I can tell you that now. I like to feel I’ve done the right thing. But I didn’t do the right thing. I hurt you and it haunted me. There were so many nights when I just gave up on sleep and went to work on the house instead. I’d fully recommend behaving like an arse if you want to get a building project completed.
I think about my sister a lot. Mostly what she’d say to me. You don’t have to have known her to imagine what she’d be calling me right now.
Day after day they came, sometimes two in twenty-four hours, sometimes supplemented by email but most often just long, handwritten essays, windows into the inside of Sam’s head and heart. Some days I almost didn’t want to read them – afraid to renew an intimacy with the man who had so comprehensively broken my heart. On others I found myself running downstairs barefoot in the mornings, Dean Martin at my heels, standing in front of Ashok and bouncing on my toes as he flicked through the wedge of post on his desk. He would pretend there was nothing, then pull one from his jacket and hand it over with a smile as I bolted back upstairs to enjoy it in private.
