Amy carried the wine out to Max, who was sitting on a bench in Helen and Malcolm’s small back garden.
‘Thank you for staying. It’s been really difficult.’
‘You’ve been great with them both.’
‘I barely know them, though, really.’
Amy had thought to sit beside him on the bench. There was room. It might have been done casually. Like friends. But she had thought the better of it. And the moment had gone. She glanced at the other bench but it was a little bit too distant. Sitting there would draw attention to her predicament. Now she was stuck standing.
‘You know them well enough. They’ve practically adopted you.’
‘But this is . . . huge.’
‘There’s no getting over this, either,’ said Max. ‘He was their only child.’
‘The papers have been saying terrible things, too.’
‘I know. I don’t even know her but I feel for Geraldine.’
‘Helen’s asleep now. I gave her a sleeping tablet. I slept in her bed with her last night. She sleeps as poorly as we do. But she said she found comfort in my being there. Malcolm is still sleeping in his office. He hasn’t spoken to Helen. I would have thought this would bring them together.’
‘He thinks she’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘Malcolm. He’s convinced Helen’s dead. It’s what his new novel’s about. And somehow the fiction has become reality for him. In his conversations with me, Helen is his dead wife.’
‘That can’t be true.’
‘I’ve tried correcting him a number of times, but he gets as offended as a man whose wife has actually died being told she’s alive. So I leave it. And we talk about her legacy and her novels as though she’ll never write again. It’s very strange. Unnerving, especially when you know what he believes and you see him interact with her. It’s like he’s trying to overcome mental distress, as though he’s trying to convince himself that the apparition of Helen is just in his mind.’
‘Oh god, Max.’
‘He’s suffering a double loss.’
‘I don’t know how to deal with that.’
‘Try writing about it.’
Amy looked back at the door. The night was cool and she wasn’t dressed for it. Max was fine in his suit. She finished the drink in her hand.
‘I’m getting another, do you want one?’
He held up his full glass.
Inside, Amy looked around for her cardigan. Not seeing it, she grabbed Malcolm’s jacket, which was hanging on the back of the kitchen chair. She filled her glass, put the jacket on and returned to Max.
He laughed.
‘What? Don’t you like my jacket?’
‘Somehow, you pull it off. But then you’d look gorgeous in a Hazmat suit.’
‘It’s because it’s a beautiful beige.’
‘It’s because you’re beautiful.’
Amy tried not to smile and glanced at the bench.
‘I forgot to say. That manuscript you sent me. The one you were too drunk to know whether it was good?’
‘Josh’s book. I’d forgotten about that.’
‘It was rubbish. Utter drivel.’
‘Thought as much.’
Josh seemed like another world. A film she had seen once. He made no sense in Helen and Malcolm’s garden. He made no sense in Max’s presence.
‘Sit here,’ Max said, shifting himself to the edge of the bench, making space for two Amys.
Amy stared at the bench and didn’t move.
‘It’s a seat, not a marriage proposal.’
‘I know,’ she said, perching on the furthest edge from him.
They didn’t speak, however. Max smiled at her, she smiled back. Finally, she stood up.
‘I can’t think when you do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘Be nice to me.’
‘Are you so attached to thinking that you can’t give it up from time to time?’
‘I gave it up for years and look where it got me.’
‘It got you here, with Helen and Malcolm.’
‘And they’ve forced me to think in ways I’m not entirely comfortable with.’
‘Thinking hurts, Amy.’
‘So does feeling.’
Max was staring at her intently. ‘Yes, you taught me that,’ he said after a time.
‘I can’t bear to think of the hurt I’ve caused you, Max.’
‘I was all in, Amy. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do. And I knew it then. I knew it then.’
Max dropped his head.
‘I’m so sorry, Max.’
After a moment of silence, he stood up, and looked at her, giving her the slightest of nods. He said, ‘I’d better go now.’
‘Thank you, Max.’
‘For what?’
‘Smiling at me.’
*
Later, as Amy climbed into bed beside Helen, she was startled when Helen suddenly roused herself and switched on the light.
‘You don’t need to sleep here tonight,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind,’ Amy replied, pulling the sheets over her. ‘If you’d prefer I didn’t, I can go downstairs.’
‘I don’t know what I want.’
‘Then I’ll stay.’
Helen switched off the light.
Amy closed her eyes and rolled on her side. Everything Max did was a question. He was never silent. There was always an unspoken conversation about the conversation while any conservation with him was in full flight. There were words in every pause.
She’d forgotten how to speak to him. And she wondered if she’d ever be able to again.
Everything had changed so much. She didn’t know herself.
That morning, while shopping at Waitrose with Malcolm, she passed a young guy she recognised. He turned and smiled and was about to approach when Malcolm came up to her with the coffee he had gone in search of. The familiar face winked and wandered off. Following Malcolm with the trolley, Amy searched her memory to put a name to the face. Or even a situation. And it was then it occurred to her that the last time she had had sex was with Liam in the street. She couldn’t remember ever going so long without sex. She couldn’t remember ever not wanting sex. And she realised, as the name of the guy she’d seen popped into her head, that she didn’t want sex.
Ehsan. That was his name. He was Iranian.
He was at the checkout ahead of Amy and Malcolm, and when he was finished he gave Amy an opportunity to speak by fussing with his bags. Amy now remembered the nights she spent with him. He was married. It had given the nights an extra thrill. But now there was nothing. She let the opportunity pass. With a quick wave Ehsan walked out.
And now, in bed, having spoken with Max, she felt nothing but exhaustion. She drifted off to sleep.
*
‘You didn’t have to sleep with him.’
Amy wasn’t sure she heard the words. She opened her eyes and listened.
‘Amy, did you hear me? You didn’t need to sleep with him.’
‘He slept with me,’ she said, knowing Helen meant Daniel.
‘It wasn’t right. He was still married. He was confused.’
‘He was a grown man.’
‘You didn’t need to do it.’
‘Neither did he. Don’t make me responsible for his death.’
‘You need to be more careful with what you have.’
‘I did not kill Daniel. Daniel killed Daniel.’
‘Be careful what you say.’
‘You be careful,’ said Amy, sitting up and turning on the bedside light. ‘I had nothing to do with Daniel’s death. Nothing whatsoever.’
‘We all had something to do with Daniel’s death,’ said Helen, her back to Amy.
‘We all had something to do with Daniel’s life. He was responsible for his death. End of story. Go to sleep.’
‘We all had something to do with Daniel’s life,’ said Helen, barely audible.
‘We all had something to do with Daniel’s life.’
Amy turned off the light and lay back down.
‘I sent him up to Edinburgh,’ said Helen.
‘It was the right thing to do. He needed to be with his boys.’
‘I pushed him. He said he wasn’t ready. I pushed him.’
‘He went because he wanted to go. You didn’t force him to go. He wasn’t a child. He made his own decisions. You need to remember that.’
‘We’d reconciled. We were better than we’d ever been. He felt obliged to do as I asked. It was too early for him and he knew it.’
‘Helen, please go to sleep. We can’t know. We’ll never know. Do you want another tablet?’
‘No. I think I’ll get up.’
Amy reached for her phone. ‘It’s 1 am.’
‘I’ll watch television for a while.’
‘I’ll come with you.’