Her first note is a shock.
Sorry, this isn’t going to work. We can’t be friends. It’s best if we don’t see each other again.
He reads and rereads the words, hoping that they’ll magically metamorphose into something different. What made her change her mind? He spends the next day wondering what he can write back to make her reconsider. And then it occurs to him that the reason she’s backing out must be because she still has feelings. So when the second note arrives saying she’s changed her mind again, telling him to come to the bench, his thoughts scatter and swirl like leaves, catching on possibilities, trembling for a second before being torn away.
The UK tour was a strain; carrying on with the same old set list when he knew the Lambs were over. He got back to London a week late, because at the last minute he had to fly to Rome to do a photo shoot for a men’s magazine. The date Cat’s suggesting in her second note means he’s had to cancel an interview, rearrange an appointment. He remembers her plan of meeting on the beach in Atlantic City after she’d finished work, how vague it seemed, how unlikely. He’d been convinced she wasn’t going to show, but she did. They found each other on that wide slice of sand, the ocean beating against the shore.
He walks uphill, pulling his coat tightly across his chest, leaning into the wind. The Heath is a patchwork of gold and russet, the grass a haze of yellow in the dull light. Cat is already waiting for him on the bench, a silhouette against the hawthorn. It makes his throat dry, seeing her, his heart bumping against his ribs as he hurries up the steep slope towards her.
She doesn’t smile. He’s sweating beneath his thick coat. He’d like to take her in his arms, but she keeps her hands in her pockets, her shoulders stiff.
He sits next to her. ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘It’s good to see you.’
He notices her mouth tighten. ‘Why did you lie to me?’ Her yellow-blue eyes are fixed on his.
His body is rigid. ‘What?’ He swallows.
‘I read an article in a magazine,’ she says. ‘Your parents aren’t dead. And your real name …’ she balls her fingers into fists, resting them on her knees, ‘is Jack.’ She sounds the word as if it tastes bad. ‘Jack Winterson.’
He feels winded. He can hardly catch his breath. ‘I should have told you,’ he manages. He has to try and explain. ‘I was an idiot not to. Only I’d just discovered my dad had been keeping another family.’ His chin trembles. ‘It was a shock to realise my life was built on a pretence … the whole of my childhood. That’s why I was in the States. I needed time to think. I’d decided to change my name.’
‘The first thing I did when I got here,’ she says quietly, not looking at him, ‘was to go through the phone book.’ She snaps her head round to stare at him. ‘I tried to find you. I rang every Sage. But I didn’t have a hope, did I?’
His eyes sting with the pain of understanding. ‘Do you remember that I said I wanted to tell you something?’ he asks. ‘When you came to the airport. It was this. I was going to explain before I went back to London.’
She stares at him.
‘And the letters,’ he says. ‘When I couldn’t tell you in person, I explained it all in writing. I thought that was why you didn’t reply. I thought you were angry. I wrote again. I apologised. I sent you a song.’
Her face crumples. ‘Oh God.’
He puts out his hand to cover one of hers, but she pulls away. ‘Don’t,’ she whispers.
‘There’s something else,’ he forces himself to admit. ‘I had a girlfriend when I met you. We’d grown apart, and I was going to end it anyway, even if I hadn’t met you. But I should have told you.’
Cat doesn’t say anything.
He scratches a fingernail over the grainy wood of the bench.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She makes a sound in her throat. ‘It all happened a long time ago.’ She gets up from the bench and walks a couple of paces away. ‘I meant what I wrote in my first note. We can’t meet again.’
She stands on the lip of the hill with her back hunched, her arms wrapped around herself. Her hair is tugged by the wind, the yellow and brown strands wild and tangled.
He stands and walks towards her, uncertain of what he can do or say to make this better. He has no words, so he does what he’s been wanting to do since he first saw her: he puts his hands on her shoulders and turns her to face him, holding her close, breathing in the scent of her unruly hair. He expected resistance, fury even. But she goes limp, her body collapsing against him.
‘My love,’ he murmurs.
She pulls away and wipes her nose on a tissue she finds in her pocket. She steps further back, putting distance between them, her breath appearing and disappearing in the chill air.
‘I wish …’ he says. ‘I wish we could turn the clock—’
‘But we can’t,’ she interrupts. She holds herself tall. ‘We messed up. And we can’t put it right.’
‘Can’t we?’
‘No.’ She glances down. ‘No.’
He goes back to the bench and sits, elbows on knees, head in his hands. He feels as though he’s fallen out of time, out of his life; he’s rooted to the bench, unable to move, while his life – the wrong life – is carrying on without him. His mind goes blank. He senses her presence, knows she’s sitting next to him. She puts her hand on his. Her fingers are gentle.
He sits up and looks at her. ‘What are we going to do?’
She gives a small, bleak smile. ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Carry on with our lives. Our separate lives.’
Sam thinks his chest is going to explode with pain. The thump of it is too huge for his heart to manage. The thought of walking away from the bench and never seeing her again is impossible.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, glancing at her watch.
‘Already?’ Panic seethes, making him feel sick. ‘Can I see you one more time?’ he asks.
She shakes her head. ‘I’m married.’
‘You’re talking about duty—’
‘Call it what you want,’ she interrupts. ‘All it means is doing the right thing.’
‘But I’m not asking you to do anything wrong,’ he argues. ‘Meet me here tomorrow, please? To say goodbye properly?’
Her expression wavers and he glimpses her doubt. ‘Cat?’ he says quickly. ‘We’ve hardly had any time. Let’s have a couple of hours together, without being angry or afraid.’ His mouth is parched. He’s more nervous than when he’s standing in front of thousands of people. ‘We’ve got all the explanations out of the way now. The hard part’s over. So we can just … be us for a little while. Be friends, I mean. Because I thought we were. I’d like to catch up.’
She makes a noise, a kind of groan, and sits with her arms tightly folded, and he knows enough to say nothing. Then she lets her arms fall and bows her head. ‘All right. Tomorrow. Here.’
He nods.
‘But that will be the last time.’ She stands up, and she’s careful not to touch him. She shivers. ‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
They are awkward as teenagers. He watches her walk away, and as she disappears behind the hawthorn leaves, he collapses back onto the wooden slats. He stares out at the shimmer of the city without seeing it, the pain in his chest subsiding to an ache, strength returning to his limbs. He thinks of the possibility of just remaining here, waiting all night for the next day to come, for the appointed hour. But he’s already getting cold, and his dried sweat is itchy. He lumbers to his feet, and his fingers touch the back of the bench for a second, tapping it lightly. He’s humming a tune. A fragment of an idea. He’s impatient to pick up his guitar, get it down before it’s lost.
It’s her. Cat. She does this to him, pulls him deep into himself. She always has. It’s where all the best music lives: right at the core. He still has tomorrow, he reassures himself, hurrying towards the path. One more time to see her and hold her, and convince her to change her mind. Because they belong together. It’s just the way it is.