Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

16

I sit at the kitchen table in front of my laptop, my knees drawn up underneath the big cable-knit sweater I used to wear in my studio in the winter months. I’m right next to the range, but I’m shaking, and I pull my sleeves down over my hands. It’s not even lunchtime, but I have poured myself a large glass of red wine. I type into the search engine then pause. So many months since I tortured myself by looking. It won’t help – it never does – but how can I not think about him, today of all days?

I take a sip of wine and click return.

In seconds the screen is flooded with news reports on the accident; message boards and tributes to Jacob. The colour of the text on the links shows I’ve visited each site before.

But today, exactly a year after my world collapsed, there is a new article in the online edition of the Bristol Post .

I let out a strangled sob, my fists screwed so tightly the knuckles turn white. After devouring the brief article, I return to the start to read it again. There have been no developments: no police leads, no information about the car, just a reminder that the driver is wanted by police for causing death by dangerous driving. The term sickens me, and I shut down the internet, but even the background photo of the bay doesn’t calm me. I haven’t been down to the shore since my date with Patrick. I have orders I need to fulfil, but I’m so ashamed of how I behaved I can’t bear the thought of bumping into him on the beach. When I woke the day after our date, it seemed ridiculous that I should have felt frightened, and I had almost enough courage to call him and apologise. But as time went by I lost my nerve, and now it’s been nearly a fortnight and he has made no attempt to contact me. I feel suddenly sick. I tip my wine down the sink and decide to take Beau for a walk along the coastal path.

We walk for what feels like miles, rounding the headland approaching Port Ellis. Beneath us is a grey building I realise must be the lifeboat station, and I stand for a while and imagine the lives saved by the volunteers who man it. I can’t help but think of Patrick as I march onwards along the path that leads to Port Ellis. I don’t have a plan, I simply continue walking until I reach the village, and make my way to the vet’s surgery. It’s only when I am opening the door, and the little bell rings above my head, that I wonder what on earth I am going to say.

‘How can I help you?’ It’s the same receptionist, although I wouldn’t have remembered her, were it not for her coloured badges.

‘Would it be possible to see Patrick for a moment?’ It occurs to me that I should come up with a reason, but she doesn’t ask me for one.

‘I’ll be right back.’

I stand awkwardly in the waiting room, where a woman is sitting with a small child and something in a wicker basket. Beau strains at his lead and I pull him away.

A few minutes later I hear footsteps and Patrick appears. He wears brown corduroy trousers and a checked shirt, and his hair is messy, as if he has been running his fingers through it.

‘Is something the matter with Beau?’ He is polite, but he doesn’t smile, and I lose a little of my resolve.

‘No. I wondered if I could speak with you. Just for a moment.’

He hesitates, and I’m certain he is going to say no. My cheeks burn and I am acutely conscious of the receptionist watching us.

‘Come through.’

I follow him into the room where he first examined Beau, and he leans against the sink. He says nothing – he’s not going to make this easy for me.

‘I wanted to … I wanted to apologise.’ I feel a pricking sensation at the back of my eyes and I will myself not to cry.

Patrick gives a wry smile. ‘I’ve been given the elbow before, but not usually with quite such speed.’ His eyes are softer now, and I risk a small smile.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Did I do something wrong? Was it something I said?’

‘No. Not in the slightest. You were…’ I struggle to find the right word, and give up. ‘It’s my fault, I’m not very good at this sort of thing.’

There is a pause, and Patrick grins at me. ‘Maybe you need practice.’

I can’t help but laugh. ‘Maybe.’

‘Look, I’ve got another two patients to see, then I’m done for the day. How about I cook you supper? I’ve got a stew bubbling in the slow cooker as we speak, and there’s more than enough for two. I’ll even throw in a portion for Beau.’

If I say no now, I won’t see him again.

‘I’d like that.’

Patrick looks at his watch. ‘Meet me back here in an hour – will you be all right till then?’

‘I’ll be fine. I wanted to take some pictures of the village, anyway.’

‘Great, then I’ll see you shortly.’ His smile is broader now, and reaches his eyes, which crinkle at the corners. He shows me out and I catch the eye of the receptionist.

‘All sorted?’

I wonder what she thinks I wanted to see Patrick for, and then I decide I don’t care. I have been brave: I may have run away, but I came back, and tonight I will be having dinner with a man who likes me enough not to be put off by my nervousness.

The frequency with which I check my watch doesn’t make the hour go any faster, and Beau and I complete several circuits of the village before it is time to return to the surgery. I don’t want to go inside, and I’m relieved when Patrick comes out, pulling on a waxed jacket and smiling broadly. He fusses Beau’s ears, then we walk to a small terraced house in the next street from the surgery. He ushers us into the sitting room, where Beau immediately flops down in front of the fireplace.

‘Glass of wine?’

‘Please.’ I sit down, but I’m nervous and stand up again almost at once. The room is small but welcoming, with a rug covering most of the floor. An armchair sits either side of the hearth and I wonder which is his – nothing indicates that either is more used than the other. The small television seems incidental to the room, but two enormous bookcases fill the alcoves next to the armchairs. I tilt my head to read the spines.

‘I’ve got far too many books,’ Patrick says, coming back with two glasses of red wine. I take one, grateful for something to do with my hands. ‘I should get rid of some of them really, but I end up hanging on to them.’

‘I love reading,’ I say, ‘although I’ve hardly picked up a book since I moved here.’

Patrick sits down in one of the armchairs. I take his cue and sit in the other, fiddling with the stem of my glass.

‘How long have you been a photographer?’

‘I’m not, really,’ I say, surprising myself with my honesty. ‘I’m a sculptor.’ I think of my garden studio: the smashed clay, the splinters from the finished sculptures ready for delivery. ‘At least, I was.’

‘You don’t sculpt any more?’

‘I can’t.’ I hesitate, then open the fingers on my left hand, where scarred skin runs angrily across my palm and wrist. ‘I had an accident. I can use my hand again now, but I can’t feel anything in my fingertips.’

Patrick lets out a low whistle. ‘You poor thing. How did it happen?’

I have a sudden flashback to that night, a year ago, and I push it back down inside me. ‘It looks worse than it is,’ I say. ‘I should have been more careful.’ I can’t look at Patrick, but he deftly changes the subject.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Starving.’ My stomach is growling at the delicious smell coming from the kitchen. I follow him through to a surprisingly large room, with a pine dresser that runs the length of one wall. ‘It was my grandmother’s,’ he says, switching off the slow cooker. ‘My parents had it after she died, but they moved abroad a couple of years ago and I inherited it. Enormous, isn’t it? There’s all manner of things stuffed in there. Whatever you do, don’t open the doors.’