Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘Oh,’ I whisper, ‘they’re so beautiful.’ I hold one up and it spins in dizzying circles, reflecting my face a hundred times.

‘They were my grandmother’s. I told you there was all sorts in that old dresser of hers.’

I hide a blush at the memory of searching through Patrick’s cupboards, and at the discovery of the photograph of Patrick with the woman I now realise must be the girl who drowned.

‘They’re lovely. Thank you.’

We dress the tree together. Patrick has brought a string of tiny lights, and I find ribbon to weave amongst the branches. There are only twelve baubles, but the light bounces between each one like shooting stars. I breathe in the smell of pine, wanting to store for ever this snapshot of happiness.

When the tree is finished, I sit with my head on Patrick’s shoulder, watching the light dance off the glass and make shapes on the wall. He traces circles on the exposed skin on my wrist, and I feel more at ease than I have felt in years. I turn to kiss him, my tongue searching out his, and when I open my eyes I see that his are open too.

‘Come upstairs,’ I whisper. I don’t know what makes me want this now, right this moment, but I feel a physical need to be with him.

‘Are you sure?’ Patrick pulls back a little, and looks me straight in the eye.

I nod. I’m not sure, not really, but I want to find out. I need to know if it can be different.

He runs his hands through my hair, kissing my neck, my cheek, my lips. Standing up, he leads me gently to the stairs, his thumb still rubbing my palm as though he can’t bear not to be caressing me, even for a moment. As I climb the narrow staircase, he follows behind me, hands touching lightly on my waist. I feel my heart race.

Away from the fire and the warmth of the range, the bedroom is cold, but it’s anticipation, not the temperature, that makes me shiver. Patrick sits on the bed and pulls me gently down to lie beside him. He raises a hand and pushes the hair back from my face, running a finger behind my ear and down my neck. I feel a rush of nerves: I think how unexciting I am, how dull and unadventurous, and I wonder if he will still want to be with me once he realises this. But I want him so much, and this stirring of desire in my belly is so unknown to me that it is even more arousing. I move closer to Patrick: so close it is impossible to tell whose breath is whose. For a full minute we lie that way; lips grazing but not kissing, touching but not tasting. Slowly he undoes my shirt, his eyes never leaving mine.

I can’t wait any longer. I reach to unbutton my jeans and push them down, kicking them off my feet with reckless haste, then clumsily undo Patrick’s shirt buttons. We kiss fiercely, and abandon our clothes until he is naked and I am wearing only my knickers and a T-shirt. He takes hold of the hem of my T-shirt and I shake my head a fraction.

There is a pause. I expect him to insist, but he holds my gaze for a moment, then bends his head to kiss my breasts through the soft cotton. As he moves lower I arch back from him and give myself up to his touch.

I am drifting off in a tangle of sheets and limbs when I sense, rather than see, Patrick reaching across to turn off the bedside light.

‘Leave it on,’ I say, ‘please,’ and he doesn’t question why. Instead he wraps me in his arms, dropping a kiss on my forehead.

When I wake, I realise instantly something is different, but I’m dazed from sleep and can’t tell straight away what it is. It isn’t the presence of someone in bed with me, although the weight next to me feels strange, but the realisation that I have actually slept. A slow smile spreads across my face. I have woken naturally. No scream has dragged me from sleep; no screech of brakes or crack of skull against glass. For the first night in more than twelve months I haven’t dreamed about the accident.

I contemplate getting up and making coffee, but the warmth of the bed pulls me back under the duvet, and instead I wrap myself around Patrick’s naked body. I run a hand down his side, feeling the tautness of his stomach, the strength in his thigh. I feel a stirring between my legs and am again astounded by the reaction of my own body, which aches to be touched. Patrick stirs, lifting his head a fraction and smiling at me, his eyes still closed.

‘Happy Christmas.’

‘Do you want a coffee?’ I kiss his naked shoulder.

‘Later,’ he says, and he pulls me under the duvet.

We stay in bed until noon, luxuriating in each other and eating soft bread rolls with sweet, sticky blackcurrant jam. Patrick goes downstairs for more coffee and when he returns he is carrying the presents we laid carefully under the tree last night.

‘A coat!’ I exclaim, as I tear the paper off the squashy, badly wrapped package Patrick hands me.

‘It’s not very romantic,’ he says, sheepishly, ‘but you can’t keep wearing that tatty old raincoat when you’re out on the beach in all weathers – you’ll freeze.’

I slip it on immediately. It is thick and warm and waterproof, with deep pockets and a hood. It is a million times better than the coat I have been wearing, which I found hanging up in the porch of the cottage when I moved in.

‘I think keeping me warm and dry is an extremely romantic thing to do,’ I say, kissing Patrick. ‘I love it, thank you.’

‘There’s something in the pocket,’ he says. ‘Not really a present – just something I think you should have.’

I push my hand into the pockets and pull out a mobile phone.

‘It’s an old one I had lying around. Nothing fancy, but it works – and it’ll mean you don’t have to go all the way to the caravan park when you need to make a call.’

I am about to tell him that the only person I ever call is him, when I realise that perhaps that’s what he meant. That he doesn’t like the fact I am uncontactable. I’m not certain how I feel about this, but I thank him, and remind myself that I don’t need to keep it switched on.

He hands me a second present, expertly packaged in deep purple paper and ribbon. ‘I didn’t wrap this one,’ he confesses unnecessarily.

I carefully unfold the paper and open the slim box with the reverence I can tell it deserves. Inside is a mother-of-pearl brooch in the shape of a sea shell. It catches the light and a dozen colours dance across its surface.

‘Oh, Patrick.’ I am overwhelmed. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I take it out and pin it to my new coat. I’m embarrassed to produce the pencil drawing I have done for Patrick of the beach at Port Ellis; the lifeboat – not going out, but returning safely to shore.

‘You are so talented, Jenna,’ he says, holding up the framed picture to admire it. ‘You’re wasted here in the bay. You should hold an exhibition – get your name out there.’

‘I couldn’t,’ I say, but I don’t tell him why. Instead I suggest a walk, to try out my new coat, and we take Beau down to the shore.

The bay is deserted, the tide out as far as it can go, leaving a vast stretch of pale beach. Snow-laden clouds sit heavily above the cliffs, seeming even whiter against the deep blue of the sea. The gulls wheel overhead, their plaintive cries echoing in the emptiness, and the waves break rhythmically on the sands.

‘It almost seems a shame to leave footprints.’ I slip my hand into Patrick’s as we wander. For once, I haven’t brought my camera. We walk into the sea, letting the icy foam engulf the toes of our boots.

‘My mother used to swim in the sea on Christmas Day,’ Patrick says. ‘She’d have arguments with Dad about it. He knew how dangerous the tides could be, and he’d tell her she was being irresponsible. But she’d grab her towel and race down for a dip as soon as all the stockings had been opened. We all thought it was hilarious, of course, and we’d be cheering her on from the sidelines.’