Claire Allan - Forget Me Not

‘Are you sure?’ he asked as I unzipped his jeans, reached my hand inside, desperate to touch him.

I couldn’t speak. I could only nod. I desperately needed him. I knew this was taking whatever it was we had to the next level, that there’d be no going back once we did this, but I was powerless to stop. Life was just too short not to get what I wanted any more.

We lay curled together afterwards, in the fading light of his room. Still half-dressed. Passion had taken over. The need to have him. I could feel his heart beating in his chest against my back as he held me.

‘I wish you didn’t have to go,’ he said, kissing my shoulder. ‘I’d love to have you to myself all night. To be there for you.’

I took his hand in mine. Revelled in how strong it felt. ‘I wish I could stay, too. I don’t want to go home and face reality.’

He pulled back a little and I rolled onto my back, looking up into his eyes.

‘Then don’t go home, Rachel. Stay here, with me. This is real,’ he said.

‘You know I can’t stay,’ I said. ‘Beth was so distraught. Molly’s so confused …’

‘And him?’ Michael asked, avoiding using Paul’s name as if saying it would conjure him into the room between us. ‘You have him, too.’

‘Yes, he’s there. But it’s not that simple. You know it’s complicated,’ I said as I reached up and stroked his face, tried to convince him that I cared. Properly cared.

I knew I was just sounding like a serial cheat now. Spouting the oldest line in the book. It couldn’t have been further from the truth. I’d never been tempted to stray before I met him. Not even once.

‘It’s not fair of me to ask, not now,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ He turned away, sat up and started getting dressed. ‘Do you ever think, though, Rachel, especially at times like this, that you have a right to be truly happy? If you tell me that you’re happy with him and all he has to offer you, then that’s fine. I’ll find a way to deal with that.’ He turned to look at me while putting his T-shirt on. ‘But I don’t think you are happy and you don’t deserve to be miserable for the rest of your life. You don’t know what’s coming next, none of us do. Clare would agree, I’m sure.’

I showered when I got home, washing away any scent of Michael and what we’d done; let my guilt at having slept with another man wash down the drain along with the soapy water. I slipped into fresh pyjamas and lay down on top of the bed, it being too warm to climb under the covers. Exhaustion washed over me. I was just about to switch off the bedside light, when Paul walked in and sat down on the edge of the bed at my feet.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve handled this all wrong,’ he said. ‘I just don’t know what to say. I can’t get my head around it, so God knows what it’s like for you.’

‘It’s awful for me,’ I said, pulling myself up to sitting. ‘I don’t know how to deal with it either, Paul. My head hurts, and my heart hurts, and I don’t know what actually happened, or how. I don’t even know if I want to know – the very thought of it. That someone did this to her on purpose. They said blood loss, you know. That they thought she bled to death, and my mind just keeps going over and over that. And whoever it was, whatever monster did this, left her on the side of a road like a wounded animal.’ I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them as my voice began to break; I was just so tired now and confused about how I felt about everything. ‘She didn’t deserve this, Paul. And her poor family – her mother and father, Ronan – how will they cope? I’m not sure I could even begin to.’

Paul shuffled up the bed and pulled me into a hug. I felt guilty as I allowed him to comfort me. Not only at what I’d done that evening, but also that I was letting this man hold me when my feelings increasingly lay elsewhere. I wasn’t being honest with him. The hug felt awkward at first, but then it was as if my body remembered how we fitted together, Paul and I. How we knew each other inside and out and, selfishly perhaps, I gave in to the softness of his hug, breathing in the familiar smell of him. I wondered, did he feel the same as I did? That we were falling into old roles, our awkwardness masked by the tragedy we were going through?

‘Do you know what happens next?’ he asked, still holding me close.

I shook my head. There would be a postmortem, if it hadn’t already been carried out. Beyond that I didn’t know. I hadn’t experienced this before.

‘I’d like to go and see her parents tomorrow, maybe see if Julie can come, too. I want them to know they aren’t alone in this.’ I pulled back from him and looked in his eyes, tried to read his face.

He nodded, tilted his head to the left slightly. ‘Hmmm, as long as you don’t feel they’d be too overwhelmed, you know, with loads of people arriving at the door.’

‘We all grew up together. We were in and out of each other’s houses as if they were our own. We’re not just “people” showing up for a look at their misery, you know.’

I was being sharp with him again. I knew it and I hated myself for it, but I wondered at how little he actually understood me. How could he not know I’d need to be there, with them? How was it that he no longer seemed to understand me at all?

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said wearily.

‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I replied, deflated. The moment between us was gone. The closeness of our hug shattered. ‘I’m tired,’ I told him again and he moved to allow me space to lie down.

‘I’m going to watch TV for a bit,’ he said, leaving me alone in the darkness of our room.

The following morning felt just as surreal as the previous day. We tried to keep things light as we got Molly ready for daycare, even though I wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t face it. I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate even if I was there. My sleep had been terrible, broken and filled with nightmares, and my head was thumping. Still, I wanted to keep things as normal as possible for Molly.

I threw back two paracetamol with my morning cup of coffee while Paul helped Molly into her favourite sandals. Beth was still asleep, having cried herself to sleep the night before. I’d already texted Julie and told her I’d call round after I dropped Molly off. We’d head to Clare’s parents from there.

It was something I felt I needed to do, but it wasn’t something I particularly relished. I was scared to see their grief up close. But there was something innate in that Irish-ness of having to be helpful following a death, how we could all spring into action, making sandwiches and tea, leading mourners through the house to view the remains and offer condolences.

There was no floral wreath or black ribbon on the door of the Taylors’ house, but the blinds were closed – more, I guessed, to try to ward off any intrusive members of the press than anything else.

After parking the car, Julie and I were set upon by a small but determined group of reporters hoping to get a topline to run with, or to strike gold and get an interview with Clare’s family.

I felt them swarm around me and while they were polite, it felt overwhelming. How did we know Clare? Were we related? Was there any more information? Was there any truth in the rumour that the police were hunting her boyfriend? Could we just, please, ask her parents to speak to them? Did we have a picture they could share?

Julie blinked at me, her eyes wide with panic. I clasped her hand tight in mine and politely told the reporters that I wouldn’t be answering any of their questions. Thankfully, the sight of a policeman at the door of the house was enough to stop them following us up the garden path. He looked us up and down, sizing us up.