Claire Moss - Who Do You Think You Are?

He was silent a minute. ‘I know everybody says that the not knowing that’s what everybody thinks is the worst, but I’m not sure. What about you? What would you choose? Not knowing, maybe never knowing, whether your parents were alive, or, well…being where you are now? Knowing.’

Tears sprang into my eyes. I looked down, hoping the light was dim enough that he wouldn’t notice. Ed did not seem like the kind of man who would be attracted to, or wish to exploit, a damaged woman, nor was I the type of woman who would wish to appear damaged. Although, seeing as I was crying in front of him for the second time in as many meetings, it was probably already too late.

He had been the first person to speak about my loss with such honesty, and I wanted to respond in kind. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I mean, I know – ’ I swallowed. ‘I know that they’re gone, even if I don’t know where they’ve gone to.’ I tried to laugh and he smiled in sympathy. ‘But – Oh, Ed, there’s no good way of saying this. What I mean is, I do know that they didn’t choose to go. I wish – I wish so much that there was any possibility they might still be alive, and if the reason I didn’t know they were still alive was that they weren’t able to tell me, then it would be OK. But – I can’t imagine a way that that could be true.’ He was staring at me levelly, his mouth set in a flat line. ‘Can you?’

He shook his head. ‘No. No, you’re right. If Pete’s dead, then he’s dead and that’s terrible. If he’s alive then, obviously, that’s better, but – but, you know… Why?’ He lifted a hand as though he wanted to smash it heavily on the table, but he brought it back down slowly and tapped it once. ‘Why?’ His voice was flat, emotionless but his hand, I noticed, was shaking very slightly.

‘Christ,’ I said, ‘what a pair of tragic life stories.’

He smiled, picking up on my need to break the dark mood. ‘Maybe we should co-author a misery memoir?’

‘Yes.’ I was glad of an excuse to lighten the conversation. ‘Or we could just cut the crap and go straight to Take a Break magazine. I reckon “Disappearing Miner Left Hole in the Coalface of My Life” must be worth at least five-hundred quid. I might even net a couple of hundred for “Divorced and Orphaned in the Same Week”.’

He smiled again, but this time it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘So, you told me what happened with your mum and dad. And … you did say you’d tell me what happened with your husband too if I wanted you to.’

Oh shit. ‘Do you want me to?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Very, very much. You’re starting to intrigue me here, Tash. I’d like to know more about you and, don’t worry, there’s not much you could say that would make me like you any less.’

That’s what you think . ‘I slept with his best mate.’ He was being so charming, so heart-tremblingly intense and interested and perfect. I wanted to put a stop to it now, before it went any further. And telling the truth seemed a pretty effective way of doing that.

There was a second or two when his face was fixed, unreadable, then I could see him begin to shut down and withdraw. So quickly and with just a few monosyllabic words, I had drained all the warmth from him.

‘So,’ I shrugged, determined to brazen it out. I would scare him off if it killed me. ‘There you have it. Pretty good grounds for divorce, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Well,’ he said slowly, as though he was trying to buy time in which to find the right words. ‘I suppose that depends on what exactly happened.’ There was a moment’s silence, the classic interview technique of trying to get your subject to give away more of themselves than they intended. ‘But, no,’ he continued. ‘Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. Jesus, we’ve only just met, I’m pretty sure none of this is any of my business.’

I swilled the wine around my glass, watching it slop about, the dregs sticking to the sides of the thick, artisan glass. Suddenly every part of me ached with fatigue. The blood travelling through my body felt slow and sticky, the breath in my lungs was heavy and cloudy. My skin ached with the effort of holding my body together. What the hell was I doing here, in this calm, homely bar with this sweet, handsome man? Why was I allowing myself to do things like this, to come to nice places, to meet nice people? I wasn’t supposed to like it here, I wasn’t supposed to enjoy it, I wasn’t supposed to be happy. Soon I would be back in London, soon Tim would be home and I had to be back there so that he knew where to find me. I was going back soon, that was the plan. I would go back to the place where I truly belonged and stop living out somebody else’s life in this slow, provincial nowhere that I kept on telling myself was no longer home.

I sighed heavily, too tired to stop myself. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you. Not because it’s none of your business, but because I don’t have many friends up here and I can’t afford to lose any potential ones.’ I forced a smile. ‘I’m probably going to be stuck living here for a little longer while I sort out all of Mum and Dad’s estate. I don’t want to alienate you by going into the details of what a heartless bitch I really am.’

The tone I had been aiming for was light-hearted and self-deprecating, but I think what came out was probably more world-weary and self-hating. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, then smiled. ‘I know we haven’t known each other long, and despite what you say, I know none of this is any of my business, but you don’t seem like a heartless bitch to me. If what you say is really how it happened, then I’m sure you had your reasons.’

Did I? I wondered. Did I have my reasons? I had excuses, if that counted. And yes, maybe I had made things sound a little bit worse than they really had been. But let’s face it, what I had done was bad enough. Ed deserved to know that I was not the kind of woman he deserved.

I smiled at Ed now, determined to draw this part of the conversation to a close. I was so tired of it all: tired of thinking about it, tired of talking about it, tired of the person it had made me into. ‘Well, maybe I had reasons. I’m sure I did. I’m just not sure if they were good enough reasons.’

‘So,’ he said, attempting to make his tone light-hearted, ‘I guess things with your husband are definitely…’

He was asking what my circumstances were, I realised. Was I still hung up on Stephen? Was Stephen still hung up on me? Was there untold unfinished business and dirty laundry just waiting to be aired, were he to make the mistake of getting involved?

I shook my head. ‘It’s over.’ I laughed, humourlessly. ‘Well, you can’t blame him, can you? Forgiveness would be rather a lot to ask after that, wouldn’t you say? Even from someone like Stephen.’

‘He’s a good guy then?’

I nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s a good guy. I should never have married him.’ I shook my head. It really was time to change the subject. Maybe I was trying to be upfront with Ed so that he knew that I wasn’t interested in any romantic funny business with him, but I was worried that I was in danger of coming across as one of those people who wallow constantly in self-pity as a way of mining compliments from the other person. ‘So anyway, we’ve established that neither of us wants to talk about my horrendous personal life. Now let’s try yours. Why didn’t you tell me you were Peter Milton’s brother?’

‘It’s Pete,’ he said, unsmiling. ‘Everyone called him Pete. The only ones who didn’t were Mum and Dad.’ ‘And they’re both gone now’, remained unspoken.

‘OK, then why didn’t you tell me you were Pete Milton’s brother?’