Claire Moss: Who Do You Think You Are?

‘He was OK then?’

I nodded. ‘Broken collar bone, whiplash, cuts and bruises. He was hanging upside down in his seat when the police got there; his phone was still in his hand.’ I paused to steady myself. I could hear my breath becoming shaky. ‘It always makes me think of a vampire bat.’ I laughed and he didn’t.

‘And what about the girl? And the horse?’

‘The horse had to be shot – or whatever they do to knackered horses now. It survived but it was never going to recover. The girl’s OK though. Her name’s Chloe, I went to see her in the hospital. She’s got a broken arm, a broken leg and a broken pelvis, but she didn’t have any head injuries: she got thrown into the verge, away from the horse and the cars. They say she’ll be fine eventually. Well, as fine as a twelve-year-old girl can be who’s seen two people and her horse die.’

He shook his head. ‘So, when was this?’

I hesitated a moment. ‘Three months ago. Three months tomorrow.’ I nodded. ‘Right, three months tomorrow. I’d almost forgotten it was coming up.’ Every day is an anniversary – the fourth day, the fortieth day, the fifth Saturday. Three months shouldn’t have been any worse, but it was. Three months is a quarter of a year.

‘Sorry,’ he said. Apparently he didn’t need me to explain. ‘You know, I’ve lost both my parents too.’ I felt my face brighten, much as I tried to stop it. Another orphan! Maybe he would understand. Maybe he’d tell me what to do, how to get through it. Maybe he’d tell me that it was all OK in the end, that eventually I, and the rest of my life, would go back to normal, to the way things used to be. ‘Not like you did,’ he went on. ‘Not so horrific. My dad had a heart problem nobody knew about. He dropped dead one day at work when I was seven.’

I bit my lip, not knowing what to say. ‘Sorry’ seemed so redundant.

‘I can still remember him,’ Ed continued. ‘You know, his voice, what he looked like, what he smelled like, everything. I’m the youngest, so I think it was easier for me in some ways. You know, I was young enough to – I don’t know how to describe it.’ He squeezed his eyes shut. His face was grave, but not upset. There was no sign of any emotion. He opened his eyes. They were, I realised, very, very blue. ‘I think, if it doesn’t sound too simplistic, that I took it in my stride.’

Would that have been better? I wondered. To have lost them then, when the self-absorption and idiocy of childhood might have made it more bearable? No. I shuddered at the thought. Better to have had them for as long as I did.

‘And your mother?’ I knew I shouldn’t ask, that it was distasteful and intrusive, especially on a first date – if indeed that’s what this was – but I had to know.

He screwed his face up, as if in acknowledgement of the unsavoury nature of this conversation. ‘That was more recent,’ he admitted. ‘Just last year. Cancer.’

‘I’m sorry.’ It seemed appropriate to say it, this time, about something that must still be fresh and painful.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s OK. Really.’ He sounded surprised. ‘It’s quite a lot better now, a lot better than it was, at least.’ He was still holding my hand and he gave it a brief squeeze. ‘I know it won’t seem like it now, I know you won’t believe me, but it does start to get better.’

I smiled. Other people had told me much the same, but I’d never believed them. What could they possibly know? But I knew that he must be telling the truth, because he was actually living it.

‘It never goes back,’ he continued. ‘Not to how things were before, but it gets a bit better, honestly.’

I tried to stop the disappointment from showing in my face. I mean, obviously I would never go back to normal. How could I? But it made me feel even more hollow, having it confirmed like that. Tears – small ones, but tears nevertheless – sprang into my eyes. I blinked slowly, praying that they wouldn’t spill onto my face, and that he wouldn’t notice them even if they did. They did. And he did.

‘Oh, Jesus, Tash, I’m sorry.’ He put his other hand on top of mine. ‘I didn’t mean to – ’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop saying that.’ I tried to lighten the tone, pulling my hand away to brush my cheeks dry. ‘It’s fine. I cry all the time. And anyway, I like talking to you about it.’

He smiled. ‘I know what you’re going to say. That I’m a good listener?’

I grinned. ‘Something like that.’

‘Women always say that. I think they just mean that I let them talk for as long as they want.’

That was the thing, I realised, about him. He did have all the elements of your everyday ladykiller: artful scruffiness; the appearance of not caring how he looked, while ensuring that he was neither unfashionable nor unsavoury; the effortless flirting; the languid charm; the ‘good listener’ approach – I hoped there was nothing calculated about it. The charm and charisma appeared effortless because they were.

At the end of the evening, he thanked me again for the information I had brought and helped me on with my best coat. I almost asked him if he wanted to come back to Mum and Dad’s with me. It seemed like he would have said yes. I suspected it would not be anything out of the ordinary for him to go home with a woman he had just met. And I also suspected that he was the kind of man who would be good in bed and not a bastard, and for a moment the temptation was almost overwhelming. The thought of another warm body in that house with me, of somebody touching me and taking me away from myself for an hour or so was intoxicating.

But I bade him goodbye warmly and with promise, but without invitation. Tim , I kept telling myself. It isn’t over with Tim . Don’t bugger it up with comfort sex with a stranger, even if he is a Carl Bernstein lookalike. Or Bob Woodford. Whichever one was the good-looking one . But now I think maybe that really, on another, deeper level that I wouldn’t allow myself to acknowledge that I was really saying: Save this one, don’t rush it. He’s worth the wait. Stick it out until the time’s right.

‘Ed, remind me again what your fucking problem is ?’

My sister Leanne was bollocking me for something. There was nothing novel so I was giving it only about a third of my attention.

‘What do you mean?’ I said, my eyes and most of my mind focusing on the cuttings and personnel files Tash had brought me from the library.

‘I mean, what is this fucking obsession you have about our Pete? He’s gone. He’s gone .’ She shouted the last word. ‘He’s been gone twenty years. Reading old newspaper articles or whatever the bloody hell that is, it’s not going to bring him back, you know.’

I took a heavy breath and put the papers down. This was a conversation we had had many times, although not usually in such a heated manner. ‘You talk like he’s dead,’ I said.

She stuck out her lower jaw. ‘And what? You think he int?’

I shook my head. ‘We’re not getting into all this again.’

‘We fucking are. I’m sick of listening to your bullshit.’

Leanne is not an even-tempered woman, and is very sure of her opinions – and vociferous in her defence of them. But usually, even in her darkest moods, she retains some veneer of civility towards me and other members of the family. Anyone outside the family though, is shown no mercy.

‘Leanne! It’s not bullshit, I’m just – ’

‘What?’ she cut in. ‘You seriously think he could still be alive? After all this time?’

I shrugged. Of course I did. ‘They’ve never found a body.’

‘Means nothing,’ she spat. ‘They’ve not found him alive either, have they?’