Then my phone buzzes.
Why are you doing this. You must hate me.
My stomach clenches, as it always does when Frederic looks at me or, it seems, texts me, nowadays. I think for a long time what to reply. I’m doing this for him, but I’m doing this for me, as well. I refuse to crumple like I did when Adam cast me aside. I was so afraid of who I was because of him. So ashamed. I’m here because I need to prove to myself that I’m not that frightened person anymore.
Because I’m not afraid of you. And I’m not afraid of me, either.
He doesn’t reply, and when I get back to the flat he’s asleep.
On the seventh day he’s stronger, sitting up in bed and eating toast, and on the eighth I decide it’s time for me to do what I came here to do.
Going into his room midmorning, I draw a chair up to his bedside and place a stack of books on the floor. “I need to talk to you about three things. Just three, because I know you’re tired, and then I’ll leave you alone.”
He’s sitting up in bed reading on his phone, but he puts it on the bedside table and turns his attention to me. His cheeks are still thin but there’s some color back in them. If we were still together I’d lovingly shave him so that he looks like himself again, but it’s not my place to do things like that for him anymore.
I take a deep breath. “First of all, the book. Your book. I’m going to finish it.” I put up my hand when he frowns and leans forward for his phone. “No, I am. I signed a contract, and I’m a professional. There’s only about a quarter of it left to do so I’m just going to write it. What happens with the manuscript is up to you, but perhaps people would like to know how all this happened for you.”
He’s frowning slightly but he doesn’t move, so I swallow and turn to the next thing. I have to keep going, even though I know it’s going to get harder the longer I keep speaking.
“The music you were composing? It’s in one of these books. I don’t know which one, but you’ve got time on your hands now. Work it out, and finish that composition.” I haul all the Gothic novels I brought with me onto my lap and show him the spines. They’re my study copies, all well-thumbed. Many have my writing in the margins and most have little plastic index stickers poking out, marking the most significant or beautiful passages. “Some of them you may have read, and some of them...” I trail off and finish in a hoarse whisper, “There’s so much more for you to do, Frederic. Don’t give up, please.”
I place the books on his nightstand, taking my time, knowing that I’ve come to the most daunting part.
“All right. The third thing.” I stare at my hands in my lap, wondering where to start. “It breaks my heart that you can no longer sing. I understand some of the things you said to me now, though I didn’t at the time. About your fear that your life, once broken down into parts, is worthless. But you were a whole person before you could sing and you’ll be whole again. It wasn’t your talent that made me fall in love with you. No, don’t,” I say quickly as he reaches for his phon
e. “You don’t need to say anything and I don’t want you to say anything. It’ll actually make this part easier, knowing you can’t talk.”
He watches me, his mouth tight with emotion.
I take a few steadying breaths, willing my throat not to thicken. Tears prickle my eyes just the same and I find I’m looking at the ceiling as I speak, willing them not to fall.
“You hurt me, Frederic. You shoved me out on a precipice and you left me there alone. I always knew it was going to end but I thought you’d be gentler. You pushed me deep into this vulnerable place, and I let you, wanted you to, but I feel like you did it in order to keep me from seeing what you were hiding from me. I’m trying to forgive you. I’m trying very hard. I just wish you’d told—” I stop as the tears are falling and I swipe at my face.
When I look up he’s staring at me, pain filling his eyes. He reaches for his phone and I stop him again. “No, don’t. Please. That’s all I wanted to say. I’m packed, and I’m going now. There’s more soup in the fridge, and—”
And on that absurdly mundane note I flee from his room, and out of his life forever.
Chapter Twenty
Evie
“Evie, that tinsel looks terrible. I’m taking it off. No, I am, you’re just no good at this.”
I roll my eyes and step away from the tree. Mona’s always been the Little Christmas Dictator so I don’t know why I bother. Accepting the glass of mulled wine she shoves at me, I take a sip and admire her deft hands as she works.
“Well, it’s all right, I suppose,” I concede with a wrinkle of my nose when she’s done. She pokes her tongue out at me, knowing it’s perfect and knowing I think so, too.
It’s the first Saturday of December, which means we’re all at home to decorate the tree. Therese is writing Christmas cards at the table and Lisbet is hanging every bauble we own on her fingers, one by one.
November was a difficult month, but as the nights have closed in and the festive season has drawn closer, I’ve been feeling better about things. I think it’s because I faced Frederic and what happened between us, rather than just swallow it down like I did with Adam. I think of him every day and wonder what he’s doing. Whether he took my advice about the novels. He hasn’t sent them back, at least.
Mostly, I just miss him, though I do that with my mouth closed and my eyes firmly on the future. There’s no point looking back.
His book, thankfully, is done. It was painful writing the last few chapters, as they covered a lot of the time that I spent with Frederic. I decided to put everything in, even the things I know were meant to be off the record like his almost manic need to be at the studio or sitting at the piano; his worries about being good in the show; his despondency whenever he contemplated his future. I put in the lines about him not knowing what happens next, despite his assertion that it wasn’t going in the book. I put in his anxiety that his life was worth less than the sum of its parts. As I said to him months ago, none of it is carved in stone. He and the editor can take it out again if they like. No skin off my nose.
The only thing I didn’t put in is that his biographer is desperately, hopelessly in love with him. I obsessively read the final draft, determined to excise any taint of tenderness or passion from between the lines. I’m a professional. I might not have behaved professionally to my subject but I can try to make up for that now.
Dad tells me it’s going to be published and I’ve had the second of three advance checks. The last will come through on the publication date and meanwhile my bank account is looking very healthy indeed. I haven’t seen the final version of the book yet, though, and I don’t know if I want to.