Not until your leg heals. I’m only saying this because I care about you.’
‘And how long is the healing going to take? Every time I see the specialist, he adds on another month.’ Olly thumps the duvet. ‘I feel so trapped. I need to get back out on the slopes. I need to. Life is slipping away.’
I sense another argument coming on, so I say, ‘I know’, and sit on the bed, taking his hand. ‘But I’m here. We’ll make you well again. Okay? Just give it time.’
Olly’s blue eyes turn clear. ‘You really are an angel, do you know that? Looking after me. Playing the nurse. Putting up with me and my moods.’
My dad used to call me that. An angel.
I kiss Olly’s cheek and slide my hand into his. ‘I love you, Olly Kinnock. And you’ll heal. Just give yourself time.’
Olly turns to the window then. ‘Will I? I’m not sure. I’m forgetting who I used to be. What if I become this moody person forever?’
‘You won’t.’
‘How do you know? How do you know who I really am?’
I suppose we’ve only known each other a few months. Four seasons, that’s what my father used to say. You have to be with someone for four seasons, good and bad, before you really know them. I think he was making a comment about marrying my mother.
‘I love you,’ I say. ‘That’s enough for me.’
Suddenly Olly says, ‘I love you too, Lizzie Nightingale. Will you marry me?’
Just like that.
I laugh.
‘I’m serious,’ Olly says, pulling me into his arms. ‘I love you. You get me. Even when I’m like this. We’re meant to be together.’
‘Olly, we’ve known each other less than three months. We’re not even properly living together yet.’
‘Oh, so what?’ Olly kisses me, and for a moment everything is okay. Maybe we can get married and live happily ever after.
But then I pull back. Things with Olly have been good. But they’ve been bad too. He’s pushed me before – a great, big, open-palmed shove when he was wobbling around drunk, trying a new pair of skis. He said it was an accident. He didn’t mean for me to fall. But …
‘Olly—’
‘Are you rejecting my proposal, Lizzie Nightingale?’
‘It’s just … what’s the rush?’
‘Why wait?’
‘Maybe we don’t know each other well enough yet,’ I say.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
Anxiety hits my stomach.
I know the signs of his mood swings by now. And I become a child again, desperate to keep the peace.
‘Please, Olly, I didn’t mean it like that. I love you. Of course we’ll get married one day.’
This is what I used to do when my parents fought. Do anything to make it okay, forget myself, humiliate myself. Anything to stop the ugliness growing. And then one day my dad met someone else and left. It was all for nothing. So why do I feel compelled to carry on the same behaviour?
‘If you don’t want to be with me, just say so,’ Olly snaps. ‘Because I think you either know or you don’t. And if you’re not sure, then that means no. Call it a day.’
I clasp his hand, scared of losing him to the other, angry person. ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just, your leg is still broken.’ I try for a laugh. ‘I don’t want our wedding photos to be spoiled by that big multi-coloured plaster.’
Olly looks at me for a minute, then he laughs too. ‘Is that why you said no? Just because of the wedding photos? What is it with women and photos?’
We laugh together then, and everything feels okay.
I’ve done it.
I’ve averted disaster.
Just like I used to do with Mum.
I catch a glimpse of my bare back in the mirror. ‘Could you do up these buttons?’ I ask.
Olly does.
My breasts feel tender, I realise. Sore. We’ve never been careful, Olly and I. Not really. So often caught in the heat of the moment. Suddenly I have such a strong feeling.
Oh God.
What if I’m pregnant?
I was supposed to meet Kaitlyn for tea this afternoon, but I cancelled.
‘I visited Elizabeth this morning,’ I told her, with a gay little laugh. ‘And my daughter needs to make a good impression with the other mothers. She’s in desperate need of home-wares. I’m staying in town to do a bit of shopping. Can we reschedule?’
Sometimes, I despair of Elizabeth.
Tatty old furniture, mismatched curtains and nothing on the mantelpiece. Tom’s started at an outstanding school and she’s a single mother. What will the other parents think?
‘Don’t wear yourself out,’ said Kaitlyn. ‘Your daughter needs to stand on her own two feet.’
Kaitlyn is one of the few friends who understands just how unlucky I’ve been with Elizabeth. Other mothers have children who take them to lunch. Elizabeth doesn’t think about me at all.
I’m at Fenwick department store on the High Street. It was recommended by a well-dressed woman in town, and she was right – there are lots of lovely things here.
I take a net basket from a young assistant and click around the homeware department, imagining how much better I’ll feel when Elizabeth has some lovely ornaments on display.
Most likely, I’ll get no thanks for it. All Elizabeth ever does is criticise.
‘I was in your shadow,’ she says. ‘You made me feel invisible.’
Perhaps now she realises how difficult it is being a parent.
Elizabeth never excelled at school. Didn’t try hard enough. In truth, she never applied herself. Tom was top of his class in London, so maybe my grandson
