is always hope,’ he says.
I examine it again. The balloon is heart-shaped. It’s not clear to me if the girl has let go of the balloon or if she’s trying to catch it. Either way, it’s out of her reach. Before I can ask Alex any more about it, he jumps out of bed.
‘Breakfast in bed,’ he says. ‘You wait here.’
I’m left for a while to muse on Alex’s choice of body art design. I would have thought he’d go for something more athletic, but I’m not sure what exactly. I suppose you wouldn’t have the five Olympic rings unless you’d actually competed in an Olympic Games. Or the Nike logo unless they sponsored you. And a slogan like “no pain, no gain” would be a bit trite. But something along those lines. I didn’t even know he had a tattoo. I’m surprised at this, although I’d only seen him naked once before coming here, and on that occasion the lights were dimmed.
I allow myself to reminisce about that night. It was four months ago. I close my eyes and can feel myself smiling. I remember Alex stripping off his clothes in a few seconds flat and then climbing into bed. He lay on his back, propped up on his elbows, watching me undress as he waited for me to join him. I’d been amused and turned on by how keen he seemed. Thinking about it now, it’s hardly surprising I didn’t see the tattoo on the back of his shoulder.
I noticed the scars, though. At the time, I didn’t dare ask him about those. Now, I’m burning with curiosity.
Alex comes back into the bedroom, carrying a tray. Smelling the toast, I’m conscious of how hungry I am. I plump the pillows up behind me and sit up straight as he puts the tray down carefully on my lap and gets into bed next to me.
‘Don’t get too used to this,’ he warns, twirling a strand of my red wavy hair between his fingers and then taking a mug from the tray.
At first I don’t understand what he’s referring to, but then I catch him looking down pointedly at my tummy.
‘Lie-ins will soon be nothing more than a distant memory,’ he adds. ‘Or is the plural lies-in?’ He slurps his tea.
‘No. You were right first time. Lie-ins.’
‘Ask the language expert,’ he says. He puts his mug down on the bedside table, and then he starts to fondle one of my breasts. ‘And is it my imagination, or have these already got a bit bigger?’
‘It’s wishful thinking on your part, I’d say,’ I reply, mirroring his grin. ‘Seeing as we’re on the subject of bodies …’ I begin in a more serious voice.
‘Ye-es?’
Gently, I take his arm and stroke his wrists. ‘Can I ask about your scars?’
‘OK,’ he says, but then there’s an awkward silence and I regret bringing it up. ‘Well, it’s not a big secret. I was nineteen,’ he says eventually. ‘I’d left school. I was supposedly on a gap year, but I ran out of money very early on, got dumped by my girlfriend when we were in Australia and came home. I started to hang out with the wrong crowd, we were taking drugs, I got depressed …’
‘Go on,’ I say when he pauses.
‘Long story short, one evening I decided to end it all. I was a stupid, self-absorbed teenager. I ran a hot bath, got in and slit my wrists.’
I’d only seen scars on his left wrist. I resist the urge to turn over his right arm, particularly as he’s holding his mug and I don’t want to scald him.
He sees me peering at his other hand, though, and adds, ‘Well, my wrist. I did it wrong. Used my right arm. Apparently if you’re right-handed, like I am, you should start by slitting your right wrist. That way, you can finish the job off better when you need to swap hands. And I managed to cut into a tendon in my left arm. I was in agony even though I hadn’t cut nearly deep enough to kill myself. So, it was a botched job.’
I can hear my own breathing. It has become shallow. I’m uncomfortable talking about his suicide attempt, so I don’t say the words that have just wormed their way into my head. There are more foolproof methods than slitting your wrists. Nor do I point out that he should have cut vertically rather than across his wrists. How do I even know that? ‘I’m so glad it was a botched job,’ I say instead, nuzzling in to him as much as I can without upsetting the breakfast tray on my lap or the mug in his hand.
‘So am I,’ he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
And then it hits me like a punch to the stomach. If Alex was nineteen, I would have been seventeen. My chest tightens at that thought and I feel nauseous. I have a sudden vision of Alex throwing himself off a cliff and plummeting to his death.
I leap out of bed, making Alex cry out as I cause him to spill his tea. I make it to the bathroom just in time. Seconds later, he is next to me, holding back my hair with one hand and rubbing my back the other as I throw up into the toilet.
‘Morning sickness,’ he comments wryly when I’ve finished retching.
It’s not, but I don’t contradict him.
~
The sun comes out in the early afternoon and so Alex drives us the short distance into Grasmere. I’d rather walk, but I don’t protest; I’m just happy to get out of the house. There are lots of people out and about. From the car park, it’s a short walk to St Oswald’s church, where William Wordsworth is buried. We follow the path round to the back of the church, walking on paving stones with people’s names and hometowns engraved on them. From a much bigger paving slab, I read aloud the first verse of ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’, Wordsworth’s most famous poem.
After Alex has shown me the Wordsworth family’s tombstones, we go by foot to Dove Cottage, a little further up the road. The sign on the house says The loveliest spot that man hath ever found. ‘It is really beautiful here,’ I say. ‘I can see why the area inspired him to write his poetry.’
‘He lived in this cottage with his sister, Dorothy,’ Alex says informatively. ‘They were very close.’
Unbidden, tears well up in my eyes, and I brush them away with my sleeve before Alex can see. I miss Louisa terribly. When we were little, we swore we would live together in the same house, with our husbands. Being without her is like being without a part of myself. Even now, all sorts of things remind me of her. Smells, songs, phrases. Not for the first time, I wonder if one day the void in me can be filled.
By now I’m used to feeling I’m not quite complete, but I feel a very special bond with Alex, similar to the one I once had with my twin sister. Alex and I like the same music, the same activities, the same TV programmes. He often reads my mind, just like Louisa did.
‘There’s a walk that goes from here to Rydal Mount,’ Alex says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘That’s the house he bought once he became rich and famous.’
‘Ooh, can we go and see it?’
‘Well, it’s about five and a half miles altogether,’ Alex says, ‘and there’s a bit of a hill.’
‘I won’t break, Alex.’
‘Yes, but you’re supposed to be taking things easy, the doctor said.’
‘She also said it
