The Story of Us by Dani Atkins Page B

my hair.
    When I carried the vase with Jack’s flowers to the table, I could still make out a lingering look of distaste on Richard’s face as he surveyed the display.
    â€˜What is it you don’t like – the fact that he sent me flowers, or him?’
    â€˜Him.’
    His terse reply was really no surprise. ‘But why? You don’t even
know
him,’ I reasoned.
    Richard leaned back against the kitchen cupboards and gave a deep sigh. I noticed he didn’t quite manage to meet my eyes as he admitted, ‘I don’t like how he makes me feel.’
    Strangely, I felt exactly the opposite, but wisely didn’t share that thought. Instead I went to stand directly in front of him, forcing him to look at me as I took both his hands in mine. ‘What do you mean?’
    Richard now focused his gaze over the top of my head, so that he appeared to be talking to the coffee maker as he reluctantly replied, ‘He makes me feel guilty and inadequate. It should have been
me
; I should have been the one looking after you, rescuing you, comforting you, not some total stranger. But while the woman I love was going through the worst ordeal imaginable, where was I? What was I doing? Drinking, laughing, having a great old time.’
    â€˜You weren’t to know. How could you? Can’t you just be grateful that someone came along? Surely it doesn’t matter who that someone was?’
    He gave a small ghost of a smile. ‘No, I guess not.’ He pulled me back into his arms, and I really don’t know if he intended me to hear the words he muttered softly into my hair. ‘I just wish it hadn’t been
him.
’
    It took me ten minutes to get out of my car, and a further five to summon up the courage to slide the key Amy’s parents had given me into the lock, and enter her flat. I’d volunteered for this task in order to spare her mother the pain of doing it, but I hadn’t considered how hard it was going to be, being the first one to cross the threshold since her death.
    I stepped on to a small scattering of post which had already begun to accumulate in the days since her death. I stooped to pick it up, noticing that most of it appeared to be credit card or store card statements. Despite the situation, I smiled. Amy’s philosophy on credit had always been that if they didn’t want her to have debt, the companies shouldn’t keep on giving her cards. I placed the stack of bills on the kitchen worktop, next to a coffee cup ring that hadn’t been wiped away. For some reason that struck me as incredibly sad, and I rubbed the brown circular ghost of the beverage away with my finger. The open plan kitchen and living area was quiet, except for the constant hum of the fridge in the corner of the room, and that’s what felt wrong: the silence. Amy was
never
quiet. There was always music playing, or a blaring television, or frequently both. She was an extrovert, with enough confidence for ten people, yet still she had always hated being alone, hated the silence of solitude. I visualised her now, lying on a cold aluminium table somewhere in the dark and the quiet, and felt a body-blow of grief rock through me.
    I looked around me at the one-bedroom apartment that was the very
essence
of Amy. There she was in the wall of framed movie posters, and the vivid mismatched scatter cushions on the settee, and of course she was easily found in the unwashed plates stacked up on the draining board and the pile of laundry heaped beside the washing machine. I looked sadly at the clothes that would never need to be washed, and it reminded me of the purpose of my visit. I grabbed a square of kitchen roll and furiously wiped at my eyes.
    Looking for an excuse to put off searching through Amy’s wardrobe, I set to work tidying up the kitchen, washing the dishes and wiping down the counter-tops with a thoroughness I suspected they rarely saw. This was all so much more