‘I do love you, Bertie Barnes.’ She smiled at the man who was himself most magnificent.
‘The feeling, my dear, is entirely mutual. Go get ’em, tiger!’
Lilly laughed as she left the gallery, feeling more mouse than tiger, hoping she didn’t see Wilkie and squeak. Thankful for the walk, she tried to figure out what she was going to say to him. It was conflicting, wanting nothing more than to fall into his arms, sickness or not. Yet she was also mad that he had not shown up, written her a note, tried to make contact. She understood her mum didn’t want her, had chosen Derek Manners, but Wilkie ... he had made the running! He had flirted right back! And no matter how poorly, he could have called the gallery, knowing Bertie would take a message. She smiled, however,knowing that whatever the reason, her joy at seeing him again would elbow out any lingering resentment. It was Wilkie she was talking about –Wilkie!
Royal Avenue was a little busier than it had been in the late evening when she’d snuck in and the early morning when she’d snuck out. Unsure of exactly how she was going to introduce herself, she blew the fringe from her forehead, removed her Wrigley’s Spearmint and shoved it in a tissue that she popped into her handbag, and lifting the lion’s head knocker, banged on the door.
‘Can I help you?’ The woman who now faced her on the top step was the very one who had offered the kind invitation for Wilkie to join her and her husband to watch Parky. Her manner was decidedly frosty, which for Lilly was odd. She understood the woman’s wariness of a stranger at her door, but at the same time had expected something a little warmer from the woman who was not a stranger to her, Lilly having slept in her sheets, gripped her headboard, cried into her pillows, peed in her bathroom, crept down her stairs ...
‘Yes, sorry to bother you. I am here to see Mr Jones, Wilkie, who is staying with you?’
‘Oh!’ Helen Horn-Havering agitated her pearls with her pink-painted nails and bit her lip. ‘Wasstaying with us.’
‘Was?’ Lilly understood the word, of course, but was having difficulty in making sense of it with regard to Wilkie, who would not have left without saying goodbye, without leaving a note, without getting in touch with her. They had had sex, multiple times. He had held her while she slept. They had drunk too much in the pub and laughed until they cried.
‘Yes, hewasstaying with us, but not any longer. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’ The woman made as if to close the door, and Lilly burst into tears, as ten days of pent-up fear, longing and frustration burst from her. ‘Oh, no! Oh dear! Don’t cry!’
It was a pointless instruction that Lilly could not heed as her tears filled her nose and throat and turned her skin blotchy.
‘I need to speak to him, urgently! Where ... where is he?’ She hiccupped.
‘I’m not in the habit of giving out private information about my residents. This is a reputable establishment. I am sorry.’ She spoke softly, as if her regret were genuine, a small act of kindness that only made Lilly cry harder, great, gulping tears, not least because she had the image captured in her mind of Wilkie standing in the doorway, the last time she had seen him after that glorious night, when she had made her confession of love.
‘Oh my goodness! Please don’t cry!’ Helen Horn-Havering looked along the street, as if a little embarrassed by her display.
‘Where is he?’ Lilly squeaked from a mouth riven with distress.
She watched the woman sigh and look skyward as if making a judgement call.
‘He’s gone back to York, packed up and left a few days ago. Paid in full. That’s it. That’s all I know, and I probably shouldn’t be sharing that,’ the landlady whispered.
‘Gone?’ Again, it was a word she understood, of course, and yet it made no sense. None at all! Why would he just go without saying a word, without saying goodbye to her! Without making a plan!
‘Yes, gone, and if you want my advice, young lady, I would say dry your eyes, dust yourself off and get on with life.’
‘I don’t.’ Lilly spoke as she wiped her face on the sleeve of her suede jacket. ‘I don’t want your advice. And I don’t want Bertie’s advice! I don’t want to dust myself off and I don’t want to be cool. I just want him, I want Wilkie!’ she sobbed.
‘I’m sorry. I really can’t help you.’ Helen Horn-Havering shut the front door.
Lilly walked the pavement of Royal Avenue, feeling like her heavy heart might fall right through her body and out on to the floor; not that she needed it any more, broken as it was.
Lilly, quite bereft, had taken to her bed. It was where she liked to spend her time, eyes closed, sleeping when able, running her hand over the pillow that had felt the weight of Wilkie’s head. Patting the peachy-coloured silk-edged blanket to her cheek, remembering him wearing it like a toga as she tried to make sense of what had happened. It was hard for her to accept that she had been duped, used by the handsome charmer, preferring to think of all the plausible, more palatable reasons that he had been unable to say goodbye, to write, or make contact.
She had trusted him with her emotions and her body, handed him her virginity as if it were no more than a vol au vent at a party – something to grab and consume without discussion or care. One of the hardest aspects of his disappearance was that there was no one she could really discuss it with, apart from Bertie, who was busy with the gallery and spending time with Beautiful Jack, who he loved and who loved him back, lucky things.
Glenda was no doubt looking forward to seeing her at the start of the college term, but Lilly knew she couldn’t confess to her friend just how far she’d taken things with Wilkie, especially now he had left her high and dry.Given it away for free ...These words were enough for her to feel nauseous.
Her dad was clearly worried, tempting her with home-made leek and potato soup, despite the warm weather, and hot toast spread thickly with butter and lemon curd, courtesy of Mrs Devlin, who played percussion in the orchestra. And tea, lashings and lashings of tea. It was lovely of him to be so attentive, but she half wished he wouldleave her alone to stew. He kept his music low, as if the sound might be an intrusion, given whatever ailed her. Still the mellow sounds of Dave Brubeck filtered under her door.
‘What’s up, little love?’ he’d asked tentatively from the doorway only a couple of nights ago. ‘I’m concerned about you.’
She hated that she was causing him a second of worry. This abandonment by her love felt like just punishment for lying to her dad, for thinking a relationship with someone as wonderful as Wilkie might be possible for someone like her. Was this how her dad had felt when Jeannie up and left? Her heart twisted for him, not least because, despite her feelings of regret and confusion, there was a small part, actually a medium-sized part of her, that longed to feel her mum’s arms around her, telling her all men were pigs and that it was all going to be okay, believing that only another woman of the world could possibly understand what she was going through.
‘Just women’s troubles, Dad.’
It was cruel in a way, knowing the catch-all, the mumbled umbrella term used to suggest menstrual cycles, womb activity and bleeding was enough for him not to ask again.
‘I see.’ He’d swallowed, taking a drag on his cigarette. ‘Would you like me to call your mum?’
