something that needs doing for them. I’m worn out and in bed by nine most nights.’
‘How are they coming to terms with everything?’
She really couldn’t work out if he was genuinely interested or still prevaricating. ‘They seem okay,’ she said, ‘but how do we really know what’s going on inside their heads?’
‘Have you thought about counselling?’
‘They’ve been seeing a woman for a couple of weeks. I’ve no idea if it’s helping them.’
‘What about for you and your parents?’
She shrugged. ‘Not really our thing.’
‘So you’ll just tough it out?’
‘Isn’t that what most people end up doing anyway?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been this closely associated ...’ he hesitated, ‘... this near to death before. Have you thought of keeping a journal?’
‘Whatever for?’ She could feel herself getting cross with him. If he’d never been this close to death before then perhaps he ought to shut the hell up with his half-baked advice.
‘I once read about a man who’d lost his wife and he decided to work through his grief by writing everything down. Whenever he couldn’t cope, he turned to his diary. I reckon that’s what I’d do in your shoes.’
Harriet couldn’t think of anything worse. She’d feel too exposed and vulnerable putting down any of the thoughts she’d had since Felicity had died. She also felt that if Spencer knew the first thing about her, he wouldn’t have made such a suggestion. Looking at him across the table as he reached for another sandwich, she felt like she was having lunch with a stranger. It hit her then, that that was the reality. Here she was, patiently waiting for him to come clean and say that it was over between them, when the truth was, there was no ‘them’. How could there be? They scarcely knew each other. Theirs was a fledgling relationship, still in its early stages. They’d worked together, had been to bed together, but Spencer couldn’t possibly know what really made her tick. Just as she didn’t know the real him.
Seizing the moment, she said, ‘Spencer, I think we should get this over with. I can’t think of a single good reason why you would want to carry on seeing me now that my circumstances have changed so dramatically, so let’s not kid ourselves that after today we’ll be anything but friends.’
He stopped eating. She saw and heard him swallow. He looked a picture of awkwardness. ‘You knew, then, what it was I wanted to say?’
‘A smart girl like me? Of course I knew.’
‘And you’re okay about it?’
‘Perfectly okay.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’ Letting out his breath and visibly relaxing, he said, ‘I shouldn’t have doubted you, really. You’re always so pragmatic. Another girl would have called me every name under the sun for being so shallow and only thinking of myself.’
She looked at him steadily, resisting the urge to slap his face. ‘We both know that’s not my style.’
‘But you do see, don’t you? It’s the children. I’ve never wanted any, and ... well, if we’re to continue seeing each other, if we were to get seriously involved, the children would be a factor. And I’m not convinced — ’
‘Please,’ she interrupted him, ‘you don’t have to explain. Believe me, I know exactly how you feel.’
Driving home later that evening, Harriet realised that for all her brave toughing-it-out talk, for all her reasoning of the situation, she was more hurt and disappointed than she’d expected. But what hurt the most was the look of pure relief on Spencer’s face when they’d said goodbye. Would it have cost him so much to have pretended to be more upset?
As she headed north, with each mile that she put between herself and Oxford, her anger grew. Rejection was an ugly thing. You could dress it up as prettily and as civilly as you wanted but it still boiled down to the same hurtful blow: the person on the receiving end was left to think they weren’t good
‘How are they coming to terms with everything?’
She really couldn’t work out if he was genuinely interested or still prevaricating. ‘They seem okay,’ she said, ‘but how do we really know what’s going on inside their heads?’
‘Have you thought about counselling?’
‘They’ve been seeing a woman for a couple of weeks. I’ve no idea if it’s helping them.’
‘What about for you and your parents?’
She shrugged. ‘Not really our thing.’
‘So you’ll just tough it out?’
‘Isn’t that what most people end up doing anyway?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been this closely associated ...’ he hesitated, ‘... this near to death before. Have you thought of keeping a journal?’
‘Whatever for?’ She could feel herself getting cross with him. If he’d never been this close to death before then perhaps he ought to shut the hell up with his half-baked advice.
‘I once read about a man who’d lost his wife and he decided to work through his grief by writing everything down. Whenever he couldn’t cope, he turned to his diary. I reckon that’s what I’d do in your shoes.’
Harriet couldn’t think of anything worse. She’d feel too exposed and vulnerable putting down any of the thoughts she’d had since Felicity had died. She also felt that if Spencer knew the first thing about her, he wouldn’t have made such a suggestion. Looking at him across the table as he reached for another sandwich, she felt like she was having lunch with a stranger. It hit her then, that that was the reality. Here she was, patiently waiting for him to come clean and say that it was over between them, when the truth was, there was no ‘them’. How could there be? They scarcely knew each other. Theirs was a fledgling relationship, still in its early stages. They’d worked together, had been to bed together, but Spencer couldn’t possibly know what really made her tick. Just as she didn’t know the real him.
Seizing the moment, she said, ‘Spencer, I think we should get this over with. I can’t think of a single good reason why you would want to carry on seeing me now that my circumstances have changed so dramatically, so let’s not kid ourselves that after today we’ll be anything but friends.’
He stopped eating. She saw and heard him swallow. He looked a picture of awkwardness. ‘You knew, then, what it was I wanted to say?’
‘A smart girl like me? Of course I knew.’
‘And you’re okay about it?’
‘Perfectly okay.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’ Letting out his breath and visibly relaxing, he said, ‘I shouldn’t have doubted you, really. You’re always so pragmatic. Another girl would have called me every name under the sun for being so shallow and only thinking of myself.’
She looked at him steadily, resisting the urge to slap his face. ‘We both know that’s not my style.’
‘But you do see, don’t you? It’s the children. I’ve never wanted any, and ... well, if we’re to continue seeing each other, if we were to get seriously involved, the children would be a factor. And I’m not convinced — ’
‘Please,’ she interrupted him, ‘you don’t have to explain. Believe me, I know exactly how you feel.’
Driving home later that evening, Harriet realised that for all her brave toughing-it-out talk, for all her reasoning of the situation, she was more hurt and disappointed than she’d expected. But what hurt the most was the look of pure relief on Spencer’s face when they’d said goodbye. Would it have cost him so much to have pretended to be more upset?
As she headed north, with each mile that she put between herself and Oxford, her anger grew. Rejection was an ugly thing. You could dress it up as prettily and as civilly as you wanted but it still boiled down to the same hurtful blow: the person on the receiving end was left to think they weren’t good
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