clothed. We talked and laughed, and at some point he laced his fingers in mine. I can remember even now the quiet thrill his touch gave me – the promise, the anticipation. The sun was up when he kissed me. We kissed and talked for a few more hours after that, each kiss growing ever bolder on his part. I think he was surprised when I got up, exhausted and still lost, and said I had to go. I didn’t have to go, but I wanted to. I wanted the opportunity to miss him.
There were only two occasions in what was to be our relationship that I did the right thing, played the right move, and this was one ofthem … a move made before I even guessed that we were involved in a game. I left before he wanted me to, and that made him want me more.
‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you.’ The second line of the letter. A standard line, I suppose, but one that made me swoon back on to my bed, collapsing into the pillow, clutching the piece of paper to my chest. He was so funny, so clever, so important in our little world, and he couldn’t stop thinking about me! ‘Something about the sun on the carpet this morning made me think about the smell of your hair.’ I had thought this line impossibly romantic and clever. Much later, I found out he’d used it more than once: it was a line from a love poem that he’d given to several girls during the term. ‘I would like to see you again. I will be in the Literature section of the library today, from midday until about six. Come and find me there if you want.’
I looked at my watch. He’d been there an hour already. If I’d been thinking straight, if I’d been older, wiser, more cynical and less in love with his handwriting, I’d have gone – but not until after five. But I wasn’t any of those things. I carefully folded his letter inside my copy of Eagleton and, after dressing hastily, I went to find him at once.
He was not surprised to see me. He smiled, but it was restrained.
‘I got your letter,’ I whispered, sitting down next to him.
‘Evidently,’ he replied.
‘What shall we do?’ I asked him, preparing to be whisked away on a romantic whirlwind.
‘I’ve got about another hour to spend on this essay, then thepub?’ he said, waiting for my nod of approval before he turned back to his books. Slowly, I pulled my own books from my bag, and made a show of beginning to read them. But I didn’t see the words; I just sat there, trying hard to look clever, fascinating and beautiful, waiting for him to be ready. I should have got up; I should have left. I should have kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Ciao.’ But I didn’t, and from that moment on, I was his, right up until the moment that I wasn’t any more. And that was the second thing I did right in our relationship.
4
Claire
I’ve known about the Alzheimer’s, or the AD as we in the know call it – a nifty little nickname for those of us in the special club – for a long time. I think I’ve secretly known about it for years. There was this nagging little suspicion nibbling away at my edges. Words would drift away just out of reach when I called for them; promises that I made to do something were broken because I simply forgot them. I put it down to my lifestyle, which had become so very full in the last few years, what with Greg and Esther and my promotion at work. I told myself that it was because my head was so very full of thinking and feeling that I frequently felt like I’d sprung a leak, like parts of me were seeping away. At the back of my mind, though, I’d always have that last image of my dad, so old and empty and utterly lost to me. I worried and wondered, but I’d tell myself I was too young, and that just because it happened to him, it didn’t mean it would happen tome. After all, it hadn’t happened to his sister, my aunt Hattie. She’d died of a heart attack, with all her marbles intact. So I told myself not to be so melodramatic, and to stop worrying. And I felt like that for
There were only two occasions in what was to be our relationship that I did the right thing, played the right move, and this was one ofthem … a move made before I even guessed that we were involved in a game. I left before he wanted me to, and that made him want me more.
‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you.’ The second line of the letter. A standard line, I suppose, but one that made me swoon back on to my bed, collapsing into the pillow, clutching the piece of paper to my chest. He was so funny, so clever, so important in our little world, and he couldn’t stop thinking about me! ‘Something about the sun on the carpet this morning made me think about the smell of your hair.’ I had thought this line impossibly romantic and clever. Much later, I found out he’d used it more than once: it was a line from a love poem that he’d given to several girls during the term. ‘I would like to see you again. I will be in the Literature section of the library today, from midday until about six. Come and find me there if you want.’
I looked at my watch. He’d been there an hour already. If I’d been thinking straight, if I’d been older, wiser, more cynical and less in love with his handwriting, I’d have gone – but not until after five. But I wasn’t any of those things. I carefully folded his letter inside my copy of Eagleton and, after dressing hastily, I went to find him at once.
He was not surprised to see me. He smiled, but it was restrained.
‘I got your letter,’ I whispered, sitting down next to him.
‘Evidently,’ he replied.
‘What shall we do?’ I asked him, preparing to be whisked away on a romantic whirlwind.
‘I’ve got about another hour to spend on this essay, then thepub?’ he said, waiting for my nod of approval before he turned back to his books. Slowly, I pulled my own books from my bag, and made a show of beginning to read them. But I didn’t see the words; I just sat there, trying hard to look clever, fascinating and beautiful, waiting for him to be ready. I should have got up; I should have left. I should have kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Ciao.’ But I didn’t, and from that moment on, I was his, right up until the moment that I wasn’t any more. And that was the second thing I did right in our relationship.
4
Claire
I’ve known about the Alzheimer’s, or the AD as we in the know call it – a nifty little nickname for those of us in the special club – for a long time. I think I’ve secretly known about it for years. There was this nagging little suspicion nibbling away at my edges. Words would drift away just out of reach when I called for them; promises that I made to do something were broken because I simply forgot them. I put it down to my lifestyle, which had become so very full in the last few years, what with Greg and Esther and my promotion at work. I told myself that it was because my head was so very full of thinking and feeling that I frequently felt like I’d sprung a leak, like parts of me were seeping away. At the back of my mind, though, I’d always have that last image of my dad, so old and empty and utterly lost to me. I worried and wondered, but I’d tell myself I was too young, and that just because it happened to him, it didn’t mean it would happen tome. After all, it hadn’t happened to his sister, my aunt Hattie. She’d died of a heart attack, with all her marbles intact. So I told myself not to be so melodramatic, and to stop worrying. And I felt like that for
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