For Betty McKee
Thank you, as ever, to my agent, Sheila Crowley, and my editor, Pamela Dorman, for their continuing faith and endless support in the United States. Thanks to the many talented people at Pamela Dorman Books and the Penguin Publishing Group who help turn a raw draft into something glossy on legions of bookshelves, particularly Seema Mahanian, Louise Braverman, Rebecca Lang, Shannon Twomey, Brian Tart, Carolyn Coleburn, Kate Stark, Lydia Hirt, Kathryn Court, John Fagan, Kate Griggs, and all the unsung heroes—the sales reps and media escorts and booksellers themselves—who help get us authors out there.
Huge gratitude to everyone who works alongside Sheila at Curtis Brown for your support, especially Rebecca Ritchie, Katie McGowan, Sophie Harris, Nick Marston, Kat Buckle, Raneet Ahuja, Jess Cooper, and of course Jonny Geller. In the United States, thank you to the inimitable Bob Bookman. It’s in the box, Bob!
Thank you for friendship, advice, and wisdom-filled lunches on related stuff to Cathy Runciman, Maddy Wickham, Sarah Millican, Ol Parker, Polly Samson, Damian Barr, Alex Heminsley, Jess Ruston, and all at Writersblock. You all rock.
Closer to home, thank you to Jackie Tearne (I will be up-to-date with e-mail one day, I promise!), Claire Roweth, Chris Luckley, Drew Hazell, and everyone who helps me do what I do.
Thank you also to the cast and crew of Me Before You. To be there as my characters were made flesh was an extraordinary privilege, and one I will never forget. You were all, uniformly, brilliant (but especially you, Emilia and Sam).
Thanks and love to my parents—Jim Moyes and Lizzie Sanders—and most of all to Charles, Saskia, Harry, and Lockie. My world.
And a final thank-you to the legions of people who wrote, via Twitter or Facebook or my website, caring enough about Lou to want to know what happened to her. I might not have considered writing this book if she hadn’t continued to live so vividly in your imaginations. I’m so glad she did.
The big man at the end of the bar is sweating. He holds his head low over his double scotch and every few minutes he glances up and out behind him toward the door, and a fine sheen of perspiration glistens under the strip lights. He lets out a long, shaky breath disguised as a sigh and turns back to his drink.
“Hey. Excuse me?”
I look up from polishing glasses.
“Can I get another one here?”
I want to tell him that it’s really not a good idea, that it won’t help. That it might even put him over the limit. But he’s a big guy and it’s fifteen minutes till closing time and according to company guidelines, I have no reason to tell him no. So I walk over and take his glass and hold it up to the optic. He nods at the bottle.
“Double,” he says, and slides a fat hand down his damp face.
“That’ll be seven pounds twenty, please.”
It is a quarter to eleven on a Tuesday night, and the Shamrock and Clover, East City Airport’s Irish-themed pub that is as Irish as Mahatma Gandhi, is winding down for the night. The bar closes ten minutes after the last plane takes off, and right now it is just me, the intense young man with the laptop, the two cackling women at table 2, and the man nursing a double Jameson’s waiting on SC107 to Stockholm and DB224 to Munich, the latter of which has been delayed for forty minutes.
I have been on since midday, as Carly had a stomachache and went home. I didn’t mind. I never mind staying late. Humming softly to the sounds of Celtic Pipes of the Emerald Isle Vol. III, I walk over and collect the glasses from the two women, who are peering intently at some video footage on a phone. They laugh the easy laughs of the well lubricated.
“My granddaughter. Five days old,” says the blond woman, as I reach over the table for her glass.
“Lovely.” I smile. All babies look like currant buns to me.
“She lives in Sweden. I’ve never been. But I have to go see my first grandchild, don’t I?”
“We’re wetting the baby’s head.” They burst out laughing again. “Join us in a toast? Go on, take a load off for five minutes. We’ll never finish this bottle in time.”
“Oops! Here we go. Come on, Dor.” Alerted by a screen, they gather up their belongings, and perhaps it’s only me who notices a slight stagger as they brace themselves for the walk toward security. I place their glasses on the bar, scan the room for anything else that needs washing.
“You never tempted then?” The smaller woman has turned back for her scarf.
“To just walk down there, at the end of a shift. Hop on a plane. I would.” She laughs again. “Every bloody day.”
I smile, the kind of professional smile that might convey anything at all, and turn back toward the bar.
• • •
Around me the concession stores are closing up for the night, steel shutters clattering down over the overpriced handbags and emergency-gift Toblerones. The lights flicker off at gates 3, 5, and 11, the last of the day’s travelers winking their way into the night sky. Violet, the Congolese cleaner, pushes her trolley toward me, her walk a slow sway, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the shiny Marmoleum.
“You shouldn’t be here this late, sweetheart. You should be home with your loved ones.”
She says exactly the same thing to me every night.
“Not long now.” I respond with these exact words every night. Satisfied, she nods and continues on her way.
Intense Young Laptop Man and Sweaty Scotch Drinker have gone. I finish stacking the glasses and cash up, checking twice to make sure the till roll matches what is in the till. I note everything in the ledger, check the pumps, jot down what we need to reorder. It is then that I notice the big man’s coat is still over his bar stool. I walk over and glance up at the monitor. The flight to Munich would be just boarding if I felt inclined to run his coat down to him. I look again and then walk slowly over to the Gents.
“Hello? Anyone in here?”
The voice that emerges is strangled and bears a faint edge of hysteria. I push open the door. The Scotch Drinker is bent low over the sinks, splashing his face. His skin is chalk-white.
“Are they calling my flight?”
“It’s only just gone up. You’ve probably got a few minutes.”
I make to leave, but something stops me. The man is staring at me, his eyes two tight little buttons of anxiety. He shakes his head. “I can’t do it.” He grabs a paper towel and pats at his face. “I can’t get on the plane.”
“I’m meant to be traveling over to meet my new boss, and I can’t. And I haven’t had the guts to tell him I’m scared of flying.” He shakes his head. “Not scared. Terrified.”
I let the door close behind me.
“What’s your new job?”
He blinks. “Uh . . . car parts. I’m the new Senior Regional Manager bracket Spares close bracket for Hunt Motors.”
“Sounds like a big job,” I say. “You have . . . brackets.”
“I’ve been working for it a long time.” He swallows hard. “Which is why I don’t want to die in a ball of flame. I really don’t want to die in an airborne ball of flame.”
I am tempted to point out that it wouldn’t actually be an airborne ball of flame, more a rapidly descending one, but suspect it wouldn’t really help. He splashes his face again and I hand him another paper towel.
“Thank you.” He lets out another shaky breath and straightens up, attempting to pull himself together. “I bet you never saw a grown man behave like an idiot before, huh?”
“About four times a day.”
His tiny eyes widen.
“About four times a day I have to fish someone out of the men’s loos. And it’s usually down to fear of flying.”
He blinks at me.
“But you know, like I say to everyone else, no planes have ever gone down from this airport.”
His neck shoots back in his collar. “Really?”
“Not even . . . a little crash on the runway?”
I shake my head.
“It’s actually pretty boring here. People fly off, go to where they’re going, come back again a few days later.” I lean against the door to prop it open. These lavatories never smell any better by the evening. “And anyway, personally, I think there are worse things that can happen to you.”
“Well, I suppose that’s true.”
He considers this, looks sideways at me. “Four a day, huh?”
“Sometimes more. Now if you wouldn’t mind, I really have to get back. It’s not good for me to be seen coming out of the men’s loos too often.”
He smiles, and for a minute I can see how he might be in other circumstances. A naturally ebullient man. A cheerful man. A man at the top of his game of continentally manufactured car parts.
“You know, I think I hear them calling your flight.”
“You reckon I’ll be okay.”
“You’ll be okay. It’s a very safe airline. And it’s just a couple of hours out of your life. Look, SK491 landed five minutes ago. As you walk to your departure gate, you’ll see the air stewards and stewardesses coming through on their way home and you’ll see them all chatting and laughing. For them, getting on these flights is pretty much like getting on a bus. Some of them do it two, three, four times a day. And they’re not stupid. If it wasn’t safe, they wouldn’t get on, would they?”
“Like getting on a bus,” he repeats.
“Probably an awful lot safer.”
“Well, that’s for sure.” He raises his eyebrows. “Lot of idiots on the road.”
He straightens his tie. “And it’s a big job.”
“Shame to miss out on it, for such a small thing. You’ll be fine once you get used to being up there.”
“Maybe I will. Thank you . . .”
“Louisa,” I say.
“Thank you, Louisa. You’re a very kind girl.” He looks at me speculatively. “I don’t suppose . . . you’d . . . like to go for a drink sometime?”
“I think I hear them calling your flight, sir,” I say, and I open the door to allow him to pass through.
He nods, to cover his embarrassment, makes a fuss of patting his pockets. “Right. Sure. Well . . . off I go then.”
“Enjoy those brackets.”
It takes two minutes after he has left for me to discover he has been sick all over cubicle 3.
• • •
I arrive home at a quarter past one and let myself into the silent flat. I change out of my clothes and into my pajama bottoms and a hooded sweatshirt, then open the fridge, pulling out a bottle of white, and pouring a glass. It is lip-pursingly sour. I study the label and realize I must have opened it the previous night then forgotten to stopper the bottle, and then decide it’s never a good idea to think about these things too hard and I slump down in the chair with it.
On the mantelpiece are two cards. One is from my parents, wishing me a happy birthday. That “best wishes” from Mum is as piercing as any stab wound. The other is from my sister, suggesting she and Thom come down for the weekend. It is six months old. Two voice mails are on my phone, one from the dentist. One not.
Hi Louisa. It’s Jared here. We met in the Dirty Duck? Well, we hooked up [muffled, awkward laugh]. It was just . . . you know . . . I enjoyed it. Thought maybe we could do it again? You’ve got my digits . . .
When there is nothing left in the bottle, I consider buying another one, but I don’t want to go out again. I don’t want Samir at the Mini Mart grocers to make one of his jokes about my endless bottles of pinot grigio. I don’t want to have to talk to anyone. I am suddenly bone-weary, but it is the kind of head-buzzing exhaustion that tells me that if I go to bed I won’t sleep. I think briefly about Jared and the fact that he had oddly shaped fingernails. Am I bothered about oddly shaped fingernails? I stare at the bare walls of the living room and realize suddenly that what I actually need is air. I really need air. I open the hall window and climb unsteadily up the fire escape until I am on the roof.
The first time I’d come up, nine months earlier, the estate agent showed me how the previous tenants had made a small terrace garden, dotting around a few lead planters and a small bench. “It’s not officially yours, obviously,” he’d said. “But yours is the only flat with direct access to it. I think it’s pretty nice. You could even have a party up here!” I had gazed at him, wondering if I really looked like the kind of person who held parties.
The plants have long since withered and died. I am apparently not very good at looking after things. Now I stand on the roof, staring out at London’s winking darkness below. Around me a million people are living, breathing, eating, arguing. A million lives completely divorced from mine. It is a strange sort of peace.
The sodium lights glitter as the sounds of the city filter up into the night air, engines rev, doors slam. From several miles south comes the distant brutalist thump of a police helicopter, its beam scanning the dark for some vanished miscreant in a local park. Somewhere in the distance a siren wails. Always a siren. “Won’t take much to make this feel like home,” the real estate agent had said. I had almost laughed. The city feels as alien to me as it always has. But then everywhere does these days.
I hesitate, then take a step out onto the parapet, my arms lifted out to the side, a slightly drunken tightrope walker. One foot in front of the other, edging along the concrete, the breeze making the hairs on my outstretched arms prickle. When I first moved down here, when it all first hit me hardest, I would sometimes dare myself to walk from one end of my block to the other. When I reached the other end I would laugh into the night air. You see? I am here—staying alive—right out on the edge. I am doing what you told me!
It has become a secret habit: me, the city skyline, the comfort of the dark, and the anonymity and the knowledge that up here nobody knows who I am.
I lift my head, feel the night breezes, hear the sound of laughter below and the muffled smash of a bottle breaking, see the traffic snaking up toward the city, the endless red stream of taillights, an automotive blood supply. It is always busy here, above the noise and chaos. Only the hours between 3 to 5 a.m. are relatively peaceful, the drunks having collapsed into bed, the restaurant chefs having peeled off their whites, the pubs having barred their doors. The silence of those hours is interrupted only sporadically, by the night tankers, the opening up of the Jewish bakery along the street, the soft thump of the newspaper delivery vans dropping their paper bales. I know the subtlest movements of the city because I no longer sleep.
Somewhere down there a lock-in is taking place in the White Horse, full of hipsters and East Enders, and a couple are arguing outside, and across the city the general hospital is picking up the pieces of the sick and the injured and those who have just barely scraped through another day. Up here is just the air and the dark and somewhere the FedEx freight flight from LHR to Beijing, and countless travelers, like Mr. Scotch Drinker, on their way to somewhere new.
“Eighteen months. Eighteen whole months. So when is it going to be enough?” I say into the darkness. And there it is, I can feel it boiling up again, this unexpected anger. I take two steps along, glancing down at my feet. “Because this doesn’t feel like living. It doesn’t feel like anything.”
Two steps. Two more. I will go as far as the corner tonight.
“You didn’t give me a bloody life, did you? Not really. You just smashed up my old one. Smashed it into little pieces. What am I meant to do with what’s left? When is it going to feel—”
I stretch out my arms, feeling the cool night air against my skin, and realize I am crying again.
“Fuck you, Will,” I whisper. “Fuck you for leaving me.”
Grief wells up again like a sudden tide, intense, overwhelming. And just as I feel myself sinking into it, a voice says, from the shadows: “I don’t think you should stand there.”
I half turn, and catch a flash of a small, pale face on the fire escape, dark eyes wide open. In shock, my foot slips on the parapet, my weight suddenly on the wrong side of the drop. My heart lurches a split second before my body follows. And then, like a nightmare, I am weightless, in the abyss of the night air, my legs flailing above my head as I hear the shriek that may be my own—
And then all is black.
What’s your name, sweetheart?”
A brace around my neck.
A hand feeling around my head, gently, swiftly.
I am alive. This is actually quite surprising.
“That’s it. Open your eyes. Look at me, now. Look at me. Can you tell me your name?”
I want to speak, to open my mouth, but my voice emerges muffled and nonsensical. I think I have bitten my tongue. There is blood in my mouth, warm and tasting of iron. I cannot move.
“We’re going to move you onto a spinal board, okay? You may be a bit uncomfortable for a minute, but I’m going to give you some morphine to make the pain a bit easier.” The man’s voice is calm, level, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be lying broken on concrete, staring up at the dark sky. I want to laugh. I want to tell him how ridiculous it is that I am here. But nothing seems to work as it should.
The man’s face disappears from view. A woman in a neon jacket, her dark curly hair tied back in a ponytail, looms over me, shining a thin torch abruptly in my eyes and gazing at me with detached interest as if I were a specimen, not a person.
“Do we need to bag her?”
I want to speak but I’m distracted by the pain in my legs. Jesus, I say, but I’m not sure if I say it aloud.
“Multiple fractures. Pupils normal and reactive. BP ninety over sixty. She’s lucky she hit that awning. What are the odds of landing on a daybed, eh? . . . I don’t like that bruising though.” Cold air on my midriff, the light touch of warm fingers. “Internal bleeding?”
“Do we need a second team?”
“Can you step back please, sir? Right back?”
Another man’s voice. “I came outside for a smoke, and she dropped onto my bloody balcony. She nearly bloody landed on me.”
“Well there you go—it’s your lucky day. She didn’t.”
“I got the shock of my life. You don’t expect people to just drop out of the bloody sky. Look at my chair. That was eight hundred pounds from the Conran shop. . . . Do you think I can claim for it?”
A brief silence.
“You can do what you want, sir. Tell you what, you could charge her for cleaning the blood off your balcony while you’re at it. How about that?”
The first man’s eyes slide toward his colleague. Time slips, I tilt with it. I have fallen off a roof? My face is cold and I realize distantly that I have started to shake.
“She’s going into shock, Sam—”
A van door slides open somewhere below. And then the board beneath me moves and briefly the pain the pain the pain—everything turns black.
• • •