The Half Life Of Stars Part 7

'I'm just saying that he needn't know this happened. When Daniel comes back...afterwards. Julian will be too young to remember.'

'You think he's coming back?' she says, quietly.

'Yes...of course I do. Don't you?'

She looks at the floor, she can't answer. She thinks it's time we made a start on lunch.

All of us chip in to prepare the food and make the meal, and at 2:00 p.m. on the dot the Ronson family sits down with the rest of the country to eat a traditional Christmas lunch. The table is perfectly laid. Each place setting has a napkin and a cracker and a china plate, and a crystal gla.s.s filled up with wine. It seems faintly perverse to be eating a meal like this now, but in truth its preparation has given us all something to concentrate on. We haven't had to talk about anything awkward for the last couple of hours. We've boiled and baked and grilled in a frenzy with no talk of psychics or police officers or mysterious c.o.ke deals, or sisters sharing one another's one-night stands.

Sylvie has kept away from me all morning, amusing Julian with his new toys in front of the fire. Robert has busied himself making a starter for our meal and even my mother has helped prepare the vegetables and managed to lay off the alcohol. All of us have kept our ears wide open for the phone; our eyes happily diverted from one another and trained furtively on the windows and the door. We are all hoping forperhaps expectingthe very same thing. It's Christmas day, he knows we're all together, if he's out there somewhere, anywhere anywhere, now would be the time for him to ring.

But, there's nothing. No call as we sit down to the bland tomato soup that Robert has made. No grand entrance as we force down powdery slices of meat from a turkey that still managed to dry out like a bone, despite our vigilantly over-attending to it.

'Should we light the pudding?' Robert says, breaking the silence. 'Is there some brandy we can use?'

n.o.body wants to light the pudding, but my mother would quite like a gla.s.s of brandy. The party is over. It's done with. The honoured guest has failed to arrive. We've acted out our play, draped a veneer of normality over the day as best we could, and still we failed to entice him back.

We can't wait to clear up the detritus of the meal. It seems to be mocking us: the livid green sprouts, the roast potatoes barely touched, the Christmas pudding still swimming in its gravy of discoloured cream. The crackers are tossed un-pulled into the bin and the last of the wine is recorked and refrigerated before it sours. With everything cleared away and cleaned there's nothing left to occupy us and nothing useful we can think of to say. In the silence we can hear the walls breathing and floorboards creaking, and our own minds spinning uselessly around. As if to express all the pent up emotion that we can't, Julian begins to wail.

'I'll take him,' I say, gratefully. 'He's probably tired. I'll see if I can get him off to sleep.'

Julian falls asleep almost immediately, his small chest rising and falling in his cot as I stroke the side of his face. He's exhausted. We've pa.s.sed him between us like a parcel all day long, demanding that he distract us from ourselves. He's done his job; he's worked as hard as he possibly could.

'Is he down yet?'

'He went out like a light.'

Kay is standing in the doorway. She comes over to check that I've lain Julian on his back the way she told me to, and the two of us sit for a while, watching him sleep.

'Should we leave? I don't want to wake him.'

'No, he's fine when he's like this. Nothing will disturb him now.'

'Right. Well. That's good.'

'Claire...I meant to say, Sylvie told me.'

'About what?

She looks uncomfortable.

'About Gabriel Gabriel? Great, does Mum know?'

She nods.

'Well, that must have cheered her up a bit. What did she say?'

She pauses for a moment, wondering whether to tell me or not.

'She said it made sense. That he wasn't really...your type.'

'She said he was too good-looking for me, right? That Sylvie and him made a better match?'

'Well, you know your mother, I'm not sure she thinks a pastry chef is much of a match for anyone...but, yes. She thought Sylvie was more in his league.'

'G.o.d...that woman is harsh.'

'Yes,' says Kay. 'She really is.'

We both exchange grudging smiles and in the spirit of frankness I decide now's a good time to ask her about the pills.

'Look, it's nothing,' she says, coolly. 'I already explained it all to Sylvie.'

'Sylvie spoke spoke to you about this?' to you about this?'

'When she found the boxes. She wanted to know what they were.'

I rub my eyes. It's impossible to work out who knows what around here.

'I would have said something,' she says, uneasily. 'But he never took them. He was better, he was fine. And you know what doctors are like, they hand out antidepressants like sweets these days.'

'Do they?'

'He was feeling under the weather. He was working too hard. We were arguing a little after Julian was born but it wasn't...anything serious.'

'You're sure?'

'He's my husband, Claire. You might not have known what was going on with him day to day, but that doesn't mean that I didn't.'

'No...I'm not saying that. But I think you should have told us...it's important. We should have informed the police.'

'And let it get into the papers papers?'

I don't know what to say to that. The fact that she cares how things look to the outside world strikes me as astonis.h.i.+ng.

'It might help, that's all. If they knew Daniel was depressed, having problems.'

'He wasn't having problems, he was fine. He wasn't about to do something crazy...he wasn't suicidal suicidal.'

'I didn't say that. I'm just saying he might have needed some time.'

'For what?'

'I don't know for what, Kay. That's why I'm asking.'

She's getting angry now; she's finding it hard to look at me.

'Might he have wanted to get away for a while?' I say, pus.h.i.+ng her. 'Might he have needed some time alone?'

'This is ridiculous.'

'Is it?'

'What am I supposed to think? That he just walked out on me and Julian? That he hated us so so much, cared for us much, cared for us so so little that he didn't care to let us know if he's alive or dead. Daniel's had some selfish moments in his life, but he wouldn't do something like this. To me, to little that he didn't care to let us know if he's alive or dead. Daniel's had some selfish moments in his life, but he wouldn't do something like this. To me, to you you. To his family.'

'Well, not normally, no. But what about the medication? It can cause side effects can't it? I've heard it can make you worse sometimes.'

'She already told you, Claire. He didn't take them. They're still up there in the medicine cabinet. Go take a look.'

Sylvie is stood on the landing looking fierce. She struts into the bedroom, sits down on the bed and lays a protective arm around Kay's shoulder. This is her tactic, then, it seemsto play people off against one another. To turn up just in time to mop up the emotional damage that she's provoked and fulfil her leading role as this family's carer.

The warmth of Sylvie's embrace seems to break Kay's resolve and she begins to crumple and cry. The stress, the ridiculousness, the dreadful sadness of the day overwhelms her. As the tears run over her cheeks Sylvie hugs her even tighter, scowling at me as if I've purposefully hurt them both.

'Men like Daniel don't walk away from their lives,' Kay says, almost to herself, her voice battling hard against the words. 'He had everything he wanted. Everything Everything. He had no reason to leave us.'

'Of course not,' says Sylvie, offering her a tissue. 'He loves you. He loves all of us.'

'But, what if he was in trouble?' I say, refusing to let it go. 'Could he have been in some kind of trouble?'

'He would have told me about it. I would have known.'

'Maybe it was something...he couldn't talk about.'

Kay swallows hard and scrubs at her face with the tissue.

'Something criminal, is that what you mean?'

I don't answer. I don't know what I mean.

'He wouldn't abandon us, Claire. Not Julian, he just...he couldn't do it.'

I lower my head, unable to bear the forcethe accusationof her stare. She has to be right. He would never have walked away from all this voluntarily, not if he and Kay were genuinely happy. He had it all, the life most people dream about. The money, the status, the home, the loyal wife, the baby, the successful career. He had exactly the life my father would have wanted for him, planned for him; a life that would have made him supremely proud.

'So?' I murmur. 'If you don't think he left...what do do you think?' you think?'

'Honestly?'

I nod.

'Don't make me say it, Claire. For Christ's sake, don't make me say it out loud.'

Sylvie takes Kay downstairs and I wait until I hear the living room door click shut behind them before I make a start on my search. I can't help myself. I go to the bathroom unlock the medicine cabinet and root around for the boxes. They're still there, just like Sylvie said: six months' supply, still sleek in their cellophane wrappers, none of them opened or used. I turn them over in my hand, weighing them, touching them, sniffing them, searching out a clue of some kind. He didn't open them but he kept kept them, he didn't throw them away. Perhaps he thought he might still need them. Perhaps the mere fact of them being there, locked away on the other side of the landing, was enough of a comfort to get him through it. them, he didn't throw them away. Perhaps he thought he might still need them. Perhaps the mere fact of them being there, locked away on the other side of the landing, was enough of a comfort to get him through it.

To get him through what? A rocky patch in his marriage? The pressures of becoming a first-time parent? The stress of making partner in his law firm? I'm not buying it. Daniel's not the type of person to request antidepressants on a whim, I can barely remember him taking anything stronger than an aspirin. I don't know if it's intentional or not but I suspect that Kay is holding something back.

I examine the date on the packets, wondering if it'll spark some ideas. The prescription was first issued back in February this year, a couple of months before we had our sus.h.i.+ lunch at Jin Itchi. I was lost in the depths of my marriage break-up, I hadn't spoken to Danielto any of the familyfor several weeks. I hadn't dared tell them about it. I couldn't face letting them know how badly I'd screwed up; how short sighted and rash I had been. It's unfortunate timing. Nothing makes you more inward looking than your own f.u.c.k-ups.

For some reason I decide that I want to hold on to the tablets. I shove the boxes deep into the pockets of my cardigan, rearrange the corn plasters and the Savlon so you can't see that anything's missing, and make my way across the landing to Daniel's study. It's immaculate, as always. Files neatly stored, papers carefully stowed, pens lined up neatly on a leatherbound blotter. There's a picture of Julian on the polished oak desk alongside a pair of wedding photos in smart silver frames: Daniel smiling in a grey morning suit and top hat, Kay in acres of satin and vintage lace looking like something out of a magazine. Michael and I got married in a registry office. We both wore T-s.h.i.+rts and jeans.

Beyond the study there's a small balcony where Daniel still keeps a telescope, and I brave the Christmas chill and go outside. He always complains that it's too bright in London to see the constellations properly so he doesn't use it as much as he used to. When he was a kid he used to spend hourswhole nights sometimesstaring at the sky, especially in the months before we left to go to Florida. In the summer he'd sometimes camp out in the garden so he could wake up in the small hours of the morning to view a predicted meteor shower, or spot a particular comet that he'd read about in one of his library of astronomy books. I used to tease him about it mercilessly, I used to call him 'the boffin'. In those days Daniel was the one they worried about. The moody one. The dreamer. The drifter. The kid who only ever showed singularity of purpose when he was training or racing or stargazing.

The way he transformed himself after Dad died surprised all of us. He gave up athletics completely and went from academic underdog to top of the cla.s.s in under a year. He won a place at Cambridge, secured a first-cla.s.s degree, then went on to finish in the top two per cent in the whole country in his law exams. I was so proud of him. We all were. In those few months before and after he left home, we never stopped telling him how well he'd done.

I pull my cardigan tightly round me, wondering if I'll ever feel warm again. The idea of my brave, clever brother being hurt or dead sucks the marrow out of my bones. Is that what Kay is saying? Are we waiting for a body to turn up? Are we waiting on the end of some fearful, savage story, the details of which we might never fully understand? I don't dare contemplate it. I'm worried that if I acknowledge it openly, there's a chance that it'll come true.

I stand out on the balcony blowing warm air onto my frozen fingertips, staring through the telescopic lens. I imagine the viewfinder is exactly where Daniel last trained it, on this vast patch of diamond-lit cosmos. It's a clear night and despite the London haze, the sky is pulsating with energy: radiation from planets a million light years away; faint beams of light from ancient galaxies and moons, and stars that died before our sun ever existed. I remember when Daniel told me that some of the stars we could see through this telescope weren't really there any more. It took him a while to convince me. What we see are their echoes, their traces, he said; minute particles of their being. Posted like cosmic letters from the long-distant past and only just reaching us now. They exist as an illusion, he told me. On the surface they s.h.i.+ne and dim and dance just as they should, but they are stars with a secret, half alive.

I stare outwards for a long time; watching the dying light from distant solar systems, turning the cardboard pill boxes over in my hands.

'Where are you, Daniel?' I say, to the stars. 'Where in heaven's name did you go?'

Return To Sender

'It's a love letter.'

'No s.h.i.+t, genius.'

'OK...OK. Don't take it out on me me. It's not my fault.'

It is is his fault. He looks too good. He looks better than I do after an entire afternoon spent getting ready and I have to confess, it p.i.s.ses me off. It's not his clothesMichael always dresses like a scruffit's the fact that he makes zero effort and still manages to look so content with himself. He has this savvy, worn-out, beat-up quality that he carries off like a stray alley cat. He looks like he might smell bad, but he doesn't. He looks like he's tired, but he's not. In daylight he looks way older than his thirty-seven years, but in this dull pub lighting with a candle illuminating his face, he looks mischievous, cute, almost youthful. It brings out the maternal instinct in women, this wide-eyed look; they immediately want to nurture and mother him. And here's the kick. Michael doesn't need any looking after, he's not the gentle, affable bloke they first think he is. his fault. He looks too good. He looks better than I do after an entire afternoon spent getting ready and I have to confess, it p.i.s.ses me off. It's not his clothesMichael always dresses like a scruffit's the fact that he makes zero effort and still manages to look so content with himself. He has this savvy, worn-out, beat-up quality that he carries off like a stray alley cat. He looks like he might smell bad, but he doesn't. He looks like he's tired, but he's not. In daylight he looks way older than his thirty-seven years, but in this dull pub lighting with a candle illuminating his face, he looks mischievous, cute, almost youthful. It brings out the maternal instinct in women, this wide-eyed look; they immediately want to nurture and mother him. And here's the kick. Michael doesn't need any looking after, he's not the gentle, affable bloke they first think he is.

'Who else have you shown it to?' he says, toying with the slip of paper I've just given him.

'No one,' I say. 'Not even my mother.'

'Are you going to?'

'I don't know, Michael. I don't know what to do. I haven't spoken to anyone for a couple of days.'

My family have retreated to their various islands. Sylvie has taken up residence above the pastry shop with Gabe. Kay is having trouble sleeping alone in the house, so she and Julian are staying nearby with a friend. Mum and Robert have hidden away with their gin bottles and their torment, and Daniel remains invisible, like a ghost. And me? I've been rattling round my flat since that awful Christmas lunch, wondering what on earth to make of this. A slip of note paper that I found by chance, buried deep inside one of the pill packets. A love letter from a woman to a ghost.

My Darling,I hope you'll never realise how much I'm going to miss you. I love you. I love you. And you mustn't forget it for as long as you live. I have to accept this decision that you've made, but I won't lessen all you're meant to me these past years by debating it with you any longer. I've gone as far as I can, cried as much as I can stand, and I accept that I must move on now and let you go.I wish you such happiness and luck, and I know how much you wish the same for me. I'd ask you to write, and I'm sure that you would do it, but I'm certain it won't do us any good. So goodbye, my dear, sweet man. All my love goes ever with you. In another time, in another life...With glorious fondness, forever and always,Annie x 'Wow.'