Because She Loves Me Read online

  OTHER TITLES BY THE AUTHOR

  The Magpies

  Kissing Games

  What You Wish For

  WITH LOUISE VOSS:

  Forward Slash

  Killing Cupid

  Catch Your Death

  All Fall Down

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Mark Edwards

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477824863

  ISBN-10: 1477824863

  Cover design by bürosüdo München, www.buerosued.de

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935332

  For Archie and Harry

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Ninteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Epilogue

  Letter From the Author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  One

  ‘Look up.’

  Over the past three months my eyes had been poked, stretched and lasered. They had endured brilliant light and foreign bodies, had air and liquid puffed and squeezed into them. They’d been stared at and discussed and invaded, clamped open and taped shut. They’d endured pretty much everything an eye can endure. So when the nurse asked me to look upwards so she could apply the drops, told me this might sting a little, I – well, I didn’t bat an eyelid. This was nothing.

  One summer night, I almost went blind. It was only the skill of a surgeon at Moorfields Eye Hospital, where I sat now, waiting to be seen, that saved my sight. Even then, after the 2 a.m. emergency surgery, they told me it was unlikely the sight in my left eye would return fully. When it did, I saw it as the first sign that my luck was changing.

  The second sign – or so I thought, in those breathless, heady first days of our relationship – was meeting Charlie.

  I was the youngest person in the waiting room by thirty years and the only person on my own. The white-haired man in the corner was accompanied by his wife, who kept reading out excerpts from her magazine, one of those real-life mags, full of stories about unfaithful spouses, child abuse and kids with cancer. There was a gang of three elderly ladies opposite me, hunched beneath the glaucoma poster, and an Indian man with a young woman who I assumed to be his daughter. Two old men in dark glasses walked past, one of them cracking a joke about the blind leading the blind.

  There was no one I could have asked to come with me. I worked as a freelancer so didn’t have any colleagues. My sister Tilly was my only surviving relative, apart from an aunt and uncle in Sussex whom I hadn’t seen for years, and I didn’t have a girlfriend. I suppose I could have asked my best friend, Sasha, to accompany me, but she was busy and would have had to take a day off work. I didn’t like to ask.

  I had barely admitted it to myself but I was, if not lonely, at least tired of being alone. In the days and weeks that followed the operation, I had sat around on my sofa trying not to feel sorry for myself and imagining how good it would be to have someone to look after me. If I hadn’t split up with Harriet, if I had a flatmate, if my parents weren’t dead. I despised self-pity but sometimes, during those days when I had to sleep sitting upright and my spatial awareness was so screwed that I couldn’t negotiate my way around my flat, let alone the outside world, I wished I had someone to laugh with when I bumped into the coffee table for the hundredth time.

  Now I was better, but it was getting harder to kid myself that I enjoyed being on my own most of the time. I wanted a girlfriend – I wanted companionship and sex and love – and was on the verge of trying internet dating. It was going to be my New Year’s resolution: to find someone.

  I picked up a newspaper from the table and leafed through it. Pages 4 and 5, along with the front page, were dedicated to a story I and most of the country had been following with grim interest: the trial of Lucy Newton, a care assistant in a nursing home who had been accused of murdering eighteen residents. The Dark Angel – that’s what the tabloids called her, the second most-prolific British serial killer of modern times, the new Harold Shipman. Attractive, statuesque, icy, probably psychotic: she was a newspaper editor’s dream, and there were dozens of websites on which her supporters and detractors argued viciously about her innocence. But as I was reading about her testimony – she claimed she was being set up by her former neighbour – the drops started to work, my pupils dilating so I couldn’t focus on text or anything within arm’s length.

  I wished I’d remembered to bring my headphones. Since my operation I’d spent a lot of time listening to audiobooks, each one consuming days. Instead, I was left to daydream and watch people as they walked past the waiting area.

  After half an hour, I was twitching with boredom. There was a coffee machine across the corridor. I rummaged in my pocket, pulling out my phone, keys, several pieces of paper and my eye drops, before finding a pound coin. Standing up, trying to juggle the various objects in my hands – the three old ladies watching me with interest – I dropped the coin.

  Stopping and swearing under my breath, I chased it as it rolled across the corridor – and collided with a young woman walking past the waiting area.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I—’

  I stopped dead, the words – whatever nonsense I was going to come out with – stuck in my throat. Even though my eyes were dilated, I could see her clearly; more clearly, in fact, than I had seen anyone in a long time. She was beautiful. Red hair that hung just past her shoulders, cut with a fringe. Huge green eyes. Full, cupid’s-bow lips. A smattering of faint freckles. She was wearing a white blouse and a pencil skirt, and her NHS ID hung around her neck. Maddeningly, I couldn’t focus on the words so couldn’t read her name or job title.

  She crouched and produced the pound coin from beneath her shoe and I could make out the outline of a tattoo on her ankle, a vibrant hint of colour hiding beneath her conservative black tights. I guessed she was a few years younger than me, about twenty-six, but she looked more grown up than I did in my scruffy jeans and cardigan.

  Her eyes shone with amusement as she handed me the mon
ey. ‘I recommend the hot chocolate.’ Her voice had a soft northern lilt.

  I stared at her. I can honestly say that if anyone had asked me before this encounter to describe my ideal woman, she would be it. A composite of all the girls and women who had moulded my taste: the girl who sat in front of me at primary school; the divorcee two doors down who used to come out to collect the post in a silky black robe; the lead actress in my favourite TV show; the first girl I kissed. Here she was, the perfect woman, standing before me.

  ‘The coffee is like cow’s piss,’ she said, her eyes shining with mischief.

  I wracked my brain for a clever response while she continued to smile at me. Before I could think of one – to be honest, seasons would have come and gone before I’d come up with a good line – I heard a man say my name.

  ‘Andrew Sumner?’

  Mr Yassir Makkawi, the baby-faced consultant ophthalmologist who had seen me on my visits to Moorfields since my operation, stood outside his room.

  The red-haired woman gave me a final smile and walked away down the corridor.

  ‘Nothing wrong with your eyesight now.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Mr Makkawi raised an eyebrow and I realised I’d been staring at the woman’s receding form. She turned a corner and vanished. I wanted to run after her.

  Instead, I went into the consultation room and did as I was asked. I looked at Mr Makkawi’s right ear, then his left. I looked up and down, and at the coral reef of veins that lit up inside my eye.

  The consultant examined his notes and nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘Very good. Everything looks excellent. I’m going to be able to discharge you.’

  ‘Oh, thank God for that.’

  He put his hand on his chest. ‘I’m deeply offended, Andrew.’

  ‘Well, you know.’

  He gave me a lopsided grin. ‘You’ve done very well. I know you may not feel it, but you’re very lucky. Extremely lucky.’

  As I left his office, I pumped his hand vigorously. He looked taken aback, as if no one had ever done this before. But I felt so grateful and relieved. I wanted to rush to the gift shop and buy him a present.

  I left the hospital with newfound strength. One of the darkest periods of my life was over. I forgot all about the red-haired girl in the corridor. All that mattered was that I was well again.

  It’s hard now, after everything that’s happened, not to wonder about what, statistically speaking, should have been. If I hadn’t dropped that coin, if my consultation had ended five minutes later, if I’d popped into Starbucks when I left the hospital instead of going directly to the station.

  In this parallel version of my life, everything would be different. I would have gone on a series of internet dates. I would have met a nice girl. It would have all been very pleasant and I wouldn’t be lonely anymore.

  In this alternative future, I wouldn’t be sitting here among the smoking wreckage of my life, wondering about what might have been.

  Nobody would have got hurt.

  Nobody would have died.

  Two

  I walked down City Road to Old Street Tube station. Silicon Roundabout – many of my clients were based here, a mixture of web start-ups and small publishers. The design agency that I did most of my work for is based a short distance away on Clerkenwell Green. I’m a web designer and although it sometimes feels like there are more of us in London than there are rats, I’m able to make a living from it. I even had a little money saved, although three months without being able to work had drained my bank account. I must call Victor, I thought, as I descended the steps of the Tube station.

  It was late-December, just after five in the afternoon, and the station was packed with Christmas shoppers and office workers on their way home. I would send Victor a Christmas message when I got home, remind him of my existence. Fortunately, he’d been very understanding of my situation and had told me there should always be work for me. ‘At least until the next fucking recession comes along,’ he’d said on the phone, unable to resist the urge to say something gloomy.

  I was so deep in thought about work, money and the Eeyore-like tendencies of my main employer that I didn’t notice her at first. The platform was crowded and devoid of festive spirit and I was tempted to turn back, go and sit in the pub until rush hour was over.

  The train came and sucked hundreds of passengers inside, leaving those of us who weren’t desperate to get home standing on the platform. I looked towards the departures board to see how long I had to wait – and there she was.

  The woman from the hospital.

  I froze. This was it: my second chance. But I hesitated. A woman that gorgeous would definitely have a boyfriend. Several, probably. She was out of my league. I was hopeless at this sort of thing. Half a dozen excuses why I should leave it ran through my head.

  If I hadn’t been in such an ebullient mood, I probably would have done nothing, regretted it for a day then forgotten all about her. Instead, I shouldered my way through the crowd until I reached her, trying to persuade myself that I was confident and that rejection would be better than not trying at all.

  ‘You were right, you know,’ I said.

  She looked up with surprise.

  ‘About the coffee in the hospital. It did taste like piss. Though I think it was more like horse’s piss than cow’s.’

  Perhaps it wasn’t the best way to start a relationship, with a little white lie. I hadn’t tried the coffee. But it was the best opening line I could come up with. For a horrible moment I thought she didn’t recognise me, that she thought I was a random nutcase.

  But she hitched her bag onto her shoulder and said, ‘No. Definitely cow.’

  She was still wearing her ID round her neck and with my pupils returned to normal I could read it. Charlotte Summers. Her surname made me smile. Charlotte Summers and Andrew Sumner. It was a sign.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I said, sticking out my hand. This was so out of character for me but, like I said, I was on a high after getting the news from Mr Makkawi. ‘I’m Andrew.’

  She returned my handshake with a firm grip, her hand dry and warm. I couldn’t believe she hadn’t run off yet. She actually seemed pleased to be talking to me. ‘I’m Charlie when I’m not at work. Are you an Andy?’

  ‘You can call me Andy if you like.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Nah, I prefer Andrew. Sounds more grown up.’

  The train clattered into the station and Charlie and I were propelled onto it by the surge of the crowd. We found ourselves pressed together beside the door, other bodies clustered around us.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘London Bridge.’

  ‘Me too. Then an overground train to Tulse Hill.’

  ‘Is that where you live?’

  I nodded. ‘How about you? Are you one of those north-of-the-river types?’

  ‘Oh no. I live in Camberwell. Proper London.’

  ‘You don’t have the accent,’ I said. ‘I’d guess you’re from somewhere up north.’

  She laughed. ‘Yes. That great wilderness beyond the M25.’ She stage whispered. ‘I come from a tribe in a primitive little village called Leeds.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard tale of it. You escaped though.’

  ‘Yes. Though my seventeen brothers are hunting me even as we speak. With specially trained hunter pigeons.’

  We talked. Were we flirting? It definitely felt like flirting, though maybe she thought I was an idiot and was awaiting her first opportunity to get away. I couldn’t take my eyes off her face. She was even more stunning than I’d originally thought. She had a little chip out of one of her front teeth, and the heat of the Tube train had made the skin around her collarbone flush pink. I badly wanted to kiss her.

  I told her I was from Eastbourne and she told me she’d been to Brighton, which is what
people always say, and then we passed Bank and I became aware that we were about to get off the train and would probably get separated. Forever.

  ‘I just had some excellent news,’ I said. I told her about being discharged.

  ‘That’s fantastic.’

  We pulled into London Bridge. I was going to have to get off. I would never see her again. She appeared to be deep in thought.

  ‘So how are you going to celebrate being released from Moorfields?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Going to go out with your girlfriend?’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  The doors slid open and commuters began to push past me. I stayed rooted to the spot, trying to prolong the moment.

  I didn’t need to. Before I could gather the courage to ask her out, Charlie took me by the arm and pulled me off the train. We stood on the platform, jostled from all sides. Charlie stood firm, the other passengers flowing around her like water past a rock.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll buy you a celebratory drink. You do drink, don’t you?’

  We went to a pub off Borough High Street, an ancient place with twinkling Christmas lights hanging from the timber beams and dozens of workers sinking one last pint before going home to the kids.

  As we entered the pub, a middle-aged couple stood up to leave and Charlie grabbed their table, attracting evil stares from a man and woman who’d been waiting at the bar. She ignored them.

  ‘Red wine,’ she mouthed at me.

  I could feel the couple whose table we’d ‘stolen’ glowering at me but I was in such a good mood their daggers bounced off me. There was a mirror behind the bar and I caught my reflection. My hair, dark brown, stuck up at the back no matter how often I tried to flatten it down. I was still slim, despite my sedentary lifestyle, and I’d been told I had good cheekbones. I looked scruffy, though, and had bags under my eyes, though these were mostly obscured by my glasses. Spending so much time on my own, I didn’t worry too much about my appearance, but what would Charlie think? I assumed, from the way she’d asked me here for a drink, that she wasn’t horrified by what she saw.