A/N: Hello guys!!missed me? Hehehe, I know you did, don't liee...xD Sorry, I'm just really random. :S Thank you to all the people who reviewed last chapter telling me ow much you hate the happy couple, you rock guys! :D:D:D Ummm...not much for me to say, there's only a couple of chapters before we start with the present thing. Bella is going to face another problem in the chapters that come. I know, I'm it's what this story has reduced me to. :'( Anyway................... LET's GET READING!
Chapter 11: Who wants to live forever?
Theres no time for us
Theres no place for us
What is this thing that builds our dreams yet slips away
From us
Who wants to live forever
Who wants to live forever....?
Theres no chance for us
Its all decided for us
This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us
Who wants to live forever
Who wants to live forever?
Who dares to love forever?
When love must die
But touch my tears with your lips
Touch my world with your fingertips
And we can have forever
And we can love forever
Forever is our today
Who wants to live forever
Who wants to live forever?
Forever is our today..
BPOV
Friday 13th June,2001
"So, have you set a date for the wedding yet, Edward?" asks Karen. The word slaps me around the face, leaving me red-cheeked. It's not her fault. She has no idea. We are sitting in the pub, the way work colleagues do on Friday lunchtime, making small talk as we eat our jacket potatoes. And it is a perfectly reasonable question to ask, given that he got engaged six days ago. It is just that for me, it is still too soon. The cut too fresh. The pain too intense. The wound gaping open, unable to heal when I have to see him, hear him, smell him, feel his presence and taste him in the air I breathe every day.
Edward looks at me then away again quickly. The others are waiting.
"Yeah, we have." He says, putting another forkful into his mouth as if he wants to end the conversation there.
"Go on, then" says Karen, "When's the nig day?"
I have to wait until he finishes chewing and swallows. Whatever he is going to say, I don't want to hear it. But I have no choice.
"July the nineteenth." He says.
"What, next year?" asks Karen.
"No," he says, picking up his bottle of Becks, "Next month"
It hits me like a punch in the stomach. Below the belt. I am winded for a second, reeling on the canvas, unsure if I will be able to get up again. I thought I would at least have some time to get my head round the idea. Or maybe even try to talk him out of it. Persuade him that he's chosen the wrong woman. But no. In five weeks' time they will be married. It is all too soon. Too much. Too final. The hammering inside my chest starts again. I look at Edward for an explanation but he is staring intently at his beer mat.
"Bloody hell, that's a bit quick, isn't it?" says Karen, "Are you sure there's nothing else you want to tell us?"
"Eh, yeah. It's not one of those shot-gun weddings, is it?" asks Dave.
"No," snaps Edward. Clearly he wants to leave it at that. But Karen isn't about to let it drop. We don't call her the Rottweiler for nothing.
"So, what's the big rush then?" she says.
Edward sighs. "Tanya rang St Andrew's church and they'd just had a cancellation. We were lucky enough to be offered it so we figured we may as well go for it. No point in hanging around."
He looks up and glances sideways at me. I keep my eyes fixed firmly o the table. Their luck, someone else's misfortune. Tanya must be delighted, whizzing him p the aisle before he's even had a chance to catch his breath from the proposal, let alone get cold feet about the wedding.
I push my barely touched jacket potato away. My insides are too contorted to even contemplate allowing food down. I down the rest of my vodka and orange in one. I wish Angela was here, she would be able to stop this, manage to change the subject. Karen and Dave, however, have no such inclination.
"So how are you going to get everything organized in time?" asks Karen, "Aren't all the reception venues booked up?"
"We're having a marquee in Tanya's parents' garden," says Edward.
"Is it going to be a big do then?" asks Dave, "One of those top hat and tails job?"
"Probably." He says, "You'll have to ask Tanya for the details. She's handling all the arrangements."
"That's not very gallant of you," says Karen, "Letting her do all the work."
Edward shrugs, still avoiding eye contact with me. "She enjoys it. Besides, I'll only get in the way."
"Trouble is," says Dave, "You could turn up on the day and find she's had the whole church decked out in pink ribbons and ordered some poncey horse and carriage lark to take you to the reception."
"Whatever, it's up to her," he says, "It's her big day."
My hand is squeezing my empty glass so hard I fear it could shatter at any moment. I want to shout at the top of my voice, the way you do when you're a kid and you're trying to drown out something you don't want to hear.
"And you don't mind looking like a prat?" asks Dave.
"You'd be disappointed if I didn't."
"I can't wait to see you in a penguin suit." Says Dave.
"You'd better give me a break then. Otherwise I might not invite you," he says it jokingly but I detect a serious undertone. I hadn't even thought of that. We are all going to be invited to his wedding. Me included. I am going to be expected to stand there and watch him pledge himself to another woman for life. To remain silent when the vicar asks people to speak now or for ever hold their peace. To raise my glass and toast their future happiness. I won't go, of course. It would be like volunteering for an afternoon in a torture chamber. Though I can't imagine sitting at home picturing it will be much better.
"What date did you say it was again?" asks Dave.
"July 19th," mumbles Edward as he finishes the last mouthful and puts his knife and fork down.
"Eh, that's the same date as Rugby Carnival," says Dave, "You'll be able to hitch a lift to and from the church on one of the carnival floats. Save her old man a few bob or two."
Edward manages a strained smile.
"Still don't know why you're bothering," says Karen, who has just moved in with her boyfriend, "It's a damn sight cheaper to live in sin."
Edward is starting to look rattled.
"Anyway, we'd better be getting back," he says, putting his unfinished bottle of Becks down on the table and standing up. Karen and Dave are visibly taken aback. Usually Edward is the one advocating an extended lunch hour. And he always finishes his drinks. I stand up and follow Edward to the door, relieved for the chance to escape.
"Sorry about that, couldn't shut them up. Are you okay?" asks Edward as soon as we get outside.
I nod. Unable to manage any words. This is only the beginning. It will get worse as the day draws nearer. Until the point where it becomes unbearable. When I shall need something to numb the pain. We walk back to work side by side, Karen and Dave a few steps behind. Neither of us say a word. We don't even look at each other. I keep my eyes firmly on the pavement. But all I see are the images of him and Tanya in their wedding outfits swirling around my head.
We get back to the newsroom at the same time as Angela.
"Have a good lunch?" she asks.
Edward shrugs. I look down at my feet.
"You'd better buy a hat, Angela," Karen says, "Edward's getting married in five weeks."
Angela raises her eyebrows, glances at me then back to Edward, "Well, you don't hang about, do you?"
"No," says Edward, "And before you ask, no, she isn't."
He sits down at his desk and starts typing. Angela turns to look at me for an explanation.
"Not now," I say.
An uneasy atmosphere descends on the newsroom. I sit in the gloom for half an hour or so before deciding to escape up to photographic with a picture order. Ted is busy scribbling on a piece of paper. He looks up and fires a question at me.
"How long do you give it?"
"What?"
"Edward's marriage. I've started a book."
"That's nice of you."
"Karen's gone for three years. I think she's being optimistic. Bill's gone for one year and Dave reckons they won't even make it to the altar."
I slap the photo order down on the desk.
"So what shall I put you down for?" he says.
"You can say I'm a conscious objector."
"Ooohh, get you. It's only a bit of fun,"
"I don't find it amusing,"
I walk away, my own words bouncing off the walls and coming back to me, the laughter echoing. I have no place on this moral high ground. I am a fallen woman.
Back at the desk I wonder who will win. Dave's money is essentially on me, although he doesn't realise it. He has backed a horse which is no longer running, I am buoyed by the knowledge that no one seems to think it will last the distance. I shouldn't be, I know. But I am.
I do not look at Edward for the rest of the afternoon, I find it too painful. I used to hate having my back to him. Now I'm glad of it. Not that I can forget he is there. Because when you block out one sense the others simply become more aware.
It is gone four o' clock when Lauren on reception buzzes up to say there is a Mrs. Saunders in the front office to see me. The name doesn't mean anything at first. It is only when I see the gaunt figure standing in the corner that I realise who she is. Deborah's mother. I haven't seen her since I visited their house. But I know from Deborah that she was pleased with the article. Just disappointed, as I was, by the lack of response from the health authority.
She turns to look at me. Her body is hunched, her hands anxiously clasp a shopping bag, and the worry lines on her face are deeper still. But it is her eyes that tell me something has happened. Dull and lifeless and surrounded by layers of puffy red skin.
"Hello," I say as I approach her, "Is everything all right?"
She shakes her head, closing her eyes for a second before dragging her lids open.
"I am afraid Deborah passed away on Tuesday night."
I stand there staring, open-mouthed, wanting her to take the words back. Desperate for it not to be true. Although I know from the moist coating in her eyes that it is.
"I'm so sorry. I only spoke to her a few weeks ago. I didn't know she was so ill. "
"She went downhill very quickly this time. Says Mrs. Saunders. "They admitted her to hospital at the weekend but it was too late. She had a lung infection and a blood infection. The doctors said that she was too weak to fight them. Less than four and a half stone, she was at the end."
She gets a tissue from her handbag and dabs at her eyes.
"I really am sorry," I say again, unable to find the words I need, "Do you want to come through and sit down? Can I get you a cup of tea?"
"No, thanks. I just wanted to let you know. And to ask if you could put this on the paper."
She reaches in her handbag again and produces a crumpled piece of paper which she hands to me with shaky hands. It is a death notice, complete with a short poem. I have read dozens like this, unfortunately usually bad enough to make me cringe. But this one is beautiful. This one leaves me swallowing hard.
"Deborah wrote it," says Mrs. Saunders. "I think she knew, you know. That there was no way back this time."
I nod slowly.
"Of course we'll use it," I say, "We'll do a story as well, more of a tribute to her really, if that's okay with you."
"Yes" she says, having taken a moment to think about it. "Yes, I'd like that. How much do I owe you for the notice?"
"Nothing," I say, "It's the least we can do. She was very special, your Deborah."
"Thank you," she says, "At least she's at peace now. In a strange way it's almost a relief. I couldn't bear to see her suffer any more." She starts to walk away but turns back before she gets to the door.
"If you use a photo with the story," she says, "can you use the one of her when she was younger, before it all started? It's how I want people to remember her."
"Of course," I say. "And if there's anything else we can do…"
She nods before turning and walking out the door.
I am left standing there, holding the death notice in my shaking hand. I have broken the golden rule of journalism. I have got involved. I thought I was becoming hardened to it, the way Edward said you do. I have covered two murder cases, written stories about people who have died in accidents or through illness, and have always managed to remain detached. But this is different. Someone I have interviewed has died. Someone who was young and beautiful. Someone I was going to phone next week to see how she was.
"Poor woman," says Lauren, who has a habit of overhearing conversations. "I remember that article you did on her daughter. Such a shame about these silly girls. I don't know why they can't just eat something."
I resist the urge to strangle her. And I am not in the right frame of mind to try to explain. I simply shake my head and walk back upstairs to the newsroom, biting my trembling lip. I should tell Edward. The story will make at least a page three lead to us next week. But I know that if I so much as look at him I will burst into tears. And I do not want that. Not in front of the others. I sit down at my desk and stare at a blank screen, unable to start an intro I do not want to write. After fifteen minutes I give up and start gathering my things together.
"What's this, knocking off early?" says Angela, looking up. As soon as she sees my face her expression and tone change. "Bella? Are you all right?"
I shake my head and walk over to her, so that the others don't hear.
"Not really. Deborah Saunders, the anorexic woman, died on Tuesday. Her mother's just been in."
"Oh, Bella" Angela's face crumples in sympathy.
"I'm not going to be much use here so I may as well go home. Tell Edward I'm not feeling well. I'll make up the hours in the morning."
I slip out without the others noticing and tread quietly down the back stairs. It is only when I reach the sanctuary of my car that I allow the tears to fall.
*********
I haven't bothered cooking at home since Edward got engaged. It is a lot of effort to go to just scrape most of the food into the bin an hour later. I have laid the table every night as if I was having a meal. Not that you need a knife and a fork for vodka and orange, but it has kept some sense of normality. Tonight, however, it feels wrong not to be eating. Tonight I feel I should make an effort – for Deborah's sake.
I do a quick stir-fry with some bits I have in the fridge and a packet of noodles and a jar of sauce from the cupboard. Not exactly cordon bleu but it is better than nothing. I manage to eat about a third of it before my stomach reminds me that it is not used to this and clenches and churns so much tat I decide to leave the rest. My body is still in mourning for Edward. And I feel bad about that because I should be mourning for Deborah now. Deborah, who is really dead, not Edward who is still here but has simply chosen to be with someone else. I am selfish as well as bad. The guilt compounds the guilt. I pour myself another vodka. I don't bother to put any orange juice in it this time. When I have finished it I pour another. I am about to down that as well when the door-bell rings. I am not expecting anyone. It will probably be someone trying to sell me something I don't want or telling me Jesus is my saviour. I decide to go anyway, suspecting it will make me feel better to slam the door in someone's face. I pad down the stairs in my bare feet and open the door. It is Edward. His body silhouetted against the late evening sunshine. His eyes mournfully dark and open so wide I fear I shall fall into them.
My stomach lurches violently as the roller coaster starts up again, propelling me to the first peak and leaving me hanging there, teetering on the edge, unsure whether I am going all the way to the top or am about to plummet back down to the depths again.
I do not say anything. I shield my eyes from the sun, trying not to squint as I wait for him to speak.
"Angela told me," he says, "about the anorexic woman. I wanted to make sure you were all right."
I want to collapse sobbing into his arms. Ask him to hold me, stroke my hair, make everything okay again. But I am not allowed to do that any more. We are over. There is an invisible barrier between us, which I must not penetrate.
"I'm OK, thanks." I say.
"You don't have to pretend, Bella. Not with me."
He is pushing against the barrier; if I give it a shove from my side it could topple. But I am scared of what I might do if it falls.
"It came as a shock, that's all. Normally I'd have been okay but it's been tough…well, you know…" My voice tails off as I decide to stop talking before it cracks completely. I blink back the tears and look down, hoping Edward will think it's the sun in my eyes.
"Can I come in?" he says.
I look up at him. Not daring to believe there is anything more than friendly concern but feeling the ground shifting, the awkwardness starting to recede. I nod, still biting my bottom lip, and turn to walk up the stairs. I hear Edward shut the door behind him and follow me, his footsteps familiar, the situation foreign. I lead him through to the main room. We have been here together so many times. But this evening I am unsure of what to do or say. Because it is different; everything has changed. Even offering him a coffee could be wrongly construed. I turn to face him. His eyes are reaching out to me. It is impossible – simply looking at him kills me inside. My body is screaming for him. He is the person I am closest to in the world. But I am only allowed to look, not touch. I can't bear it longer. The bottom lip goes.
"Come here," Edward says. I take a step towards him, then another. Before I know it my head is buried against him, his arms close around me. I shut my eyes and drink it in. The feeling of safety, of belonging, of being home. It is a long time before the tears ease. Before I am able to speak.
"It's all so sad. I don't think she wanted to die. I think it just got out of control, so she couldn't stop it."
Edward nods and strokes my hair. Like I wanted him to do. Like I didn't think he could do any more. I'm not sure of what it's happening. Or how long it will last. All I know is that I need him now, more than ever.
"The funeral's next Wednesday afternoon," I say, wiping my eyes. "I'd like to go, if that's okay with you."
"Of course it is," he says, still stroking my hair. "What did I tell you about getting involved?"
"I know, I know. You must think I'm so pathetic. Maybe I need to toughen up a bit."
He shakes his head. "I like the fact that you care. That you give a toss. It's one of the many things I love about you."
He stops short, as if realising he is not supposed to say things like that anymore. I want to ask what the other things are. To have him put them in writing if necessary. Anything to help me remember that it wasn't some cheap fling. That he had real feelings for me. When I am sitting here alone in my flat at nights. And he is at home with his wife. I start crying again. Though these tears are for my loss. For Edward. He holds me tighter still. As if trying to squeeze the hurt out of me. When I eventually look up he's gazing fondly at me.
"What?" I say.
"You're the only woman I've ever known who still manages to look beautiful when she cries," he says.
I blink in appreciation. He is too polite to say what the others look like. An image of Tanya resembling a bulldog chewing a wasp as she bawls her eyes out comes into my mind. I chase it away. I am being unkind. I still don't understand, though. How can he say that to me when he is marrying her in five weeks' time. I don't want to spoil the moment but I have to know.
"I didn't think it would be so soon," I say, "The wedding."
Edward pulls away a little, as if startled into reality. Remembering that he shouldn't be here, holding me. That it is not me he is marrying.
"I thought it would be for the best," he says with a shrug.
"For who?" I say.
He lets go of me and walks to the window, running his fingers through his hair.
"For all of us," he says, "I didn't see the point of dragging things out once the decision had been made. At least this way it will be done and dusted and we'll all have the chance to move on"
I stand there shaking my head. Edward is staring out of the window. Unable to look me in the eye.
"And that's what you want, is it?" I ask, "To move on?"
He hesitates before answering.
"I don't know what I want. All I know is that I've made a mess of everything. And hurt you in the process, which is the one thing I never wanted to do."
He holds his head in his hands, covering his eyes, stopping me from seeing his pain. It is my turn to do the comforting. I reach out for his hand and lead him over towards the bed. He looks at me, his eyebrows raised questioningly, about to tell me to stop.
"It's OK;" I say, "I just want to hold you. No funny business."
I sit down on the floor with my legs outstretched and my back propped up against the bed. He hesitates before lying down next to me, resting his head on my lap. I brush a few strands of hair back from his face, my fingertips skimming softly across his forehead. Touching skin again, if only for a precious seconds. Edward reaches up a hand to lightly cup my face. I kiss his pal. The tiniest kiss imaginable. He closes his eyes. He is hurting every bit as much as me. I know I shouldn't say it but I have to try. And this could be my only chance.
"You can't go into a marriage feeling like this, Edward. It's not fair on either of you."
He takes his hand away from my face and opens his eyes.
"And would it be fair to Tanya to call it off? She cried at the end of the party, you know. Cried all the way home in the taxi. Said I'd made her so happy by saying yes. And I sat there without saying a word, thinking about how I've cheated on her. About what a bastard I've been."
I stop stroking his forehead. I don't want to know this. He has told me too much. I don't want to hear about her tears. I want to tell him about mine. All the tears I have cried over the past months when he has gone home to her, leaving me with just the smell of him lingering on my fingers. The times I have lain awake at night imagining them together, the times I have wished that just for once I could wake up with him next to me in the morning. But I know that if I say it will sound as if I am bitter and twisted. And I don't want to come over like that. Even if I am.
"You don't have to call the whole thing off. Just tell her you want to put it back until next year. Give yourself a chance to think things properly."
He sighs and shakes his head. "All that would is prolong the agony for you. I'm not going to change my mind, Bella. I made her a promise, in front of all my friends and family. She's wearing my ring on her finger. I'm not going to back down now. It wouldn't be right."
It is my turn to shut my eyes. He reaches up and strokes my face again.
"Believe me, you'll be better off without me. And before you know it some lucky bastard will come along and sweep you up your feet. I only hope he'll treat you better than I have."
I open my eyes, letting a solitary tear out as I do so.
"I don't want anyone else." I say, "I only want you. Always. Forever.
Edward reaches up and pulls my head down to him. We stay like that for a long time. Our foreheads touching, feeling each others' breath warm on our face. Both of us knowing this is the last time we will do this. It is our long goodbye.
It is getting dark outside by the time he lets go of me, and stretches out his creaking limbs.
"I've got to go now," he whispers. He clambers stiffly up to his feet and offers a hand to help me up. I take it, wanting to feel his touch one last time. As he walks towards the door he glances at the table, where the remains of my stir-fry and my untouched glass of vodka are standing. I don't think he notices them when he first came in.
"Are you going to be okay?" he says.
"I guess so."
"I'll see you on Monday,"
"Yeah," I nod my head. The words I want to say stuck in my throat. I watch him walk out the room; hear him close the front door, quietly. As if he doesn't want to disturb me in my grief. And I am grieving. For him as well as Deborah. The tears carve deep chasms in my cheeks. I pick up the glass from the table and drink it straight down. Stopping to refill it before settling back on to the carpet in exactly the same spot. Only this time it is uncomfortable, this time I feel the wiry fibres digging into the soft flesh of my thighs through my skirt. This time there is no one here to take the pain away.
He will be going home to her now feeling unburdened. Free from the pressure which has blighted his life these past few months. I hear my mother saying 'I told you so'. Maybe I shouldn't have played with fire in the first place.
Maybe I shouldn't even be let near matches.
I reach for my glass. The alcohol slips easily down my throat, soothing everything it comes into contact with. It is my medicine. It will not make me better but it will dull the pain.
Who lives forever anyway...
A/N: So what d'ya think?? love it? hate it? You completely LOATHE it? Whatever your opinion is, I want to know!! Als sorry for not replying to some of the reviews, my internet suddenly went all funny on me for no aparent reason. Still, I hope you all understand and continue to review.
HOPE TO UPDATE SOON!
-Angel on Air