Me Before You(25)
Author: Jojo Moyes

He stirred as I closed the door, half lifting his head. ‘What time is it, Clark?’ His voice was slightly muffled by the pillow.

‘Quarter past eight.’

He let his head drop, and digested this. ‘Can I have a drink?’

There was no sharpness to him now, no edge. It was as if being ill had finally made him vulnerable. I gave him a drink, and turned on the bedside light. I perched on the side of his bed, and felt his forehead, as my mother might have done when I was a child. He was still a little warm, but nothing like he had been.

‘Cool hands.’

‘You complained about them earlier.’

‘Did I?’ He sounded genuinely surprised.

‘Would you like some soup?’

‘No.’

‘Are you comfortable?’

I never knew how much discomfort he was in, but I suspected it was more than he let on.

‘The other side would be good. Just roll me. I don’t need to sit up.’

I climbed across the bed and moved him over, as gently as I could. He no longer radiated a sinister heat, just the ordinary warmth of a body that had spent time under a duvet.

‘Can I do anything else?’

‘Shouldn’t you be heading home?’

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’m staying over.’

Outside, the last of the light had long been extinguished. The snow was still falling. Where it caught the porch glow through the window it was bathed in a pale-gold, melancholy light. We sat there in peaceful silence, watching its hypnotic fall.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I said, finally. I could see his hands on top of the sheet. It seemed so strange that they should look so ordinary, so strong, and yet be so useless.

‘I suspect you’re going to.’

‘What happened?’ I kept wondering about the marks on his wrists. It was the one question I couldn’t ask directly.

He opened one eye. ‘How did I get like this?’

When I nodded, he closed his eyes again. ‘Motorbike accident. Not mine. I was an innocent pedestrian.’

‘I thought it would be skiing or bungee jumping or something.’

‘Everyone does. God’s little joke. I was crossing the road outside my home. Not this place,’ he said. ‘My London home.’

I stared at the books in his bookshelf. Among the novels, the well-thumbed Penguin paperbacks, were business titles: Corporate Law, TakeOver, directories of names I did not recognize.

‘And there was no way you could carry on with your job?’

‘No. Nor the apartment, the holidays, the life … I believe you met my ex-girlfriend.’ The break in his voice couldn’t disguise the bitterness. ‘But I should apparently be grateful, as for some time they didn’t think I was going to live at all.’

‘Do you hate it? Living here, I mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there any way you might be able to live in London again?’

‘Not like this, no.’

‘But you might improve. I mean, Nathan said there are loads of advances in this kind of injury.’

Will closed his eyes again.

I waited, and then I adjusted the pillow behind his head, and the duvet around his chest. ‘Sorry,’ I said, sitting upright. ‘If I ask too many questions. Do you want me to leave?’

‘No. Stay for a bit. Talk to me.’ He swallowed. His eyes opened again and his gaze slid up to mine. He looked unbearably tired. ‘Tell me something good.’

I hesitated a moment, then I leant back against the pillows beside him. We sat there in the near dark, watching the briefly illuminated flakes of snow disappear into the black night.

‘You know … I used to say that to my Dad,’ I said, finally. ‘But if I told you what he used to say back, you’d think I was insane.’

‘More than I do?’

‘When I had a nightmare or was sad or frightened about something, he used to sing me … ’ I started to laugh. ‘Oh … I can’t.’

‘Go on.’

‘He used to sing me the “Molahonkey Song”.’

‘The what?’

‘The “Molahonkey Song”. I used to think everyone knew it.’

‘Trust me, Clark,’ he murmured, ‘I am a Molahonkey virgin.’

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and began to sing.

I wi-li-lished I li-li-lived in Molahonkey la-la-land

The la-la-land where I-li-li was bo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lorn

So I-li-li could play-la-lay my o-lo-lold banjo-lo-lo

My o-lo-lold ban-jo-lo-lo won’t go-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo.

‘Jesus Christ.’

I took another breath.

I too-lo-look it to-lo-lo the me-le-lender’s sho-lo-lop to

See-lee-lee what they-le-ley could do-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo

They sai-lai-laid to me-le-le your stri-li-lings are sho-lo-lot

They’re no-lo-lo more u-lu-luse to you-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-loo.

There was a short silence.

‘You are insane. Your whole family is insane.’

‘But it worked.’

‘And you are a God-awful singer. I hope your dad was better.’

‘I think what you meant to say was, “Thank you, Miss Clark, for attempting to entertain me.”’

‘I suppose it makes about as much sense as most of the psychotherapeutic help I’ve received. Okay, Clark,’ he said, ‘tell me something else. Something that doesn’t involve singing.’

I thought for a bit.

‘Um … okay, well … you were looking at my shoes the other day?’

‘Hard not to.’

‘Well, my mum can date my unusual shoe thing back to when I was three. She bought me a pair of bright-turquoise glittery wellies – they were quite unusual back then – kids used to just have those green ones, or maybe red if you were lucky. And she said from the day she brought them home I refused to take them off. I wore them to bed, in the bath, to nursery all through the summer. My favourite outfit was those glitter boots and my bumblebee tights.’

‘Bumblebee tights?’

‘Black and yellow stripes.’

‘Gorgeous.’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

‘Well, it’s true. They sound revolting.’

‘They might sound revolting to you, but astonishingly, Will Traynor, not all girls get dressed just to please men.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Everything women do is with men in mind. Everything anyone does is with sex in mind. Haven’t you read The Red Queen?’