Me Before You(69)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It will be good.’

17

The worst thing about working as a carer is not what you might think. It’s not the lifting and cleaning, the medicines and wipes and the distant but somehow always perceptible smell of disinfectant. It’s not even the fact that most people assume you’re only doing it because you really aren’t smart enough to do anything else. It’s the fact that when you spend all day in really close proximity to someone, there is no escape from their moods. Or your own.

Will had been distant with me all morning, since I had first told him my plans. It was nothing an outsider could have put their finger on, but there were fewer jokes, perhaps less casual conversation. He asked me nothing about the contents of the day’s newspapers.

‘That’s … what you want to do?’ His eyes had flickered, but his face betrayed nothing.

I shrugged. Then I nodded more emphatically. I felt there was something childishly non-committal about my response. ‘It’s about time, really,’ I said. ‘I mean, I am twenty-seven.’

He studied my face. Something tightened in his jaw.

I felt suddenly, unbearably tired. I felt this peculiar urge to say sorry, and I wasn’t sure what for.

He gave a little nod, raised a smile. ‘Glad you’ve got it all sorted out,’ he said, and wheeled himself into the kitchen.

I was starting to feel really cross with him. I had never felt judged by anyone as I felt judged by Will now. It was as if me deciding to settle down with my boyfriend had made me less interesting to him. Like I could no longer be his pet project. I couldn’t say any of this to him, of course, but I was just as cool with him as he was with me.

It was, frankly, exhausting.

In the afternoon, there was a knock at the back door. I hurried down the corridor, my hands still wet from washing up, and opened it to find a man standing there in a dark suit, a briefcase in hand.

‘Oh no. We’re Buddhist,’ I said firmly, closing the door as the man began to protest.

Two weeks previously a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses had kept Will captive at the back door for almost fifteen minutes, while he struggled to reverse his chair back over the dislodged doormat. When I finally shut the door they had opened the letter box to call that ‘he more than anyone’ should understand what it was to look forward to the afterlife.

‘Um … I’m here to see Mr Traynor?’ the man said, and I opened the door cautiously. In all my time at Granta House nobody had ever come to see Will via the back door.

‘Let him in,’ Will said, appearing behind me. ‘I asked him to come.’ When I still stood there, he added, ‘It’s okay, Clark … he’s a friend.’

The man stepped over the threshold, held out his hand and shook mine. ‘Michael Lawler,’ he said.

He was about to say something else, but Will moved his chair between us, effectively cutting off any further conversation.

‘We’ll be in the living room. Could you make some coffee, then leave us for a while?’

‘Um … okay.’

Mr Lawler smiled at me, a little awkwardly, and followed Will into the living room. When I walked in with a tray of coffee some minutes later they were discussing cricket. The conversation about legs and runs continued until I had no further reason to lurk.

Brushing invisible dust from my skirt, I straightened up and said, ‘Well. I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Thanks, Louisa.’

‘You sure you don’t want anything else? Biscuits?’

‘Thank you, Louisa.’

Will never called me Louisa. And he had never banished me from anything before.

Mr Lawler stayed almost an hour. I did my chores, then hung around in the kitchen, wondering if I was brave enough to eavesdrop. I wasn’t. I sat, ate two Bourbon creams, chewed my nails, listened to the low hum of their voices, and wondered for the fifteenth time why Will had asked this man not to use the front entrance.

He didn’t look like a doctor, or consultant. He could have been a financial adviser, but he somehow didn’t have the right air about him. He certainly didn’t look like a physiotherapist, occupational therapist or dietician – or one of the legions of other people employed by the local authority to pop by and assess Will’s ever-changing needs. You could spot those a mile off. They always looked exhausted, but were briskly, determinedly cheerful. They wore woollens in muted colours, with sensible shoes, and drove dusty estate cars full of folders and boxes of equipment. Mr Lawler had a navy-blue BMW. His gleaming 5-series was not a local authority sort of a car.

Finally, Mr Lawler emerged. He closed his briefcase, and his jacket hung over his arm. He no longer looked awkward.

I was in the hallway within seconds.

‘Ah. Would you mind pointing me towards the bathroom?’

I did so, mutely, and stood there, fidgeting, until he emerged.

‘Right. So that’s all for now.’

‘Thank you, Michael.’ Will didn’t look at me. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

‘I should be in touch later this week,’ Mr Lawler said.

‘Email would be preferable to letter – at least, for now.’

‘Yes. Of course.’

I opened the back door to see him out. Then, as Will disappeared back into the living room, I followed him into the courtyard and said lightly, ‘So – do you have far to go?’

His clothes were beautifully cut; they carried the sharp edge of the city in their tailoring, serious money in their thread count.

‘London, unfortunately. Still, hope the traffic won’t be too bad at this time of the afternoon.’

I stepped out after him. The sun was high in the sky and I had to squint to see him. ‘So … um … where in London are you based?’

‘Regent Street.’

‘The Regent Street? Nice.’

‘Yes. Not a bad place to be. Right. Thank you for the coffee, Miss … ’

‘Clark. Louisa Clark.’

He stopped then and looked at me for a moment, and I wondered whether he had sussed my inadequate attempts to work out who he might be.

‘Ah. Miss Clark,’ he said, his professional smile swiftly reinstated. ‘Thank you, anyway.’

He put his briefcase carefully on the back seat, climbed into his car and was gone.

That night, I stopped off at the library on my way home to Patrick’s. I could have used his computer, but I still felt like I should ask, and this just seemed easier. I sat down at the terminal, and typed ‘Michael Lawler’ and ‘Regent Street, London’ into the search engine. Knowledge is power, Will, I told him, silently.