Lasting Damage by Sophie Hannah Page A

She knew it was stupid to compare oneself with other people – to compare herself and Simon with other married couples – but it was hard to avoid doing so. Charlie knew of no other newlyweds who had approached their honeymoon in the way ex-mobsters-turned-informers might approach entry into the witness protection programme. Kathleen, Simon’s mother, was as terrified of flying as she was of most things in life, and wouldn’t have been able to cope with the thought of her son getting on a plane, so Simon had told her he and Charlie were going to Torquay for their honeymoon – by train. Kathleen had asked where they were staying, in case she needed to contact him in an emergency. He could have named a hotel in Torquay, real or imaginary, but he knew Kathleen would try to reach him there within a couple of days and discover he’d lied, which had left him with no alternative but to refuse to tell her. ‘There won’t be an emergency,’ he’d said firmly. ‘And if there is, it’ll have to wait.’
    Kathleen had sulked, wept, begged. At one point, after one of her trademark soggy Sunday lunches, she had fallen to her knees and grabbed Simon’s legs. He’d had to pull her off him. Charlie had been shocked, as much by Simon’s apparent lack of surprise as by anything else. Michael, his dad, hadn’t seemed surprised either. His only verbal contribution had been the occasional muttered, ‘Please, son,’ to Simon. Please, son, give her a way of contacting you. Make my life easier.
    To Charlie’s great relief, Simon had stood firm. To her utter bafflement, he had accepted an invitation to lunch at his parents’ house the following Sunday. ‘Are you mental?’ Charlie had snapped at him. ‘It’ll happen again – exactly what happened last week.’ Simon had shrugged and said, ‘Then I’ll walk out like I did last week.’
    He liked to believe that his mother didn’t control him, but then he did things like insist they go all the way to Torquay to get married – ‘to make the lie a bit more true,’ he’d said, unwilling to acknowledge the irrationality. Charlie would have preferred to get married at Spilling Register Office; she hated the thought that anything about their wedding was dictated by her pathetic mother-in-law. Simon had shouted her down: ‘I thought you loved Torquay. Isn’t that why we’re pretending to go there for our honeymoon?’
    Oddly enough, Kathleen hadn’t tried to impose a church wedding on them, as Charlie had feared she might. She’d voiced no objection when Simon had told her that the wedding would involve only himself, Charlie and two witnesses, neither of whom would be her. ‘She’s relieved,’ he’d explained. ‘Nothing’s expected of her. Think about it: most weddings, the mother of the groom spends the best part of a day being friendly and welcoming to the guests. Mum’d never have managed it. There’d have been a sudden illness, and Dad would have had to stay at home and look after her.’
    Charlie’s parents had also been thankful to hear that their attendance wouldn’t be required. Her father would rather play golf than do anything else. He’d have taken a day off, for Charlie’s sake, and tried to enjoy her wedding, but he’d soon have found an excuse to sink into a foul mood. Any day that involved no golf was a disastrous day for Howard Zailer, and for all those unlucky enough to encounter him in his golfless state.
    ‘What about Melville?’ Simon shouted from the swimming pool.
    ‘Hm?’
    ‘Our new surname.’
    ‘Why Melville?’
    ‘As in Herman Melville.’
    ‘What about Dick?’
    Simon stuck two fingers up at her. Moby Dick was his favourite novel. He read it once a year. He’d brought it with him to Spain; it was supposed to be his honeymoon reading, so why wasn’t he reading it? Why was he content to float aimlessly, as if there was nothing else he wanted to do? The leaves and petals on the pool’s surface looked as if they were making more