The Faerie Tree by Jane Cable Page B

then?” Her voice was light, but underpinned by a slight shake.
    â€œNot at all,” I lied. “Just a blinding hangover.”
    And then she was smiling. “I have to say I’ve felt better myself. I’ll make us some coffee.”
    Thankfully she disappeared and a while later I heard the shower. I should have got up and dressed but I felt too leaden to move so I rolled over and closed my eyes. She put my coffee on the bedside table then rustled quietly around the room, getting ready for work. Finally she touched my shoulder.
    â€œStay here to sleep it off. Just pull the door behind you when you go.”
    â€œThanks, Megan,” I mumbled. But once I was sure she had driven away I grabbed my clothes and raced for my own room just as fast as I could. I pulled the duvet over my head. My own stupid, drunken, testosterone-fuelled nightmare had punched a hole so large in my defences that it was impossible to stem the raging tide of Izzie, engulfing me from all sides.
    It was late afternoon before I was able to crawl out of bed. Even then my hands were shaking as I filled the kettle to make a cup of tea. No sugar, so I helped myself to a chocolate digestive instead. A crumb lodged in the back of my throat and I coughed so much it was all I could do to stop myself retching.
    I took my mug back to bed and sat, propped on the pillows, gazing out over the grey-tiled roof of the terrace behind. Where was Izzie now? A Monday afternoon, early spring. I pictured her, clipping down the pavement in her kitten heels, navy mack billowing in the breeze, right shoulder dragged down by the weight of her briefcase. Going home later, to what? To Paul? I sincerely hoped she hadn’t burnt her boats on my account.
    For the very first time I thought about what had happened from her point of view. When she came back from her holiday, I would have simply disappeared, leaving no trace. And I’d promised her, promised her that I’d wait. She’d probably decided to stay with Paul anyway and I’d let her off the hook. The idea salved my conscience, but not the heartache. All through the hours of darkness an Izzie-less emptiness stretched before me. If this was how sex with another woman made me feel then I was determined to become a monk.
    Of course daylight brought a sense of proportion and even with the dull ache behind my eyes and lodged into my chest, I knew I had to make the best of the bed I had made for myself. I went for a walk, out to Towan Head and the length of Fistral Beach. Meandering back along the edge of the golf course I found a bank covered in early primroses. On impulse I pickedsome for Megan and left them in a milk bottle by the door to her flat with a note thanking her for dinner on Sunday.
    And that’s how we slid into a relationship. She came upstairs for a chat that evening and we sat in the little kitchen drinking tea. We woke up together the next morning and I went into the shop with her to tidy the stockroom. I started going into the shop most days, and she stopped taking rent from me and bunged me the odd tenner so I could buy a round when we went out with her friends. After a few weeks Ed, who ran the surf school, offered to rent both rooms for his summer staff so I moved downstairs.
    It was when we were turning out a cupboard to make room for my stuff that I found out just exactly how old Megan was. It was a passport application and it had her date of birth on it – 7 th June 1945 – a year to the day younger than my mother and eighteen years older than me. I piled the papers together and shoved them into a box, ready to carry up to the attic.

Chapter Fifteen
    I don’t often remember Megan now, but when I do I see her on Towan Beach with the evening sun silhouetting her slim figure against the waves. And I hear laughter, and seagulls, and Wet Wet Wet on the radio. Megan was a superb surfer – a real natural. Her body was built for it and seeing her in a wetsuit