Page 110 of Carry Me Home

‘Depends on the day,’ I say.

‘That sounds about right.’ Ellen turns her glass on the table, the tonic catching the light. Then, without preamble: ‘Tell me about this vet of yours.’

I blink. ‘What?’

‘The vet. Tom. The one who was with you at Peter’s funeral? Peter talked about him constantly. Tom said this, Tom thinks that, Tom’s the best man I know.’ She waves her hand. ‘I always assumed he was exaggerating – Peter exaggerated everything – but he seemed genuinely fond.’

‘Tom’s not—’ I stop. Start again. ‘He’s in Scotland now. He left a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Scotland.’ Ellen’s eyebrows rise. ‘That’s quite a distance. Work?’

‘A partnership. With a woman. Cara. They’re setting up a practice together.’

‘I see.’ She watches me over the rim of her glass. ‘And this woman. Is she⁠—’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.’ I look down at my coffee. ‘We’re not really speaking at the moment.’

‘You and the woman?’

‘Me and Tom.’

Ellen sets down her glass. ‘Now that’s interesting. Peter always said you two were thick as thieves. Inseparable, he said. I think he was a bit jealous, actually – not in a bad way. Just aware that there was a history there he wasn’t part of.’

‘There’s no history. We’re just friends. Were just friends.’

‘Were.’ Ellen tilts her head. ‘Past tense.’

I don’t answer. I pick up my coffee instead, and it’s gone cold, and I drink it anyway because it gives my hands a purpose.

‘What happened?’ Ellen asks.

‘He kept something from me. About Peter. About – it doesn’t matter what. He kept it from me, and I found out, and now everything’s different.’

‘Different how?’

‘I don’t know.’ I set the mug down. ‘I trusted him completely. That was a pretty big secret to keep, Ellen. And I get it, at first when I was so bad and in such a dark place, sure, keep it secret to protect me. But what about now? I realised he didn’t tell me because he thought I was too broken to take it. He didn’t have faith in my own strength to heal. How could my best friend think that?’ This is the first time I’ve articulated these words to anyone. Strangely, they are freeing. Once they are out, their power over me weakens.

Ellen is quiet for a moment. Watching me with that steady, assessing look that’s so like Peter’s it makes my chest hurt.

‘You miss him,’ she says. Not a question.

‘Of course I miss him. He’s my best friend.’

‘I meant the way you miss him.’ She turns her glass on the table. ‘Peter used to talk about you and Tom. How you’d finish each other’s sentences. How Tom would drop everything if you called. He said once – and I remember this because Peter didn’t say things like this – he said, Mum, those two don’t know what they’ve got.’ She looks at me. ‘I always wondered what he meant by that.’

The café is very quiet. The coffee machine ticks and settles.

‘He was just being Peter,’ I say. ‘Reading into things.’

‘Maybe.’ Ellen picks up her gin. ‘Or maybe Peter could see something you couldn’t. He was good at that – seeing people clearly. Better than he was at seeing himself, God knows.’ She takes a sip. ‘All I’m saying is, a woman who looks the way you look right now when she talks about her best friend moving to Scotland might want to sit with that for a minute.’

‘Ellen—’

‘I’m not pushing. I’m observing.’ She leans back in her chair. ‘Peter loved you. That was real and true and I’m grateful for every day you had together. But he’s gone, Nina. He’s been gone for over nine months now.’ A beat. ‘And I didn’t raise my son to be a ghost that haunts the living.’

The words land a punch behind my ribs. I press my lips together and look at the table. Then look at the harbour. Look at anything that isn’t Ellen’s face, because Ellen’s face is full of a kindness I haven’t earned and can barely stand.

‘I know you’re not keeping a shrine,’ she says, quieter now. ‘I know you’ve kept the café going, kept yourself moving. But there’s a difference between surviving and living. And I’m not sure you’ve figured out which one you’re doing.’