Me Before You: A Novel

English voices were a variety of other accents – Italian, French, American. From the west wall they could see the castle, and – just as they did every summer – the tourists were lining up for photographs with it behind them in the distance.
    ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Do you want a drink?’
    ‘In a minute.’ I just wanted to sit there, to let my head rest against Patrick. I wanted to feel like I used to feel – normal, untroubled. I wanted not to think about death.
    ‘I broke my best time today. Fifteen miles in just 79.2 minutes.’
    ‘Great.’
    ‘Cooking with gas now, eh, Pat?’ someone said.
    Patrick bunched both his fists and made a revving noise with his mouth.
    ‘That’s great. Really.’ I tried to look pleased for him.
    I had a drink, and then another. I listened to their talk of mileage, of the skinned knees and hypothermicswimming bouts. I tuned out, and watched the other people in the pub, wondering about their lives. Each of them would have huge events in their own families – babies loved and lost, dark secrets, great joys and tragedies. If they could put it into perspective, if they could just enjoy a sunny evening in a pub garden, then surely I should too.
    And then I told Patrick about Dad’s job. His face looked a little like I imagine mine had. I had to repeat it, just so he could be sure he had heard me right.
    ‘That’s … very cosy. You both working for him.’
    I wanted to tell him then, I really did. I wanted to explain that so much of everything was tied up in my battle to keep Will alive. I wanted to tell him how afraid I was that Will seemed to be trying to buy me my freedom. But I knew I could say nothing. I might as well get the rest of it over while I could.
    ‘Um … that’s not the only thing. He says I can stay there when I want, in the spare room. To get past the whole bed problem at home.’
    Patrick looked at me. ‘You’re going to live at his house?’
    ‘I might. It’s a nice offer, Pat. You know what it’s been like at home. And you’re never here. I like coming to your house, but … well, if I’m honest, it doesn’t feel like home.’
    He was still staring at me. ‘Then make it home.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Move in. Make it home. Put your stuff up. Bring your clothes. It’s about time we moved in together.’
    It was only afterwards, when I thought about it, that I realized he had actually looked really unhappy as he said this. Not like a man who had finally worked out he could not live without his girlfriend close by him, and wanted tomake a joyous union of our two lives. He looked like someone who felt outmanoeuvred.
    ‘You really want me to move in?’
    ‘Yes. Sure.’ He rubbed at his ear. ‘I mean, I’m not saying let’s get married or anything. But it does make sense, right?’
    ‘You old romantic.’
    ‘I mean it, Lou. It’s time. It’s probably been time for ages, but I guess I’ve just been wrapped up in one thing and another. Move in. It’ll be good.’ He hugged me. ‘It will be really good.’
    Around us the Triathlon Terrors had diplomatically resumed their chatter. A small cheer went up as a group of Japanese tourists got the photograph they had wanted. Birds sang, the sun dipped, the world turned. I wanted to be part of it, not stuck in a silent room, worrying about a man in a wheelchair.
    ‘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,