Me Before You: A Novel

weren’t they?’ I said, brightly, as I turned the ignition.
    ‘The tall one dropped his entire beer down my right leg,’ said Will. ‘I smell like a brewery.’
    ‘I don’t believe this,’ said Nathan, as I finally pulled out towards the main entrance. ‘Look. There’s a whole disabled parking section right there, by the stand. And it’s all on tarmac.’
    Will didn’t say much of anything for the rest of the day. He bid Nathan goodbye when we dropped him home, and then grew silent as I negotiated the road up to the castle, which had thinned out now the temperature had dropped again, and finally I parked up outside the annexe.
    I lowered Will’s chair, got him inside, and made him awarm drink. I changed his shoes and trousers, put the beer-stained ones in the washing machine, and got the fire going so that he would warm up. I put the television on, and drew the curtains so that the room grew cosy around us – perhaps cosier for the time spent out in the cold air. But it was only when I sat in the living room with him, sipping my tea, that I realized he wasn’t talking – not out of exhaustion, or because he wanted to watch the television. He just wasn’t talking to me.
    ‘Is … something the matter?’ I said, when he failed to respond to my third comment about the local news.
    ‘You tell me, Clark.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Well, you know everything else there is to know about me. You tell me.’
    I stared at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, finally. ‘I know today didn’t turn out quite like I planned. But it was just meant to be a nice outing. I actually thought you’d enjoy it.’
    I didn’t add that he was being determinedly grumpy, that he had no idea what I had gone through just to get him to try to enjoy himself, that he hadn’t even tried to have a good time. I didn’t tell him that if he’d let me buy the stupid badges we might have had a nice lunch and all the other stuff might have been forgotten.
    ‘That’s my point.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Oh, you’re no different from the rest of them.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘If you’d bothered to ask me, Clark. If you’d bothered to consult me just once about this so-called fun outing of ours, I could have told you. I hate horses, and horse racing.Always have. But you didn’t bother to ask me. You decided what you thought you’d like me to do, and you went ahead and did it. You did what everyone else did. You decided for me.’
    I swallowed.
    ‘I didn’t mean to –’
    ‘But you did.’
    He turned his chair away from me and, after a couple more minutes of silence, I realized I had been dismissed.

12
    I can tell you the exact day I stopped being fearless.
    It was almost seven years ago, in the last lazy, heat-slurred days of July, when the narrow streets around the castle were thick with tourists, and the air filled with the sound of their meandering footsteps and the chimes of the ever-present ice cream vans that lined the top of the hill.
    My grandmother had died a month previously after a long illness, and that summer was veiled in a thin layer of sadness; it gently smothered everything we did, muting mine and my sister’s tendencies to the dramatic, and cancelling our usual summer routines of brief holidays and days out. My mother stood most days at her washing-up bowl, her back rigid with the effort of trying to suppress her tears, while Dad disappeared to work each morning with a grimly determined expression, returning hours later shiny-faced from the heat and unable to speak before he had cracked open a beer. My sister was home from her first year at university, her head already somewhere far from our small town. I was twenty and would meet Patrick in less than three months. We were enjoying one of those rare summers of utter freedom – no financial responsibility, no debts, no time owing to anybody. I had a seasonal job and all the hours in the world
to practise my make-up, put on heels that made my father wince, and just generally work out who I was.
    I dressed normally, in those days. Or, I should say, I dressed like the other girls in town – long hair, flicked over the shoulder, indigo jeans, T-shirts tight enough to show off our tiny waists and high breasts. We spent hours perfecting our lipgloss, and the exact shade of a smokey eye. We looked good in anything, but spent hours complaining about non-existent cellulite and invisible flaws in our skin.
    And I had ideas. Things I wanted to do. One of the boys I knew