Me Before You: A Novel

person.’
    ‘I can do specialist. I do sports injuries. I have medical training.’
    ‘This is not a sprained ankle, Pat. Really.’
    ‘There’s a man I worked with a couple of years ago had a client who was paraplegic. He’s almost fully recovered now, he says. Does triathlons and everything.’
    ‘Fancy,’ said my mother.
    ‘He pointed me to this new research in Canada that says muscles can be trained to remember former activity. If you get them working enough, every day, it’s like a brainsynapse – it can come back. I bet you if we hooked you up with a really good regime, you could see a difference in your muscle memory. After all, Lou tells me you were quite the action man before.’
    ‘Patrick,’ I said loudly. ‘You know nothing about it.’
    ‘I was just trying to –’
    ‘Well
don’t
. Really.’
    The table fell silent. Dad coughed, and excused himself for it. Granddad peered around the table in wary silence.
    Mum made as if to offer everyone more bread, and then seemed to change her mind.
    When Patrick spoke again, there was a faint air of martyrdom in his tone. ‘It’s just research that I thought might be helpful. But I’ll say no more about it.’
    Will looked up and smiled, his face blank, polite. ‘I’ll certainly bear it in mind.’
    I got up to clear the plates, wanting to escape the table. But Mum scolded me, telling me to sit down.
    ‘You’re the birthday girl,’ she said – as if she ever let anyone else do anything, anyway. ‘Bernard. Why don’t you go and get the chicken?’
    ‘Ha-ha. Let’s hope it’s stopped flapping around now, eh?’ Dad smiled, his teeth bared in a kind of grimace.
    The rest of the meal passed off without incident. My parents, I could see, were completely charmed by Will. Patrick, less so. He and Will barely exchanged another word. Somewhere around the point where Mum served up the roast potatoes – Dad doing his usual thing of trying to steal extras – I stopped worrying. Dad was asking Will all sorts, about his life before, even about the accident, and he seemed comfortable enough to answer himdirectly. In fact, I learnt a fair bit that he’d never told me. His job, for example, sounded pretty important, even if he played it down. He bought and sold companies and made sure he turned a profit while doing so. It took Dad a few attempts to prise out of him that his idea of profit ran into six or seven figures. I found myself staring at Will, trying to reconcile the man I knew with this ruthless City suit that he now described. Dad told him about the company
that was about to take over the furniture factory, and when he said the name Will nodded almost apologetically, and said that yes, he knew of them. Yes, he would probably have gone for it too. The way he said it didn’t sound promising for Dad’s job.
    Mum just cooed at Will, and made a huge fuss of him. I realized, watching her smile, that at some stage during the meal he had just become a smart young man at her table. No wonder Patrick was pissed off.
    ‘Birthday cake?’ Granddad said, as she began to clear the dishes.
    It was so distinct, so surprising, that Dad and I stared at each other in shock. The whole table went quiet.
    ‘No,’ I walked around the table and kissed him. ‘No, Granddad. Sorry. But it is chocolate mousse. You like that.’
    He nodded in approval. My mother was beaming. I don’t think any of us could have had a better present.
    The mousse arrived on the table, and with it a large, square present, about the size of a telephone directory, wrapped in tissue.
    ‘Presents, is it?’ Patrick said. ‘Here. Here’s mine.’ He smiled at me as he placed it in the middle of the table.
    I raised a smile back. This was no time to argue, after all.
    ‘Go on,’ said Dad. ‘Open it.’
    I opened theirs first, peeling the paper carefully away so that I didn’t tear it. It was a photograph album, and on every page there was a picture from a year in my life. Me as a baby; me and Treena as solemn, chubby-faced girls; me on my first day at secondary school, all hairclips and oversized skirt. More recently, there was a picture of me and Patrick, the one where I was actually telling him to piss off. And me, dressed in a grey skirt, my first day in my new job. In between the pages were pictures of our family by Thomas, letters that Mum had kept from school trips, my childish handwriting telling of days on the beach, lost ice creams and thieving gulls. I flicked through,