The Reunion

us of the content.
    We all believed – were led to believe, I think – that this was going to be a fictionalised account of your childhood. And to some degree, it was just that. You should have warned us that it was going to involve the tragic death of a friend, and the consequences of that, because you know very well that that isn’t just about
your
life, Dan, it’s about ours, too.
    I’m not saying you had no right to make it, to ‘use’ Conor’s death. It’s what writers and filmmakers do, I suppose. Tragedy being more dramatic than most things, it lends itself to this kind of treatment. I just think that, if you wanted us to respond well, you should have let us know what we were walking into.
    And let’s not kid ourselves too much: you can call it fiction, but there were certain people and situations which were very recognisable. Your ‘Lilah’ character was a horrible caricature, a hatchet job. I’m not surprised she was hurt. I suppose that it’s natural that as it’s your story you would cast yourself as hero, I don’t mind that too much. What did get to me was that little love triangle you put in. Call that fiction a thousand times, Dan, but this is what I saw: I saw your fantasy of Jen in love with you, Jen rejecting Conor for you, Jen ending up with you. That was offensive to me, to Nat, to all of us. It was an insult to Conor’s memory. Can you imagine what Conor’s mum would have felt, watching that? Or his brother? Can you imagine what Jen felt? I only hope that she hasn’t seen it, I imagine she would find it most offensive of all.
    I suppose on some level I’ve always known that you had feelings for her over and above friendship, but she isn’t yours, Dan. She never will be.
    I don’t think meeting up right now’s a very good idea. Nat’s still pretty raw about the whole thing. She’s not very keen on the rewriting of history. I’m still pretty pissed off, too.
    Maybe in a few months’ time. I do wish you success, Dan. I only hope it doesn’t cost you too much.
    Andrew

Chapter Thirteen

    THERE WAS SNOW on the road, but it wasn’t too bad. Visibility was poor, very poor indeed, which was obviously a minus, but on the plus side, the likelihood of there being much traffic on this particular stretch of road in the middle of a blizzard was pretty low. The other minus, of course, was that he’d had three glasses of wine. The thought made his throat close up, he struggled to swallow. How could he be doing this again? On the other hand, what else could he do? They couldn’t just leave her out there. Zac was probably right, she probably would turn around and come back, but what if she didn’t? What if she slipped and twisted an ankle, and she was lying out there, in pain and afraid? What if she was hit by a car? It was Lilah. She couldn’t be left alone, he wouldn’t leave her alone.
    He was driving very, very slowly, the speedometer barely touching fifteen kilometres per hour. What was fifteen kilometres per hour in miles? He racked his brain for the conversion rate. It was probably around ten. Ten miles an hour! This was ridiculous, he could run faster than that. Gingerly, he pressed down a little harder on the accelerator. He’d never driven in heavy snow before, but he remembered being taught about driving in snow and ice on the course he’d had to attend when he got his licence back. If you drive too slowly, they said, you’ll lose momentum and get stuck. Not much chance of that on this hill. You don’t want to be going too fast, because you don’t want to have to use your brakes. Just take your feet off the pedals and steer. And allow much longer stopping times. There was a bend coming up ahead. He took his feet off the pedals and felt the car coast.
    There was a car accident. I was driving too fast. I was over the limit. That’s how he tells the story, when he has to. He doesn’t tell it often, but sometimes it’s inevitable. In job interviews, for example, when he has to explain his criminal conviction.
    This is what he doesn’t say, what he never says.
    He never mentions that it was a celebration, that weekend, it was
his
celebration. He’d finished his articles and had been offered a job at Fineman and Hicks, a leading firm of criminal justice and human rights lawyers. It was the dream job, the opportunity he’d barely dared to hope and pray for, and he had got it. Natalie’s parents were away somewhere; it was a hot weekend in June and they’d all taken