Me Before You

‘Not really,’ Will said. ‘I’m not a cook. But I love good food. It’s why I have been looking forward to tonight.’

‘So … ’ Dad opened the fridge. ‘How do we do this? Do you have a special beer … cup, Will?’

If it was Dad, I told Will, he would have had an adapted beer cup before he had a wheelchair.

‘Got to get your priorities right,’ Dad said. I rummaged in Will’s bag until I found his beaker.

‘Beer will be fine. Thank you.’

He took a sip and I stood in the kitchen, suddenly conscious of our tiny, shabby house with its 1980s wallpaper and dented kitchen cupboards. Will’s home was elegantly furnished, its things sparse and beautiful. Our house looked as if 90 per cent of its contents came from the local pound shop. Thomas’s dog-eared paintings covered every spare surface of wall. But if he had noticed, Will said nothing. He and Dad had quickly found a shared point of reference, which turned out to be my general uselessness. I didn’t mind. It kept them both happy.

‘Did you know, she once drove backwards into a bollard and swore it was the bollard’s fault … ’

‘You want to see her lowering my ramp. It’s like Ski Sunday coming out of that car sometimes … ’

Dad burst out laughing.

I left them to it. Mum followed me out, fretting. She put a tray of glasses on to the dining table, then glanced up at the clock. ‘Where’s Patrick?’

‘He was coming straight from training,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he’s been held up.’

‘He couldn’t put it off just for your birthday? This chicken is going to be spoilt if he’s much longer.’

‘Mum, it will be fine.’

I waited until she had put the tray down, and then I slid my arms around her and gave her a hug. She was rigid with anxiety. I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for her. It couldn’t be easy being my mother.

‘Really. It will be fine.’

She let go of me, kissed the top of my head, and brushed her hands down her apron. ‘I wish your sister was here. It seems wrong to have a celebration without her.’

Not to me it didn’t. Just for once, I was quite enjoying being the focus of attention. It might sound childish, but it was true. I loved having Will and Dad laughing about me. I loved the fact that every element of supper – from roast chicken to chocolate mousse – was my favourite. I liked the fact that I could be who I wanted to be without my sister’s voice reminding me of who I had been.

The doorbell rang, and Mum flapped her hands. ‘There he is. Lou, why don’t you start serving?’

Patrick was still flushed from his exertions at the track. ‘Happy birthday, babe,’ he said, stooping to kiss me. He smelt of aftershave and deodorant and warm, recently showered skin.

‘Best go straight through.’ I nodded towards the living room. ‘Mum’s having a timing meltdown.’

‘Oh.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘Sorry. Must have lost track of time.’

‘Not your time, though, eh?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

Dad had moved the big gateleg table into the living room. He had also, on my instruction, moved one of the sofas to the other wall so that Will would be able to enter the room unobstructed. He manoeuvred his wheelchair to the placing I pointed to, and then elevated himself a little so that he would be the same height as everyone else. I sat on his left, and Patrick sat opposite. He and Will and Granddad nodded their hellos. I had already warned Patrick not to try to shake his hand. Even as I sat down I could feel Will studying Patrick, and I wondered, briefly, whether he would be as charming to my boyfriend as he had been to my parents.

Will inclined his head towards me. ‘If you look in the back of the chair, there’s a little something for the dinner.’

I leant back and reached my hand downwards into his bag. I pulled it up again, retrieving a bottle of Laurent-Perrier champagne.

‘You should always have champagne on your birthday,’ he said.

‘Oh, look at that,’ Mum said, bringing in the plates. ‘How lovely! But we have no champagne glasses.’

‘These will be fine,’ Will said.

‘I’ll open it.’ Patrick reached for it, unwound the wire, and placed his thumbs under the cork. He kept glancing over at Will, as if he were not what he had expected at all.

‘If you do that,’ Will observed, ‘it’s going to go everywhere.’ He lifted his arm an inch or so, gesturing vaguely. ‘I find that holding the cork and turning the bottle tends to be a safer bet.’

‘There’s a man who knows his champagne,’ Dad said. ‘There you go, Patrick. Turning the bottle, you say? Well, who knew?’

‘I knew,’ Patrick said. ‘That’s how I was going to do it.’

The champagne was safely popped and poured, and my birthday was toasted.

Granddad called out something that may well have been, ‘Hear, hear.’

I stood up and bowed. I was wearing a 1960s yellow A-line minidress I had got from the charity shop. The woman had thought it might be Biba, although someone had cut the label out.