The Last Love Note(63)
‘So it’s not my imagination?’ I move around to his side of the desk, which is real estate I’ve rarely set foot on.
He stands up and in effect backs me into the bookcase, because there’s not much room here, and nowhere for either of us to escape without invading one another’s personal space. We’re uncomfortably close. He searches my face, and opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was about to cry. Strong, unflappable Hugh Lancaster. Whatever is wrong is very wrong.
‘You look heartbroken,’ I whisper. Is this about the woman he’s been seeing? Ruby? Cam came home from a drive with Hugh the other day and tried to relate the conversation afterwards. All I got was, ‘Hugh loves Ruby’, over and over.
Recognition flashes through his eyes.
‘What is it? You can trust me.’
‘I do trust you, Kate. I’m . . . mulling over a moral dilemma. A serious one. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific.’
‘You can tell me anything,’ I reassure him.
‘Not this.’ He moves his hands like he’s going to put them on my shoulders, bore his eyes into mine, close up, and beg me to stop pressuring him. ‘Please,’ he says, a catch in his voice. ‘This is hard enough.’
The man is emotionally destroyed. An intensity in his expression tells me I have to accept that he won’t tell me why. And now there’s something else. Somewhere in the furthest reaches of my soul, I can’t help feeling that this is not about Ruby after all. It’s somehow about me. But it’s about me in a way that I don’t think I want to find out. I don’t even want to ask him to confirm or deny my hunch. It would push him too far, and he’s already a mess. And I mean a really very serious mess, over whatever this is.
‘I just want to hug you,’ I hear myself whispering, inches from his face. I mean the kind of hug Cam would wholeheartedly approve of, were he in his right mind, which he is less and less.
For the briefest second I feel like he’s going to give in and let me. We’re suspended in time, in what feels like an intense, sliding doors moment I can’t understand because I don’t have all the information.
‘I trust you to do the right thing,’ I say. I don’t know why, but it feels relevant.
He nods, and it looks like he’s using all his strength to keep himself together.
Three Saturdays later and I’m really worried I’ve done something wrong. The weekend after our conversation in his office, Hugh didn’t take Cam to the rugby as he normally would. Nor did he turn up the weekend after, because he took unexpected leave from work and went away. I don’t know where. But I wasn’t prepared for how bereft I felt without him.
They say you don’t value something until it’s gone, and it’s like that with Hugh. I can’t even articulate where he fits in my world – part boss, part support person, part friend, I guess. At least, I thought that’s what we were, but I think my relationship barometer is faulty. When you’re friends, you don’t just skip town and not say anything. I’m trying desperately not to make this about me, but I feel deserted and hurt and terrified of even more loss.
Opening the door now and seeing him standing here on our doorstep, on a gloomy Saturday afternoon in August, really disconcerts me. He adjusts the collar on his dark coat and pulls the black scarf more tightly around his neck. He needs a haircut. His haircuts are booked a month apart, a year ahead, and I can tell he’s missed one. There’s even the beginnings of a beard – the type a man grows from neglect rather than personal style. He still looks haunted. Whatever the problem is, it hasn’t gone away. It’s grown.
‘I’m sorry I left without saying anything,’ he says in a low, even voice.
I come outside with him and shut the door behind me, even though it’s freezing cold and I’m in jeans and a light shirt because the fire is roaring inside for Cam, who’s always cold these days. Hugh glances at my bare arms and frowns.
‘Where were you?’ I ask, searching his face for answers.
‘I had something I needed to think about,’ he explains. ‘And I couldn’t think about it here.’
Here in Canberra? Or here on my doorstep? I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about but it’s making me feel unmoored.
‘You still can’t tell me, can you?’ I observe. I’m almost hoping he’ll agree, because there’s only so much I can cope with at once. That said, if he needs me, I’m here. This is Hugh. One of my top people. I’d do anything for him. ‘Can I help you with this?’ I ask. ‘I mean it, Hugh. You look desperately upset.’
‘Are we going to stand out here much longer?’ he asks, while I shiver in front of him. ‘I’m starting to feel guilty about wearing a jacket.’
He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, not that I’m really able to get a good look because he won’t meet my gaze for more than a second. If I didn’t know better, I’d read that as guilt. It’s certainly secretive. What could he possibly have to feel guilty about where I’m concerned? It’s about a lot more than having a warm jacket when I don’t.
‘Cam has gone downhill since you were last here,’ I say, warning him before I open the door. ‘It feels wrong even sharing this with you but he’s becoming incontinent. In every way. He doesn’t make it to the toilet because he stands in front of it and can’t see it. And he needs help understanding how to use cutlery. The occupational therapist gave me a plain black placemat with a white outline of the plate and knife and fork to help him navigate.’