Me Before You: a novel

Traynor. Oh Lord. I glanced up at the clock. It was a quarter to eight.
“I didn’t…Nathan seemed to…”
“Look, Louisa. It’s really not rocket science. If Will was ill enough
for you to sleep in his room then that is something you should have
contacted me about.”
“Yes.”
I blinked, staring at the ground.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t call. Did you attempt to call Mr.
Traynor?”
Nathan said not to say anything.
“I—”
At that moment the door to the annex opened, and Mr. Traynor
stood there, a newspaper folded under his arm. “You made it back!”
he said to his wife, brushing snowflakes from his shoulders. “I’ve just
fought my way up the road to get a newspaper and some milk.
Roads are absolutely treacherous. I had to go the long way to
Hansford Corner, to avoid the ice patches.”
She looked at him, and I wondered for a moment whether she
was registering the fact that he was wearing the same shirt and
sweater he’d worn the previous day.
“Did you know Will had been ill in the night?”
He looked straight at me. I dropped my gaze to my feet. I wasn’t
sure I had ever felt more uncomfortable.
“Did you try to call me, Louisa? I’m sorry—I didn’t hear a thing. I
suspect that intercom’s on the blink. There have been a few
occasions lately where I’ve missed it. And I wasn’t feeling too good
myself last night. Out like a light.”
I was still wearing Will’s socks. I stared at them, wondering if Mrs.
Traynor was going to judge me for that too.
But she seemed distracted. “It’s been a long journey home. I
think…I’ll leave you to it. But if anything like this happens again, you
call me immediately. Do you understand?”

---

I didn’t want to look at Mr. Traynor. “Yes,” I said, and disappeared
into the kitchen.

---

7
Spring arrived overnight, as if winter, like some unwanted guest, had
abruptly shrugged its way into its coat and vanished, without saying
good-bye. Everything became greener, the roads bathed in watery
sunshine, the air suddenly balmy. There were hints of something
floral and welcoming in the air, birdsong the gentle backdrop to the
day.
I didn’t notice any of it. I had stayed at Patrick’s house the
evening before. It was the first time I had seen him for almost a week
due to his enhanced training schedule, but having spent forty
minutes in the bath with half a pack of bath salts, he was so
exhausted he could barely talk to me. I had begun stroking his back,
in a rare attempt at seduction, and he had murmured that he was
really too tired, his hand flicking as if he were swatting me away. I
was still awake and staring at his ceiling discontentedly four hours
later.
Patrick and I had met while I was doing the only other job I had
ever held, that of trainee at the Cutting Edge, Hailsbury’s only unisex
hairdresser. He walked in while Samantha, the proprietor, was busy,
asking for a number four. I gave him what he described afterward as
not only the worst haircut that he had ever had, but the worst haircut
in the history of mankind. Three months later, realizing that a love of
fiddling with my own hair did not necessarily mean that I was cut out
to do anyone else’s, I left and got the job at the café with Frank.
When we started going out, Patrick had been working in sales
and his favorite things could have been listed as beer, candy bars
from the gas station, talking about sports, and sex (doing, not talking
about), in that order. A good night out for us would probably
comprise all four. He was ordinary-looking rather than handsome,
and his bum was podgier than mine, but I liked it. I liked the solidity
of him, the way he felt when I wrapped myself around him. His dad
was dead and I liked the way he acted toward his mother, protective

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and solicitous. And his four brothers and sisters were like the
Waltons. They actually seemed to like one another. The first time we
went out on a date, a little voice in my head said: This man will never