Me Before You: a novel

Helleborus niger, Eremurus stenophyllus, Athyrium niponicum. I can
repeat those with a fluency I never had at school.
They say you only really appreciate a garden once you reach a
certain age, and I suppose there is a truth in that. It’s probably
something to do with the great circle of life. There seems to be
something miraculous about seeing the relentless optimism of new
growth after the bleakness of winter, a kind of joy in the difference
every year, the way nature chooses to show off different parts of the
garden to its full advantage. There have been times—the times when
my marriage proved to be somewhat more populated than I had
anticipated—when it has been a refuge, times when it has been a
joy.
There have even been times when it was, frankly, a pain. There
is nothing more disappointing than creating a new border only to see
it fail to flourish, or to watch a row of beautiful alliums destroyed
overnight by some slimy culprit. But even when I complained about
the time, the effort involved in caring for it, the way my joints
protested an afternoon spent weeding, or my fingernails never
looking quite clean, I loved it. I loved the sensual pleasures of being
outside, the smell of it, the feel of the earth under my fingers, the
satisfaction of seeing things living, glowing, captivated by their own
temporary beauty.
After Will’s accident I didn’t garden for a year. It wasn’t just the
time, although the endless hours spent at the hospital, the time spent
to-ing and fro-ing in the car, the meetings—oh God, the meetings—
took up so much of it. I took six months’ compassionate leave from
work and there was still not enough of it.
It was that I could suddenly see no point. I paid a gardener to
come and keep the garden tidy, and I don’t think I gave it anything

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but the most cursory of looks for the best part of a year.
It was only when we brought Will back home, once the annex
was adapted and ready, that I could see a point in making it beautiful
again. I needed to give my son something to look at. I needed to tell
him, silently, that things might change, grow, or fail, but that life did
go on. That we were all part of some great cycle, some pattern that it
was only God’s purpose to understand. I couldn’t say that to him, of
course—Will and I have never been able to say much to each other
—but I wanted to show him. A silent promise, if you like, that there
was a bigger picture, a brighter future.
Steven was poking at the log fire. He maneuvered the remaining
half-burned logs expertly with a poker, sending glowing sparks up
the chimney, then dropped a new log onto the middle. He stood
back, as he always did, watching with quiet satisfaction as the
flames took hold, and dusted his hands on his corduroy trousers. He
turned as I entered the room. I held out a glass.
“Thank you. Is George coming down?”
“Apparently not.”
“What’s she doing?
“Watching television upstairs. She doesn’t want company. I did
ask.”
“She’ll come around. She’s probably jet-lagged.”
“I hope so, Steven. She’s not very happy with us at the moment.”
We stood in silence, watching the fire. Around us the room was
dark and still, the windowpanes rattling gently as they were buffeted
by the wind and rain.
“Filthy night.”
“Yes.”
The dog padded into the room and, with a sigh, flopped down in
front of the fire, gazing up adoringly at us both from her prone
position.
“So what do you think?” he said. “This haircut business.”
“I don’t know. I’d like to think it’s a good sign.”
“This Louisa’s a bit of a character, isn’t she?”

---

I saw the way my husband smiled to himself. Not her too, I found
myself thinking, and then squashed the thought.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose she is.”
“Do you think she’s the right one?”
I took a sip of my drink before answering. Two fingers of gin, a
slice of lemon, and a lot of tonic. “Who knows?” I said. “I don’t think I
have the faintest idea what is right and wrong anymore.”
“He likes her. I’m sure he likes her. We were talking while
watching the news the other night, and he mentioned her twice. He
hasn’t done that before.”
“Yes. Well. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
“Do you have to?”
Steven turned from the fire. I could see him studying me, perhaps
conscious of the new lines around my eyes, the way my mouth
seemed set these days into a thin line of anxiety. He looked at the
little gold cross, now ever present around my neck. I didn’t like it
when he looked at me like that. I could never escape the feeling that
I was being compared to someone else.
“I’m just being realistic.”
“You sound…you sound like you’re already expecting it to
happen.”
“I know my son.”
“Our son.”
“Yes. Our son.” More my son, I found myself thinking. You were