Me Before You: a novel

And you might not be here in two months, I told him silently, and
immediately hated myself for thinking it.
“Tell me something,” he said as he went to leave the room. “Why
isn’t Running Man offering you his place?”
“Oh, he has,” I said.
He looked at me, as if he were about to pursue the conversation.
And then he seemed to change his mind. “Like I said.” He
shrugged. “The offer’s there.”

---

“You saw my dad in town the other week.”
“Oh. Yes.” I was hanging washing out on a line. The line itself
was hidden in what Mrs. Traynor called the Kitchen Garden. I think
she didn’t want anything as mundane as laundry polluting the view of
her herbaceous borders. My own mother pegged her whites out
almost as a badge of pride. It was like a challenge to her neighbors:
Beat this, ladies! It was all Dad could do to stop her putting a second
revolving clothes dryer out front.
“He asked me if you’d said anything about it.”
“Oh.” I kept my face a studied blank. And then, because he
seemed to be waiting, “Evidently not.”
“Was he with someone?”
I put the last peg back in the peg bag. I rolled it up and placed it
in the empty laundry basket. I turned to him.
“Yes.”
“A woman.”
“Yes.”
“Red-haired?”
“Yes.”
Will thought about this for a minute.
“I’m sorry if you think I should have told you,” I said. “But it…it
didn’t seem like my business.”
“And it’s never an easy conversation to have.”
“No.”
“If it’s any consolation, Clark, it’s not the first time,” he said, and
headed back into the house.
Every day, while he was watching television, or otherwise engaged, I
sat in front of Will’s computer and worked on coming up with the
magic event that might Make Will Happy. But as time went on, I
found that my list of things we couldn’t do, places we couldn’t go to,
had begun to exceed my ideas for those we could by a significant
factor. When the one figure first exceeded the other, I went back onto
the chat room sites, and asked their advice.
“Ha!” said Ritchie. “Welcome to our world, Bee.”

---

From the ensuing conversations I learned that getting drunk in a
wheelchair came with its own hazards, including catheter disasters,
falling down curbs, and being steered to the wrong home by other
drunks. I learned that there was no single place where nonquads
were more or less helpful than anywhere else, but that Paris was
singled out as the least wheelchair-friendly place on earth. This was
disappointing, as some small, optimistic part of me had still hoped
we might make it there.
I began to compile a new list—things you cannot do with a
quadriplegic.
Go on a tube train (most underground stations don’t have lifts), which pretty much
ruled out activities in half of London unless we wanted to pay for taxis. And there was
no way I was going to drive around the capital city.
Go swimming, without help, and unless the temperature was warm enough to
stop involuntary shivering within minutes. Even disabled changing rooms are not
much use without a pool hoist. Not that Will would have allowed himself into a pool
hoist.
Go to the cinema, unless guaranteed a seat at the front, or unless Will’s spasms
were low-grade that day. I had spent at least twenty minutes of Rear Window on my
hands and knees picking up the popcorn that Will’s unexpected knee jerk had sent
flying into the air.
Go on a beach, unless your chair had been adapted with “fat wheels.” Will’s
hadn’t.
Go shopping, unless all the shops had gotten their statutory ramps in place. Many
around the castle used their listed-building status to say they couldn’t fit them. Some
were even telling the truth.
Go anywhere too hot, or too cold (temperature issues).
Go anywhere spontaneously (bags needed to be packed, routes to be double-
checked for accessibility).
Go out to eat, if feeling self-conscious about being fed, or—depending on the
catheter situation—if the restaurant’s bathroom was down a flight of stairs.
Go to friends’ houses, unless they had wheelchair ramps. Most houses have
stairs. Most people do not have ramps. Will said there was nobody he wanted to see
anyway.
Go anywhere hilly in heavy rain (the brakes were not always safe, and the chair
was too heavy for me to hold).
Go anywhere where there were likely to be drunks. Will was a magnet for drunks.
They would crouch down, breathe fumes all over him, and make big, sympathetic
eyes. Sometimes they would, indeed, try to wheel him off.
Go anywhere where there might be crowds. This meant that, as summer
approached, outings around the castle were getting harder, and half the places I
thought we might be able to go—fairs, outdoor theater, concerts—were ruled out.

---

When, struggling for ideas, I asked the online quads what was
the thing they would like to do most in all the world, the answer that
nearly always came back was, “Have sex.” I got quite a lot of
unsolicited detail on that one.
But essentially it was not a huge help. There were eight weeks to
go, and I had run out of ideas.
A couple of days after our discussion under the clothesline, I
returned home to find Dad standing in the hallway. This would have
been unusual in itself (the last few weeks he seemed to have
retreated to the sofa in the daytime, supposedly to keep Granddad
company), but he was wearing an ironed shirt, had shaved, and the
hallway was filled with the scent of Old Spice. I am pretty sure he’d
had that bottle of aftershave since 1974.
“There you are.”
I closed the door behind me. “Here I am.”
I was feeling tired and anxious. I had spent the whole bus journey
home talking on my mobile phone to a travel agent about places to
take Will, but we were both stumped.
“Are you okay getting your own tea tonight?”
“Sure. I can join Patrick at the pub later. Why?” I hung up my coat
on a free peg. The rack was so much emptier with all of Treena’s
and Thomas’s coats gone.
“I am taking your mother out for dinner.”
I did a quick mental calculation. “Did I miss her birthday?”
“Nope. We’re celebrating.” He lowered his voice, as if it were
some kind of secret. “I got a job.”
“You didn’t!” And now I could see it; his whole body had
lightened. He was standing straighter again, his face wreathed in
smiles. He looked years younger.
“Dad, that’s fantastic.”
“I know. Your mother’s over the moon. And, you know, she’s had
a tough few months what with Treena going and Granddad and all.
So I want to take her out tonight, treat her a bit.”
“So what’s the job?”

---

“I’m going to be head of maintenance. Up at the castle.”
I blinked. “But that’s—”
“Mr. Traynor. That’s right. He rang me and said he was looking for
someone, and your man, Will there, had told him that I was
available. I went this afternoon and showed him what I could do, and
I’m on a month’s trial. Beginning Saturday.”
“You’re going to work for Will’s dad?”
“Well, he said they have to do a month’s trial, to go through the
proper procedures and all, but he said he couldn’t think of any
reason why I shouldn’t get it.”
“That—that’s great,” I said. I felt weirdly unbalanced by the news.
“I didn’t even know there was a job open.”
“Nor me. It’s great, though. He’s a man who understands quality,
Lou. I talked to him about green oak, and he showed me some of the
work done by the previous man. You wouldn’t believe it. Shocking.
He said he was very impressed by my work.”
He was animated, more so than I had seen him for months.
Mum had appeared beside him. She was wearing lipstick, and
her good pair of heels. “There’s a van. He gets his own van. And the
pay is good, Lou. It’s more than your dad was getting at the furniture
factory.”
She was looking up at him as though he were some kind of all-
conquering hero. Her face, when she turned to me, told me I should
do the same. It could contain a million messages, my mother’s face,
and this one told me Dad should be allowed his moment.
“That’s great, Dad. Really.” I stepped forward and gave him a
hug.
“Well, it’s really Will you should thank. What a smashing bloke.
I’m just bloody grateful that he thought of me.”
I listened to them leave the house, the sound of Mum fussing in the
hall mirror, Dad’s repeated reassurances that she looked lovely, that
she was just fine as she was. I heard him patting his pockets for
keys, wallet, loose change, followed by a brief burst of laughter. The
door slammed. I heard the hum of the car pulling away, and then

---

there was just the distant sound of the television in Granddad’s
room. I sat on the stairs. And then I pulled out my phone and rang
Will’s number.
It took him a while to answer. I pictured him heading to the
hands-free device, depressing the button with his thumb.
“Hello?”
“Is this your doing?”
There was a brief pause. “Is that you, Clark?”
“Did you get my dad a job?”
He sounded a little breathless. I wondered, absently, whether he
was sitting up okay.
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am pleased. It’s just…I don’t know. I feel weird.”
“You shouldn’t. Your dad needed a job. Mine needed a skilled
maintenance man.”
“Really?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism from my voice.
“What?”
“This has nothing to do with what you asked me the other day?
About him and the other woman?”
There was a long pause. I could see him there, in his living room,
looking out through the French windows.
His voice, when it came, was careful. “You think I’d blackmail my
father into giving yours a job?”
Put like that, it did sound far-fetched.
“Sorry. I don’t know. It’s just weird. The timing. It’s all a bit
convenient.”
“Then be pleased, Clark. It’s good news. Your dad will be great.
And it means…” He hesitated.
“It means what?”
“That one day you can go off and spread your wings without
worrying about how your parents are going to be able to support
themselves.”
It was as if he had punched me. I felt the air disappear from my
lungs.
“Lou?”

---

“Yes?”
“You’re awfully quiet.”
“I’m…” I swallowed. “Sorry. Distracted by something. Granddad’s
calling me. But yes. Thanks for—for putting a word in for him.” I had
to get off the phone. Because out of nowhere a huge lump had
lodged itself somewhere in my throat and I wasn’t sure I could say
anything else.
I walked to the pub. The air was thick with the smell of blossoms,
and people smiled as they passed me on the street. I couldn’t raise a
single greeting in return. I just knew I couldn’t stay in that house,
alone with my thoughts. I found the Triathlon Terrors all in the beer
garden, their two tables pushed together in a dappled corner, arms
and legs spilling off the ends in sinewy pink angles. I got a few polite
nods (none from the women) and Patrick stood, creating a small
space for me beside him. I realized I really wished Treena was
around.
“I wasn’t expecting you. Do you want a drink?”
“In a minute.” I just wanted to sit there, to let my head rest against
Patrick. I wanted to feel like I used to feel—normal, untroubled. I
wanted not to think about death.
“I broke my best time today. Fifteen miles in just 79.2 minutes.”
“Great.”
“Cooking with gas now, eh, Pat?” someone said.
Patrick bunched both his fists and made a revving noise with his
mouth.
“That’s great. Really.” I tried to look pleased for him.
I had a drink, and then another. I listened to their talk of mileage,
of the skinned knees and hypothermic swimming bouts. I tuned out,
and watched the other people in the pub, wondering about their
lives. Each of them would have huge events in their own families—
babies loved and lost, dark secrets, great joys and tragedies. If they
could put it into perspective, if they could just enjoy a sunny evening
in a pub garden, then surely I should too.

---

And then I told Patrick about Dad’s job. His face looked a little
like I imagine mine had. I had to repeat it, just so he could be sure he
had heard me right.
“That’s…very cozy. You both working for him.”
I wanted to tell him then, I really did. I wanted to explain that so
much of everything was tied up in my battle to keep Will alive. I
wanted to tell him how afraid I was that Will seemed to be trying to
buy me my freedom. But I knew I could say nothing. I might as well
get the rest of it over while I could.
“Um…that’s not the only thing. He says I can stay there when I
want, in the spare room. To get past the whole bed problem at
home.”
Patrick looked at me. “You’re going to live at his house?”
“I might. It’s a nice offer, Pat. You know what it’s been like at
home. And you’re never here. I like coming to your house, but…well,
if I’m honest, it doesn’t feel like home.”
He was still staring at me. “Then make it home.”
“What?”
“Move in. Make it home. Put your stuff up. Bring your clothes. It’s
about time we moved in together.”
It was only afterward, when I thought about it, that I realized he
had actually looked really unhappy as he said this. Not like a man
who had finally worked out he could not live without his girlfriend
close by him, and wanted to make a joyous union of our two lives.
He looked like someone who felt outmaneuvered.
“You really want me to move in?”
“Yes. Sure.” He rubbed at his ear. “I mean, I’m not saying let’s get
married or anything. But it does make sense, right?”
“You old romantic.”
“I mean it, Lou. It’s time. It’s probably been time for ages, but I
guess I’ve just been wrapped up in one thing and another. Move in.
It’ll be good.” He hugged me. “It will be really good.”
Around us the Triathlon Terrors had diplomatically resumed their
chatter. A small cheer went up as a group of Japanese tourists got
the photograph they had wanted. Birds sang, the sun dipped, the

---

world turned. I wanted to be part of it, not stuck in a silent room,
worrying about a man in a wheelchair.
“Yes,” I said. “It will be good.”

---

17
The worst thing about working as a caregiver is not what you might
think. It’s not the lifting and cleaning, the medicines and wipes, and
the distant but somehow always perceptible smell of disinfectant. It’s
not even the fact that most people assume you’re only doing it
because you really aren’t smart enough to do anything else. It’s the
fact that when you spend all day in proximity to someone, there is no
escape from their moods. Or your own.
Will had been distant with me all morning, since I had first told
him my plans. It was nothing an outsider could have put their finger
on, but there were fewer jokes, perhaps less casual conversation.
He asked me nothing about the contents of the day’s newspapers.
“That’s…what you want to do?” His eyes had flickered, but his
face betrayed nothing.
I shrugged. Then I nodded more emphatically. I felt there was
something childishly noncommittal about my response. “It’s about
time, really,” I said. “I mean, I am twenty-seven.”
He studied my face. Something tightened in his jaw.
I felt suddenly, unbearably tired. I felt this peculiar urge to say I
was sorry, and I wasn’t sure what for.
He gave a little nod, raised a smile. “Glad you’ve got it all sorted
out,” he said, and wheeled himself into the kitchen.
I was starting to feel really cross with him. I had never felt as
judged by anyone as I felt judged by Will now. It was as if my
deciding to settle down with my boyfriend had made me less
interesting to him. Like I could no longer be his pet project. I couldn’t
say any of this to him, of course, but I was just as cool with him as
he was with me.
It was, frankly, exhausting.
In the afternoon, there was a knock at the back door. I hurried
down the corridor, my hands still wet from washing up, and opened it
to find a man standing there in a dark suit, a briefcase in hand.

---

“Oh no. We’re Buddhist,” I said firmly, closing the door as the
man began to protest.
Two weeks previously a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses had kept
Will captive at the back door for almost fifteen minutes, while he
struggled to reverse his chair over the dislodged doormat. When I
finally shut the door, they had called out that “he more than anyone”
should understand what it was to look forward to the afterlife.
“Um…I’m here to see Mr. Traynor?” the man said, and I opened
the door cautiously. In all my time at Granta House nobody had ever
come to see Will via the back door.
“Let him in,” Will said, appearing behind me. “I asked him to
come.” When I still stood there, he added, “It’s okay, Clark…he’s a
friend.”
The man stepped over the threshold, held out his hand, and
shook mine. “Michael Lawler,” he said.
He was about to say something else, but Will moved his chair
between us, effectively cutting off any further conversation.
“We’ll be in the living room. Could you make some coffee, then
leave us for a while?”
“Um…okay.”
Mr. Lawler smiled at me, a little awkwardly, and followed Will into
the living room. When I walked in with a tray of coffee some minutes
later, they were discussing cricket. The conversation about legs and
runs continued until I had no further reason to lurk.
Brushing invisible dust from my skirt, I straightened up and said,
“Well. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thanks, Louisa.”
“You sure you don’t want anything else? A snack?”
“Thank you, Louisa.”
Will never called me Louisa. And he had never banished me from
anything before.
Mr. Lawler stayed almost an hour. I did my chores, then hung
around in the kitchen, wondering if I was brave enough to
eavesdrop. I wasn’t. I sat, ate two Bourbon creams, chewed my
nails, listened to the low hum of their voices, and wondered for the

---

fifteenth time why Will had asked this man not to use the front
entrance.
He didn’t look like a doctor, or a consultant. He could have been
a financial adviser, but he somehow didn’t have the right air about
him. He certainly didn’t look like a physiotherapist, occupational
therapist, or dietitian—or one of the legions of other people
employed by the local authority to pop by and assess Will’s ever-
changing needs. You could spot those a mile off. They always looked
exhausted, but were briskly, determinedly cheerful. They wore
woolens in muted colors, with sensible shoes, and drove dusty
estate cars full of folders and boxes of equipment. Mr. Lawler had a
navy blue BMW. His gleaming 5-series was not a local authority sort
of a car.
Finally, Mr. Lawler emerged. He closed his briefcase, and his
jacket hung over his arm. He no longer looked awkward.
I was in the hallway within seconds.
“Ah. Would you mind pointing me toward the bathroom?”
I did so, mutely, and stood there, fidgeting, until he emerged.
“Right. So that’s all for now.”
“Thank you, Michael.” Will didn’t look at me. “I’ll wait to hear from
you.”
“I should be in touch later this week,” Mr. Lawler said.
“E-mail would be preferable to a letter—at least for now.”
“Yes. Of course.”
I opened the back door to see him out. Then, as Will disappeared
back into the living room, I followed Lawler into the courtyard and
said lightly, “So—do you have far to go?”
His clothes were beautifully cut; they carried the sharp edge of
the city in their tailoring, serious money in their thread count.
“London, unfortunately. Still, hope the traffic won’t be too bad at
this time of the afternoon.”
The sun was high in the sky and I had to squint to see him. “So…
um…where in London are you based?”
“Regent Street.”
“The Regent Street? Nice.”

---

“Yes. Not a bad place to be. Right. Thank you for the coffee,
Miss…”
“Clark. Louisa Clark.”
He stopped then and looked at me for a moment, and I wondered
whether he had sussed my inadequate attempts to work out who he
might be.
“Ah. Miss Clark,” he said, his professional smile swiftly reinstated.
“Thank you, anyway.”
He put his briefcase carefully on the backseat, climbed into his
car, and was gone.
That night, I stopped off at the library on my way home to
Patrick’s. I could have used his computer, but I still felt obliged to
ask, and this just seemed easier. I sat down, and typed “Michael
Lawler” and “Regent Street, London” into the search engine.