Going Up and Going Down (26 page)

It was half
past eleven on Saturday morning and it was late for me to be getting up at that
time. But I had been awake since eight thirty. I’d been downstairs early and
taken a coffee back up to bed with me. On the Friday night I had had a late
night meeting with Simon (at the home of one of his friends who was out of the
country on business). It had been his freebie, my payment to him for the number
of clients he had sent my way over the last year. He was a true gentleman and
someone I trusted. His sexual needs could be quite vulgar, but he had never
failed to excite me and fuck me senseless, and he loved that I did exactly the
same to him. He always like me to tell him ‘fuck me roughly, Simon’; or ‘put
your cock up my cunt’ and ‘let me feel you cum’. He was always nice to me, so I
indulged him. It was his big turn on to hear the crude expletives from me – a
well-educated, well-spoken, fairly posh and attractive…whore.

I had
intentionally stayed upstairs out of the way until after I’d heard Anthony
leave the house. Anthony had been slamming doors, searching the things he
needed to pack for his business trip to Brussels. He hadn’t actually told me
about it. I’d seen the tickets for his flights on the coffee table along with
his passport. I’d checked the dates on the tickets and he would be away for a
full week. I was ecstatic. (I had already been considering telling one of my
clients that he could have his session at my house for a change. But, as he was
another prominent figure in politics, the idea might not be so attractive to him).
As soon as I’d heard Anthony’s car racing off to the end of the street, running
late as always, I showered and went down to the kitchen for my second caffeine
fix of the day. Feeling more relaxed than I had in a long time, and in the
knowledge that he was out of my way for a week, I nibbled on a croissant whilst
the coffee was filtering. Once it was ready I carried a cup through to the
lounge, where I could sit in total peace for once. I couldn’t help but
grin…some me time. I gazed around the room in wonder…all my space…a whole week!
Then…I spotted it…sat on the coffee table. A newspaper…with a quarter of the
front page taken up by his picture…and my grin quickly faded as I snatched it
into my hands.

BRITISH
MULTI-MILLIONAIRE BUSINESSMAN, DAVID BARNARD 43, DIES AT HIS SWISS HOME

“David Barnard aged 43, died on
Thursday morning, a Company Spokesman announced last night. Mr Barnard had been
diagnosed with terminal pancreatic
cancer, some thirteen weeks ago. His daughters, Catherine,
aged 18, and Ruby, aged 15, were at his bedside when he died, being
comforted by the presence of their
mother, Heidi, 42, first wife to Mr Barnard. It is understood that Mr Barnard
had remained single, since being divorced from his second wife, Joanna, 38,
four years ago. His daughters had flown out to Switzerland with their mother
ten days ago, when they were informed by their father that he was in the final
stages of the disease. Mr Barnard, born in 1965, graduated from Kings College, Cambridge with an Honours degree in Civil Engineering……”

The report
droned on, giving details of his academic achievements, his upbringing, and of
course, his successful businessman story, but I couldn’t bring myself to read
any further. I read those first few lines over and over again until the reality
of it started to hit home.

I looked at the
date of the newspaper - it was Friday’s, left on the coffee table by Anthony
yesterday, and I hadn’t noticed it. The story would also have made the National
News, but I rarely watch T.V. Suddenly, it was extremely important to me to
remember what I had been doing on Thursday, and since David’s body had been
laid in a Chapel of Rest somewhere, spent and cold. I had been working at the
hotel on Thursday…and yesterday. With a jolt I remembered Friday nights’ antics,
and me, being shagged by the barrister who had put David in touch with me in
the first place. I was mortified. I had been doing that whilst David had been
gone from this world and me, forever. My body was racked by violent shaking, as
my sobs of guilt, grief, and sadness all came pouring out. I howled the place
down. I felt broken, like somebody had just wrenched out my heart. I loved
David so much, and until reading that newspaper report, I had been totally
convinced that it wasn’t the end for us. I had genuinely thought that I would
definitely be seeing him again in the not too distant future – and it had all
just been snatched away from me - that hope. Hope that was now laid to rest -
along with the man I loved.

When I woke up
in bed in total darkness, I glanced at my alarm clock to see that it was
quarter past nine. I couldn’t even remember climbing the stairs. At some point
during my outpouring of grief, I had obviously gone upstairs, where I had
continued my crying, and, exhaustion taking over, cried myself to sleep. I
hadn’t touched any alcohol but my head felt painful and my eyes were stinging.
I got up to go and wash my face, and switching on my bedside lamp, I noticed
the newspaper on the floor at the side of my bed. A distressing thought occurred
to me – I didn’t even possess one solitary snapshot of him. All I had to look
at to remind me of him was the bloody picture on the front page of a newspaper
that announced his death. But it was better than nothing. I lovingly picked up
the newspaper, as if by doing so, I was being gentle with him. Not wanting him
to suffer any more pain or hurt.

I sat all night
in the lounge, in total silence, my mind running through our few special
memories, time and again. I thought back to every conversation we ever had. I
tried to recall every delicious moment of passion and excitement; of when we
had sex, and more recently, our love-making, and I relived those times in my
mind. The laughter we had shared, our meals together. I was digging deep for
every precious moment. I tried to console myself with those memories – they
were all I had left, but at least they would always be with me. My mind and
body were exhausted and I couldn’t muster enough energy. I gave in when my eyes
had started closing. I woke on the settee sometime around daylight. I can
recall hearing the morning chorus and thinking how sad it made me feel that
morning. That awakening of life, at a time when my sadness for the end of
David’s life was all consuming, caused my sadness to sink to new levels, and it
hurt so much.

I made coffee
and sat around, not knowing what to do. What could I possibly do – I felt so
helpless. Other emotions started to surface. I felt a terrific thirst to glean
more information about David, anything about him that I didn’t already know. I
scoured that newspaper report again and again, greedily clinging to every new
little snippet it revealed about him, no matter how trivial. I felt angry at
David – for cutting me out of his life when he needed me the most. I was livid
with the mother of his daughters – for being at his bedside when he died, when
it should have been me. I was seething at the fucking cancer that had taken him
from me. Most of all I felt furious at the fact that I was probably the last to
hear about his illness and death. The thing that was the most devastating was
that he had
known
- that last weekend we had spent together, he
knew
he
had cancer and didn’t tell me. I got to hear about the cancer, and his death,
from a fucking newspaper. There would be his funeral to come, a private family
gathering, the newspaper had said, and
I
just couldn’t turn up
unannounced as a chief mourner, taking my rightful place as the woman he loved.
That wouldn’t be the done thing. His daughters wouldn’t even know I existed. How
could I do that to them at the height of their own personal grief? I couldn’t
pay my respects.

Throughout the
morning my emotions swiftly changed with every passing minute and I eventually
snapped out of the anger. An idea had crossed my mind. I
could
pay my
respects to David. I would do it in private. Focussing on nothing else but
David, I ran upstairs, had a shower, then searched my wardrobe for a favourite
black dress of his. It was a dress I had worn during one of our private dinner
parties, when we had decided to dress formally. I applied a little make-up
without any mascara, picked up David’s gifts of jewellery and lovingly caressed
each piece before putting them on. Before I dressed, I searched for four
beautiful candles. I didn’t know why, but I knew in my mind that it had to be
four, and I placed them on top of the fireplace, two on each side of David’s
newspaper photo, which I had carefully removed from the rest of the newspaper.
I placed a CD in the player in readiness, his favourite Beethoven music, and once
dressed, I lit the candles and pressed the play button on the CD player. His
music played in the background, the candles burned, and I sat gazing at David’s
picture, my memories in replay, silently crying.

Mid-afternoon,
my mobile phone rang – a client was trying to contact me. I ignored his call
and turned off my phone.

On Monday, the
doubts started kicking in. Questions I had no answers to, but I asked them of
myself time and again.
Had David really loved me? He said he did. But if he
did, surely he would have wanted to spend his last few weeks with me. Why did
he really buy me the jewellery? I can’t have been as special to him as he had
made out. He was very rich and money no object, so did he just buy the
jewellery because he had nobody closer to him than I was at the time? Had he
perhaps bought the jewellery for a previous lover, and the relationship had
broken up before he had chance to give the gifts, so he gave them to me? Had he
perhaps just thought that he loved me, and confused our sexual compatibility
and our rapport for love? Had he really liked my present to him? Or was he just
being polite as it was our last weekend together? Why had he lied to me about
why our relationship couldn’t continue? Did he really end it because of his
cancer? How was that going to protect me from the hurt, when he knew I would be
hurt to hear about his death in the way that I just had been? Was it really
because he couldn’t have a permanent relationship with me; because of how I had
been earning money?  Had he thought that I was a gold-digger? That wasn’t true.
His money was not important to me. I would give all his money back, all my
clients’ money back, give all my parents’ money to charity if it would only bring
David back to me. Why had he asked me to stay that extra night? Was he just
lonely and had needed my company after he had been diagnosed?
These
questions and doubts, contradictions, and let’s not forget,
the hurt
,
just kept coming at me, relentlessly trying to knock me down.

On Thursday,
that same week – the week I was mourning David, the week Anthony was away on
business, I was in the kitchen, when I heard the postman dropping some letters
through the box. I wasn’t in any rush to go and pick them up, assuming it would
be more bills for Anthony, garage bills, (there was always one of his three
cars getting some expensive part or other), subscription reminders, credit card
statements, or even a package in plain brown jiffy-bags (usually his dodgy porn
DVD’s). There was very rarely any personal mail for me.

I carried on
with what I was doing and forgot about the mail until later. I was on my way
through the hall to go upstairs to the bathroom. There were about eight
envelopes in all and I gave them a quick shuffle - one for me and the
remainder, just as I had expected, were all for Anthony. I left his mail on the
bureau that stood in the hallway. Climbing the stairs, I didn’t give much
thought to the white A5 envelope that I was peeling open. I sat on the edge of
the bed and pulled out the contents – a solicitor’s letter and another standard
size envelope, which was addressed to me and marked ‘Private and Confidential,’
– in David’s handwriting! My heart skipped a beat, my hands were shaking and my
head refused to take in what I was seeing. I turned the envelope over in my
hands a few times, barely able to take my eyes off his writing, as if by doing
so, the contents would be magically revealed. I hesitated, not sure whether I
wanted to open it - certain that I wouldn’t want to read the contents. I picked
up the accompanying letter and started to read,

[xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

LONDON

14
^th
November 2008

Client Ref:
BA546/D131108

Mrs H Pawson

xxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Mrs Pawson

RE:  MR DAVID BARNARD DECEASED –
CLIENT REF BA546/D131108

It is with deep regret that I write
to inform you of the death of our client, Mr David Barnard on Thursday 13
^th
November 2008. Due to the inevitable media coverage of Mr Barnard’s death, I
feel sure that you may already be aware of this sad news.

During my last meeting
with my client, some two weeks prior to his death, I received various
instructions, mainly with regard to his estate, but one further instruction I
received, was that after his death, I was to forward to you the enclosed letter
which he had already penned, the night before our meeting. I understand that
you had a very close relationship with my client and I sincerely hope that the
contents of his letter to you can offer some comfort and peace of mind at this
very sad time.

If I can be of any further assistance
to you, please do not hesitate to contact me on the above number, quoting the
client reference.

Please accept my condolences for your
very sad loss.

Yours sincerely

William J Douglas LLB

The waterworks
were in full flow by the time I was halfway through the letter, leaving one or
two telltale splashes on the page. I needed to quickly compose myself, so I
grabbed a handful of tissues off the bedside cabinet. I needed to see clearly
to read David’s one and only letter to me but I also needed a stiff drink to
give me the courage to open that second envelope. I wasn’t sure if I was ready
to read it. I was fearful of what it might contain, things I didn’t want to
hear. Somehow, I found the courage.

My darling Helen,

Where to start? We were both hurting
so much when we said our goodbyes all those weeks ago. By the time you read
this letter my suffering will be over, Babe, but the hurt for you, will
continue for some time to come.

I am so deeply sorry for all the hurt
I caused you by ending our relationship, and for the excuses that I used to do
so. You now know just what I was protecting you from, and I will always be
happy that I made the right decision, I did that for you and you alone.

I watched my father die from cancer
eight years ago and I was with him when he passed away. Helen, I have never
been able to rid myself of that vision of him in his final hours, his body
wasted away, his loss of dignity, his pain and discomfort, and his fear. These
last eight years I have tried hard to focus, picture him when he was happy and
healthy, and I do, for seconds only, then it all just melts away into that
horrible vision, and it haunts me constantly.

What I am going to tell you next will
cause more hurt for you I know, but I hope that, in a strange way, it will also
make you happy. Can you remember the weekend when I gave you the pendant, Babe?
You asked me if I was in love with you and I said that I couldn’t let myself
fall for you because of what you do – and that I bought you the gift ‘for a
very special lady’. I lied to you again, Helen. I have known for some time now
that I love you, special lady. When you left me after that weekend I was
determined that on our next date (do you recall that I said it would be a
couple of months?) I would tell you how much I love you, and if you loved me
also I would ask you if we could try to make some sort of life together. It was
devastating for me when I was given the diagnosis, but the most devastating
thought was not that I have terminal cancer, but that I have been cheated –
cheated for not being able to spend my life with you, Helen. I knew that I had
to see you again very soon, (hence the three weeks) and that I had to take some
more special memories from our last weekend together Those special memories are
with me now, my darling, and they will be with me until I take my last breath,
and beyond.

It seems my letter is a fully signed
confession. I have already confessed to lying to you and there is more to come.
I knew that I would need to know your address, so that this letter would find
you – along with the accompanying letter from my solicitor. I stayed awake all
night waiting for you to go to sleep so that I could go through your handbag to
hopefully find something which would provide me with your details – your credit
card only confirmed your name, but I found your driving licence and took the
address from that. So once again my darling, I apologise for sneaking about and
nosing through your handbag – I know I have invaded your privacy by doing so.

I have enjoyed every precious moment
we have spent together since our very first date. You are intelligent, funny,
caring, and very beautiful, and you have put a sparkle back into my life, a
sparkle that any diamond would be jealous of. Please remember these words and
try to smile about them each time you wear my diamonds, special lady.

I have organised my own funeral and I
will tell you this, Helen – my treasured watch will be coming with me,
reminding me that, ‘two hearts came together.’

Over these last few days I have told
Catherine and Ruby about you!  Not everything. I have told them about your
career…in accountancy! They know that you are very special to me and they know
how much I love you. They always wanted me to find happiness and someone to
love since the day their mother found happiness. It is my dearest wish that
they get to know you and that you get to know them, so that they can see what
it is about you that I love. I think they will be in touch with you when all
the fuss has died down. Please do this small thing for me, Helen – I want them
to know you, it means a lot.

You told me that you would give up
your work for me. I know you don’t have a life with me to look forward to
anymore but would you please consider giving up your work now? I worry for you,
Helen. I want you to be safe and happy. Make this decision only when you are
ready though.

It hurts me a lot, that I can’t see
you for one last time, but it would hurt me much more to see you. The knowledge
that I can’t make love to you again, hold you in my arms and tell you how much
I love you is just an added burden for me to bear.

I know how much you love me, my
darling, and I also know how much you will be hurting when you finish reading
this letter. I sincerely hope the day will come soon, when you can cry no more
tears and that you can be happy - happy that we found love with each other, and
that we shared very special moments together, and happy now that you have the
knowledge. The knowledge that I love you so much and that I really wanted to
share my life with you, had things been so different. You have no reason to
doubt anymore, Helen.

Stay safe, Helen. I hope one day we
will be together again, in a better, kinder world, and where love is infinite.
In the meantime, I truly hope with all my heart, than you do find happiness in
this life with someone else to care for you the way I do – nobody deserves that
more than you!

All my love, special lady

From YOUR David

Xxx

I can’t begin
to describe every emotion that I felt as I read David’s dying words to me. I
had a letter that would be treasured. I knew in my heart that I would read, and
re-read it, many times over. It was so irrational, but suddenly I couldn’t help
being terrified by the thought that my tears might somehow obliterate his words
to me.

The following
few weeks were surreal. Once Anthony had returned from his business trip, I
tried to be out of the house as much as I could. I wandered around the parks,
and shops, not shopping, just walking. I went everywhere - but not seeing
anything. I only returned home at times when I knew Anthony would be out. I
didn’t need any confrontation – I didn’t need any distractions from my thoughts
and memories of David - I needed to grieve. And I did grieve.