Olivia’s mind suddenly sprung into gear. She still had a lot to think about and process, but if Simon needed her help, any help, then she was ready to give it. More than ready.
“Shall I come with you now?”
Bella nodded as she wiped a tear from her cheek. “Yes, please. He’s doing a bit better than he was…like I said, he’s showered and he ate a bit of the soup I gave him. He’s not as bad as he was, you know, before.”
Olivia nodded, even though she didn’t really understand about before. She’d never struggled with this kind of depression herself, and already she felt out of her depth. She didn’t know what to do, but she still wanted to try.
“I hope he’ll want to talk to you,” Bella said. “But if he doesn’t…”
“If he doesn’t want me there, I’ll go,” Olivia reassured her. “I won’t be offended. I understand…he’s not quite himself.”
“Except he would tell you this is himself.” Bella sighed. “At least, he would say that in the moment. It’s so hard on him, Olivia. He hates that he struggles with this. It feels like weakness to him, but it really isn’t.”
“I know.” She knew that much, at least, about mental health issues, but not much more. And yet…things were starting to click into place.
She remembered now what Simon had said about good days and bad days. About the value of medication and diagnosis. She recalled how Bella had hugged Simon after the Advent concert, and realised how significant it must have been for Simon to have been playing again, living again. And she thought of the days, early in their acquaintance, when he hadn’t come in for a cupcake, when he’d made what seemed like an excuse. Good and bad days. Perhaps she should have seen it, guessed it, considering the trauma he’d experienced with his brother’s death, the sensitivity he clearly showed to other people and to life itself. But she hadn’t. She’d been so concerned about her own feelings, caught up in her own fears.
“Shall we go?” she asked, and Bella nodded.
They drove to a modest semi-detached house on the other side of Wychwood, the part Harriet had jokingly called “the rougher side” even though there was nothing rough whatsoever about the houses there, most of which cost close to half a million pounds.
Olivia thought about making small talk, but she couldn’t think of anything to say, and Bella seemed too tense and unhappy to talk.
“I hope I’m doing the right thing,” she said as they got out of the car. “It’s not my secret to share, I know that.” She looked so worried and miserable that Olivia wanted to hug her.
“I care about Simon a lot,” she said quietly. “And I mean a lot. I’m glad to know what’s going on. In some ways, it’s a relief.” Just as her mother’s diagnosis had been. Knowing was always better than not knowing…and fearing what you didn’t know.
“A relief?” Bella looked confused.
“When you knocked on the door, I was eating my body weight in ice cream because I was sure Simon had gone off me.”
“I don’t think he has,” Bella said with a small smile. “In fact, I’m sure he hasn’t. He’s told me about you…about what he feels for you…”
“Good.” Olivia smiled back, her heart feeling impossibly lighter despite all the challenges still ahead. “That’s all that matters, then.”
“I’m glad you think that,” Bella said seriously, her smile fading. “And I hope you continue to do so.”
A few minutes later Olivia was standing in front of a closed bedroom door, tapping on it gently. “Simon…?” she called. “It’s Olivia.” There was no answer. “Simon…” Uncertainly she pushed the door open, blinking in the gloom. She could make out a shape on the bed—Simon, sitting back against the pillows, his arms folded, his gaze distant, a cup of tea going cold on the table next to him. He didn’t speak.
Olivia stepped into the room, praying she was strong enough for this. She hadn’t known how to handle her mum’s memory lapses, and she wasn’t sure how to handle this situation, either, but she knew she loved her mum and she was falling in love with Simon and surely, surely that was what mattered?
“Simon.” She perched on the edge of the bed, gazing at him in tender concern. He was freshly showered and dressed in a frayed jumper and old cords, looking so wonderfully familiar and yet also so strange, for there was a vacant and desolate look in his usually glinting eyes that made her ache. “Oh, Simon.” She covered his hand with her own, having no idea what to say but simply wanting to be there for him.
“I’m sorry.” He spoke the two words so quietly she almost didn’t hear them.
“You don’t need to be sorry, Simon. Of course you don’t.”
“I…I never wanted you to see me like this.”
Tears pricked Olivia’s eyes. “Good and bad days,” she reminded him softly. “Just like you said.”
“Yes, but…I like me on the good days.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Not like this. Never like this.”
“You were going to have to tell me sometime,” she said quietly. “Weren’t you?”
“I suppose. I hoped…I hoped I wouldn’t have to. It doesn’t…it doesn’t always hit me like this, you know. I can go months…even more…without feeling this way.”
“What happened?” Olivia asked, unsure if that was the right question. “I mean, did something happen? To…set you off?” She was fumbling in the dark; she’d never dealt with depression before, not like this, and she was afraid to use the wrong words, ask the wrong questions.
“No,” Simon said on a sigh. “Nothing did. At least, not that I know of. Sometimes it can be something on a subconscious level: a smell, a sudden memory, anything. And sometimes it’s nothing at all. I
