Serial Part 4: From Darla, With Love by Suzanne Ahern

Robyn July 2017, London

For the first time in a long time, the earlymorning air was cool and refreshing. Robyn rolled over in bed, and pulled herself up against the pillows. Tomorrow would be the start of the last week at school before the long summer holidays began. It was a little pathetic, but she was anxious about going back in, even if it was only for five days. She’d been away for a fortnight, hardly long in the big scheme of things, but she felt strangely disengaged from the person she’d been before; as though the teacher she’d been then was nothing like the one she’d be now; as though she – the real Robyn Merrow – had suddenly and painfully revealed herself to the world. It was hard to explain but Robyn just wasn’t Robyn any more. She wasn’t just a Londoner now, she’d become a muddle of Welsh and Italian too. It was as though the pain and problems of the past had come crashing down through the generations to rest upon her unsuspecting shoulders. She’d had no choice in the matter and there was no defence against the shockwaves rippling out from her relatives. Their emotions were now hers. Her life before, with the benefit of hindsight, had been blissfully uncomplicated. But that life was gone. There could be no return to the days before Porthcawl and Darla Lombardi. No return to the Robyn she had been.

The bed beside her was empty but Simon was still in the flat, she could hear him in the kitchen, china clinking, the toaster popping up. Pulling on a long grey T-shirt, she climbed out of bed and walked towards the noises. He stood, barechested and clean from a shower, peering into the fridge, his hair spiky with water and his chin still stubbly. He’d clearly already had his morning run. Without telling her. Without her even waking. A twinge of sadness caught her by surprise. It was ironic that so much had changed in her life during the last two weeks, yet here, with Simon, nothing had shifted at all – they were still dancing around one another, still drifting apart.

And there were still moments, plenty of them, when she loved him desperately and couldn’t imagine a life without him.

But the problem was, she couldn’t be sure he felt the same. Not any more.

‘What’ve you lost?’ she asked. He looked up, surprised to see her. ‘Nothing, just miles away.’ He pulled out the butter and let the fridge door swing shut. ‘I was bringing you tea and toast.’ ‘In bed?’ she asked.

Simon pulled a face. ‘Yeah. I thought you might be tired. But now you’re up, I guess not.’

She walked over to him, slipping her arms around his waist and placing the side of her face against his chest. His skin was warm and smelled of shower gel. She inhaled deeply. This was where she always wanted to be, wasn’t it? Right here. Safe in his arms. Well, with hers around him, at least. She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Let’s take it back to bed anyway, shall we?’

He made another face, and pulled away from her. ‘I can’t get back into bed now,’ he said, his back turned to her as he undid the butter and began scraping it across the toast.

‘I’m up and showered.’

‘Right,’ Robyn said. She stepped away too. ‘I’ll just take my toast and go then, shall I?’

When he turned around, her stomach knotted. His eyes were filled with tears. He passed the plate to her. ‘What happened to us, Robyn?’ he asked. ‘When did we lose our way?’

They were the very words she should have spoken weeks ago. Or maybe, it was months. They were short and neat, and cut straight to the chase. And she didn’t have a clue how to reply. She swallowed hard and tried to meet his gaze.

‘Why don’t we laugh any more?’ he asked, his eyes searching hers. ‘Why have you bailed out of “us”?’

Robyn opened her mouth to speak but there were no words. It was true, they hadn’t laughed for months, not properly. But

‘What happened to us, Robyn?

When did we lose our way’

the bailing out bit, that wasn’t right. She wasn’t her mother; backing off when a relationship got too serious She wasn’t Carys. She wasn’t Gwen. And she wasn’t Darla. She wasn’t. If anyone had consciously done the bailing, it had been him.

‘I don’t know what you want from me any more,’ Simon continued, wiping his face.

‘But I guess as you’re going back to Wales for the summer, we’ll soon find out.’

He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Her mind looped from Darla to Gwen to Carys, and then back again. Again and again, each one in their own way, pushing away those closest. Rejecting affection. Selfishly. Painfully. And why? Because they were terrified of being destroyed by it? Or because they were incapable of loving back? So, where did that leave her? Was she, after everything was said and done, simply her mother’s daughter,