The Sight of You

by Holly Miller

  I felt I owed it to her, somehow. Even after so long, at least to honor the thought of it. Her kindness to me that Christmas, the hope she’d had on my behalf that I sometimes dare to feel myself these days. Despite knowing what’s to come.

  “A bit bonkers,” I tell Steve. “But I feel good. Weirdly enough.”

  “They get you sleeping like a baby?”

  “I’ve never understood that. Babies are famously bad sleepers. Speaking of which, how’s Elliot?”

  Steve and Hayley had their second, a little boy, two months ago.

  “Still a tyrant. Literally a monster in a onesie. I don’t think he’s shut his eyes for more than five minutes since he was born. Love the socks off him, though,” he adds, with a smile. And then, “You’ve not . . . ?”

  “No, of course not.”

  We have an agreement, Steve and I, that if ever I dream about my godchildren again, he’ll be the first to know. Whatever it is, good or bad, you tell me straightaway. I have the same understanding with Tamsin, Warren. Most people, it seems, would want to know.

  I wonder briefly, as I sometimes do, how things would have panned out if Callie had wanted to know the truth. Would we be married with kids now, a family of our own? Might I even have had a chance to change the course of—

  “Right,” Steve says, springing to his feet. “Burpees. Come on.”

  “What? That wasn’t five minutes.”

  “Joel, what am I always telling you? You snooze, you lose.” He says this very emphatically. Makes an L with his thumb and forefinger, brings it up to his forehead.

  Just in case I haven’t got the message from the last ten times he’s done it.

  * * *

  • • •

  They didn’t get me sleeping like a baby at the retreat, actually, despite the acupuncture and reflexology, and the nauseating quantity of essential oils. I’ve been much better on that front recently, but I still get nervous when I’m away from home at night.

  The disquiet gave me a strong urge to get absolutely wasted, but I didn’t want to go there. It reminded me too much of my past, of darker times. Somehow I had to stop myself dashing to the nearest twenty-four-hour supermarket. So I took to roaming the grounds after dark, wrapped up in a thick coat, scarf, and hat.

  On my last night, cravings thankfully all but gone, I bumped into someone doing much the same as me.

  “Sorry! God, sorry.”

  She swore, tugged her headphones down around her neck. “You made me jump.”

  It was past midnight, subzero. She was wearing only a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, the flimsiest of cardigans.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to . . . see anyone.”

  I’d come across her a couple of times before at breakfast (quietly begging for coffee, wondering out loud where the croissants were). Once at meditation. Twice in yoga, where she caught my eye as we were semi-inverted and we both struggled not to laugh.

  “So what are you in for?” I asked.

  She leaned against the brick wall we’d collided at the end of. “A multitude of sins.”

  I smiled. “Sounds serious.”

  “So I’m told.” She checked them off on her fingers. “Not getting my five-a-day. A fairly serious caffeine habit. Reaching my thirties with absolutely zero knowledge of yoga, which I’m led to believe is a crime these days. You?”

  I took her in. Blond hair that skimmed her shoulders, powder-blue eyes. Lips patched indigo by the cold. “Ah, I kind of . . . promised someone I’d come here. So.”

  She smiled, didn’t press me. “I’m Rose, by the way.”

  “Joel.”

  Firm handshake, full eye contact.

  “So, Joel. Are you . . . just getting some fresh air?”

  “Actually, I’ve been fighting the urge to go on a massive bender. You?”

  She laughed again, gestured to her headphones. “Can’t sleep, so . . . affirmations.”

  I smiled, thought back to the early days of trying to free myself from dreaming. Decided not to share with her my repeated lack of success.

  Turned out she didn’t need me to.

  “It’s all slightly odd, though, isn’t it?” she said. “Declaring how much I love myself ad infinitum. It actually has the opposite effect, if I listen to it for long enough.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, it goes against the grain a bit.”

  She brushed the air with her hand. “Ah, they probably won’t make you do it. Compared to most people here, you look the picture of health.”

  I was caught off-guard by the compliment.

  “Just to say—fully aware I look the exact opposite of health right now. Death. I look like death. And not even warmed up because I’ve literally never been this cold.” She raised her eyes to the sky, teeth chattering softly. “Misjudged it.”

  I smiled. “Funny, I was about to ask.” I took off my coat then, put it around her shoulders. “Here. Don’t want to see those mantras going to waste.”

  She stared at me. Let out a little shiver as I pulled the lapels together for her. They drew her hair in with the collar, made a ribbon down her face.

  “Night, Rose. It was really nice meeting you.”

  I walked away from her through the garden, soaked up the stillness of the night. Hoped that some of it might filter in, settle inside my mind.

  83.

  Callie—three years after

  We’ve been in Florida—another of Ricardo’s recommendations—for a fortnight, exploring the wetlands and nature reserves, swimming off white-sand beaches, hanging out with people we’ve met along the way. I’ve lost track of how many conversations Finn’s struck up while we’ve been here, this man for whom charisma is instinct. He still makes actual new friends when he goes on holiday, something I pretty much lost the knack for as soon as I hit puberty.

  After an al fresco dinner at our new favorite Cuban place, Finn suggests a stroll, one last chance to enjoy a sultry evening before journeying back to colder weather tomorrow. So now we’re wandering hand in hand through Miami Beach, in the direction of . . . well, the beach.

  “It’s flown, hasn’t it, Cal?” Finn’s saying.

  For a moment I think he means a bird—force of habit from the last two weeks—then realize he’s talking about the holiday. “Can’t believe it’s work on Monday.” Not that I mind, not really. After a couple of months of looking, a friend of a friend of Finn’s gave us a heads-up on a job going at a nature reserve around thirty minutes from Brighton. I love it there now, almost as much as I did Waterfen.

  A small part of me was relieved to be leaving Eversford and my perpetual fear of running into Joel. I was always so afraid I’d not know what to say—that, if faced with him, I’d feel something I didn’t want to feel. Sometimes I thought if he saw me while I was sitting in his old seat at the café, or when I happened to be wearing a pair of earrings he’d given me, he might think I’d never fully got over him. And then I started wondering if perhaps he would have been right.

  * * *

  • • •

  Finn has as much stuff as I do—more, if possible—so I didn’t feel as self-conscious about my clutter when I was moving in, the way I did with Joel. Not that Joel ever cared about my boxes blocking his doorways, or the things that were strewn around his flat. Still, it mattered to me less, somehow, moving in with Finn. We shoved as many of my belongings as we could into drawers and cupboards before the housewarming Finn had arranged for that first night—even though it wasn’t technically a housewarming. By early evening half of Brighton, it seemed, was crammed into the flat, drinking and smoking and dancing like we’d all become students again. Midway through the party, as Finn enthralled a ten-strong throng of people with the story of how we met, I looked at him and thought, I can’t believe you did all this for me.

  * * *

  • • •

 
The highlight of Florida has been getting to spend quality time with Finn. Though he’s in his quiet period at work—survey season ramps up during spring and summer, his hours becoming long and unsociable—we never seem to stop, in our free time. Finn’s a people-person, and there are people—always—turning up at our flat, or calling us to join them for drinks at a nearby bar. Weekends are fully booked with family gatherings because Finn has two brothers and a sister, and an endless number of cousins. We spend midweek nights with friends, in pubs and restaurants and live-music venues, barely pausing between commitments. But we’ve been that way from the start—racing forward, rarely stopping, the occasional glance to check that the other is still there before forging on.

  I don’t mind—a man with such a full life can hardly be a bad thing—but sometimes I wish it were just us, enjoying each other the way we did during those precious first thirty-six hours in Latvia. Because Finn is a person so worth savoring. He’s generous and hilarious and opinionated and wise, and sometimes I simply don’t feel like sharing him. But I know this to be selfish in a way that Finn rarely is and, anyway, that’s not the way life works.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Cal,” Finn whispers now, as we reach the beach. Instinctively, we bend to take off our flip-flops, let our brown feet sink into the sand. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

  As I turn to look at him, he drops to one knee, removes a box from his pocket. My hand flies to my mouth as, from somewhere nearby, I register a whoop and then cheers from a group of passersby.

  “I have no idea how to do this,” he breathes. “So I just figured the old way’s probably the best. Callie, I love you to the ends of this crazy earth. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes.” I want time to slow down and speed up all at once. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  And there, in front of the high-rises and the palm trees, beneath the stormiest, most spectacular of skies, Finn and I agree to make it forever.

  84.

  Joel—four years after

  I’m at a service station off the M25 of all places when my past catches up with me.

  “Joel?”

  I turn, feel an unexpected rush of pleasure to see Melissa. “Hello.”

  She takes me in for a moment, then introduces me to the Adonis at her side. “Leon, this is Joel.”

  Warily, I offer him a hand, wondering if he might opt to punch me instead of shake it. But he doesn’t. He just greets me with a half smile, which is a whole half more than I probably deserve.

  Melissa laughs. She’s wearing the kind of hot pink lipstick that demands impeccable teeth. “It’s all right. I’ve only ever spoken extremely highly of you, of course.”

  I shoot Leon a look that’s supposed to mean, You can punch me some other time, I promise.

  “Might go and grab some coffees,” he says. “Back in a minute.”

  In the middle of the thoroughfare we face each other. A torrent of travelers rushes noisily past.

  “Are you . . . How’ve you been?”

  “Good.” She smiles. “We’re just off to Heathrow, actually.”

  “Lucky you. Anywhere nice?”

  “Barbados.” She extends her hand so I can see her ring. “Honeymoon.”

  “Wow, that’s . . . Congratulations.”

  Her long hair’s cropped short, and I can see the floral jumpsuit beneath her coat and scarf. Barbados-ready, classic Melissa. It’s good to see her loved-up and luminous in a way she never was with me.

  She looks as though she wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. So, ever the gentleman, I jump in first. “Leon’s all right, is he?”

  “Well,” she says, “he’s nicer than you.”

  “Good. That’s a start.”

  “Just joking. He’s great. Really great.” She looks longingly in the direction of the coffee concession he’s wandered off to. “So where are you heading?”

  “Oh—Cornwall. Not quite as exotic as Barbados.”

  “Holiday’s a holiday.”

  “Er, no—I’m actually moving down there. Fresh start.”

  “Wow. I’d have had you living in that flat until you died. No offense.”

  Her trademark lack of tact almost stirs up a kind of nostalgia in me. “None taken.”

  “What prompted that, then?”

  “Family stuff. Long story.”

  She tilts her head. “So you’re not still with the girl who lived upstairs?”

  The girl who lived upstairs.

  “No. She’s . . . with someone else now. Married, I think.” (Actually, I know. Doug told me—turns out he has an acquaintance in common with Gavin.)

  Melissa nods. And, for possibly the first time in the history of our relationship, fails to make a quip. “Have you got a job down there, then? In Cornwall?”

  “I have, actually.”

  “You’re going back to vetting?”

  “Yep.”

  She nods again, more slowly this time. Meets my eye and holds it. “Well. Congratulations.”

  I feel unexpectedly moved. “Thank you.”

  Some seconds pass, and then she reaches up to hug me good-bye. It’s strange to feel her arms around me again. Like rediscovering a favorite piece of clothing, breathing in a familiar scent. “What are all those batty old ladies going to do without you?”

  I swallow. It’s not been a great year on my street, mortality-wise. “Just the one now, unfortunately.” (Iris hanging in there, tenacious as ever.)

  Melissa pulls back from me. “And you’re not seeing anyone?” Like she doesn’t quite believe I’d have any other reason for moving to Cornwall.

  I sigh. “I’d love to, Melissa, but you’re on your honeymoon.”

  She laughs throatily in a way I’ve kind of missed. “You know, it was a shame you and I could never be friends.”

  “I think we’re friends.”

  She lingers for a moment, and I realize she’s finding it hard to say good-bye. “Well, take care of yourself. Try to meet a nice girl.”

  “I did. It didn’t work out.”

  One last, mischievous wink. “Joel, what can I say? I’m married now.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I’ve rented a place ten minutes from Warren’s in Newquay, with a small garden and a spare bedroom for visitors. I stopped off at a garden center just after crossing Devon, bought a basketful of houseplants for my new living room. And I threw in a window box too. Because even though I’ve moved here for a fresh start, I still can’t live without reminders of Callie.

  By early afternoon I’m more or less straight, so I head round to Warren’s.

  “Tough good-byes?” he asks me.

  “Tamsin was a wreck. She wants to come down next weekend, bring the kids.”

  “Be good to see her,” Warren says. “How are you feeling, about being here?”

  “Nervous. But good-nervous.”

  “That’s the best kind. Haven’t had enough good-nervous in my life.” He smiles. “All set for Monday?”

  “Think so.” I’ve been working part-time with Kieran for just over a year now. I plan to split the next six months between my new practice in Cornwall and refresher courses in Bristol.

  “Not sure if I said it before, but I’m proud of you, mate. You’ve really turned things around.”

  “Cheers.”

  “And for you to be down here, with me . . . well, that means the world. It really does.”

  I nod. “Waves any good?”

  Warren checks his watch. “Right now?”

  “Yep.”

  “They are.”

  “Fancy a quick one?”

  “Always, mate. Always.”

  * * *

  • • •

  That night I dream about Callie.

&n
bsp; I wake just as I’m telling her I love her again.

  My face is wet with tears, my shoulders shaking with sadness.

  85.

  Callie—four years after

  Finn and I got married in the summer, having agreed a long engagement wasn’t really our thing. The sheer number of people wanting to wish us well necessitated a reception far bigger than our budget could cater for, so in the end Finn’s sister, Bethany, who lives on a farm, hosted it for us. She strung bunting between barn beams, scattered wildflowers over haystacks, baked us a cake strewn with edible blooms. There were animals everywhere, the air was warm, and as darkness fell, two hundred people danced and laughed beneath lucid lines of festoon lights, strung between the pantiles.

  Over dinner, Finn’s speech about meeting me in Latvia and everything that had happened in the two years since was like a love letter read out loud. A natural orator, he moved everyone alternately to tears and then laughter with his words—to see the whole barn ripple with emotion like that was something I’ll never forget. Between that, my parents’ jubilation, Esther’s beautiful speech about Grace, and Dot’s drunken snog with the best man, the day was happiness in its purest, most perfect form.

  But still I want time to slow down occasionally. So I can stop to savor the present, instead of always moving on to the next thing. I want to spend more time hand in hand on the beach, or kissing on the sofa, or even just walking companionably through town. That was the way it was with Joel, and I feel sad, sometimes, that I seem never to have that with Finn.

  We’re in Australia for our belated honeymoon—Finn has relatives in Perth, so we’ve spent our last week here with them. Drunk on sunshine, we’ve swum in the sea, lapped up the open spaces and breathtaking beaches. It’s winter at home, and though there’s an enduring appeal to that season I’ll always cherish, I can’t deny that the switch to shorts and flip-flops has been immensely cheering—especially as my last few days at work were spent battling the elements in waders and wellies.