by Joy Richards
One day, as they were walking through Oxford Street (another place she would never, ever have gone with Alex but that was, secretly, fun), he gushed over a couple of small blond children running ahead of their mother, trailing behind laden with shopping bags.
“Ah, they’re lovely,” he said, with a big-kid grin. “I can’t wait to have my own. I reckon, I’ll have loads. How many children do you want?”
Sarah felt as though someone had slapped her in the face with a cold glove. He hadn’t asked her whether she wanted kids, he had asked her how many. Implying she would want some. She knew exactly how to reply, and yet, for some reason, she didn’t. She walked with him silently for a few seconds, thinking.
“I guess I’ve never really thought about that,” she said slowly. And that was true. She had only ever thought about not having them at all. “I guess I would have two, so they can have each other when they grow older.”
There was something about that image, the idea of two grown adults finding comfort in each other because they were raised together and loved by the same people, that made her want to cry. Having never desired kids, she had never stopped to consider what kind of people they would be like if she did.
Steve did not pick up on that. He moved on to talking about something else: clearly, for him that had been an off-the-cuff remark. How funny, how a casual comment from one person could change someone else’s whole life. Sarah was quiet for the rest of the day.
Once they made it back home, she sat on her bed thinking. Maybe, just maybe, she could now see how other people came to start a family. She could imagine a life with Steve that was so clear she could see each step of it, like a ladder to normality. They would keep seeing each other for a few months. Then, he would ask her to move in with him to get away from her sister’s place. Julia had been more than hospitable, but sooner or later things would get awkward. They would live together in the tiny flat by the station; Sarah would commute in every day, and she would find dinner ready on her return.
He would try to make up for the provinciality of it all by cooking fancy dinners: lemon sole with samphire, pork tenderloin with a plum sauce, home-made sushi. Eventually, he would propose somewhere dramatic, on a cliffside, perhaps, or, horrifyingly, on top of the Shard. They would get married somewhere lovely, with a church, and guests, and hats. She would get off birth control a few months later. She could see it all unfold, and for a few minutes she daydreamed about it actually happening. What used to terrify her now filled her with heart-warming familiarity. No shouting matches over the phone, no crying in taxi cabs on the way home from the airport. Just a simple happy life with mere touches of individuality.
If she could think of this life with Steve, she thought, didn’t she owe it to Alex to give it a go with him first? She could be over in New York by dinner time tomorrow, she thought while getting into bed. If she could think of having real-life children with Steve, whom she barely knew, shouldn’t she want to have children with Alex, whom she loved with all her heart? Right as she was starting to fall asleep, she texted him. We need to talk, she wrote rather dramatically. She slept poorly, and once she woke up she regretted it immediately. She knew the text was a mistake. It was too late. Even though it had only been a few short weeks, her and Alex had drifted apart in ways that could never be reconnected. What’s more, Alex deserved someone who was actually excited about starting a family with him. What he did not deserve was her disrupting his new life, saying that maybe, potentially, one day she could see herself having two children. When he called her, she fudged a normal conversation, asking after his friends and new life. It was strange, she knew it, but it was too late to change course.
Perhaps this was not even about children. Every time she thought about having a family with Steve she could actually picture it, in a way that she never could with Alex. Steve would haul his children over his shoulders during rambunctious country walks, while Alex hated the country and had never been known to haul anything over his shoulders other than the occasional sandbag at the gym. Perhaps everyone else was right, it really was about Finding The Right Person all along. Perhaps it was just that as much as she loved Alex, he was not The One For Her. Maybe Steve was, which was why she could imagine being his wife, taking his shirts to be dry-cleaned and ironing his children’s school uniforms. Maybe.
In the meantime, viewings for the flat were stacking up. It was a beautiful place, and people flocked to see it. They gushed over the view, over the open-plan living space and would make disappointed noises realising how small it was. She had taken to actually showing people around, hoping her presence would be less off-putting than that of the real estate agent, who was becoming cartoonishly more and more unpleasant with every visit. It was a cold Saturday morning in February when he called to say he had a couple interested in the place, and to ask whether she could come down that afternoon.
“These are cash buyers,” he said. “And no chain.”
To her eternal shame, she felt a shiver of excitement run down her spine. If they liked the place, this whole nightmare could be over in a few weeks. She could transfer Alex his half of the loot and then be free of his ghost forever. He could start his new life overseas and she could see if there really was such a thing as opposites attracting with Steve. Steve who was, at that moment, giving her a foot massage after she had tortured her feet in too-high boots all of Friday night. She was wearing one of his shirts, oversized, and running her fingers through his rebellious thick hair as he worked his way through the tense muscles on the soles of her feet. She was, in a very simplistic and animalistic way, very very happy. If she sold the flat, she could live here. Get her feet rubbed every day, and never think of Alex and his sad eyes again.
She hurried into London before lunch. She really wanted to make a good impression. She wore a simple calf-length black dress, with black suede boots and a cream-coloured silk scarf. She was wearing her camel overcoat, and had piled on the dark make-up on her eyes. On her way into the flat, she picked up two packets of red apples from the corner shop, and a bottle of orange juice. Once inside, she tumbled the apples in a matte ceramic bowl and strategically placed it on the countertop, with a glass decanter full of orange juice and four glasses. She had read a few blog posts on set design and knew that to entice people into a property you have to encourage them to picture themselves living there. Nothing does that as much as beautifully arranged food.
The couple were in their mid-sixties. They were both exceptionally well dressed and very well groomed. She sported a short dramatic haircut with an asymmetric fringe and an emerald-green scarf that made her eyes pop. He was wearing what was clearly a tailored suit, and a pocket square that matched his tie. They walked around the apartment and Sarah watched them fall in love with it. They reminded her of herself and Alex when they had come for their viewing, all those years earlier.
They were holding hands, and occasionally the man was running his hand across the woman’s shoulders. They were excited about the view from the living room and loved the privacy of the bedroom. They were both enthusiastic about the walk-in shower and the underfloor heating. He made a slightly blue remark about the shower that made her blush and giggle, before she hurriedly told him off. They were rather oblivious to the presence of Sarah and that of the estate agent. Nevertheless, she offered them a glass of orange juice and they all stood around the narrow kitchen island, slowly sipping from their frosted glasses.
“How are you finding moving back to the UK?” the estate agent asked.
“It’s been wonderful.” The woman turned to Sarah. “We have lived in Berlin for the past few years, you see. We’ve come home for good, we think.”
He let out a small chuckle. “I’m sorry.” He playfully tugged on his wife’s coat. “It’s just that we have lived in a few places around the world. Singapore, Tokyo. New York, before that. She always thinks we’re done, and then something else crops up.”
“That’s wonderful.” Sarah really thought it was.
&
nbsp; “Do you have kids, then?” The estate agent kept getting more and more irritating. If this couple didn’t put in an offer, Sarah thought, she might fire him.
The couple shook their heads as they finished up their glasses.
“Not really for us, I’m afraid,” he answered.
His wife gave him a big beaming smile and tousled his hair. They really did not seem to be able to keep their hands off each other.
Sarah froze, as the couple politely said their goodbyes and walked out, trailed by the estate agent in his garish tie and even more garish shirt. She stood there, feeling like a stranger in her own kitchen, still with her coat on, clutching her empty glass of juice. From the window she could see the reflection of the sun setting, the dull winter sky ablaze with pale shades of lemon yellow and light orange. Her eyes filled with tears, which rolled down her cheeks dragging long black marks along. She didn’t sob or make a sound. She didn’t wipe her eyes or try to stop crying. She just let her face become wetter and wetter with huge wobbling tears, as her make-up streaked all the way down to her chin.
She could play pretend with lovely Steve all day long. She knew what life she wanted, and she knew who she wanted to be when she turned sixty. She wanted to be shopping for cool flats in a great city, with a lifetime of adventures and travel behind her. She wanted to be in love, and she wanted to be free.
18
Paul
Resolution
The marquee fluttered gently in the summer breeze. The warm Kent sun was streaming through the kitchen window. Paul watched the clouds running across the sky. Only a couple were left, across the light blue sky.
“Lovely day for it, darling,” his mum said as she came into the kitchen from the garden. She was holding an oversized bunch of daffodils in her hand. “These were behind the marquee. I thought we might as well have them in the house.”
Paul went over and wrapped her in his arms. “Are you all right, Mum?” he asked gently.
“Ah I’m great. Thanks, love.” She smiled widely. “It’s just emotional, you know? My little boy, all grown up.”
He didn’t say anything, just gave her a big squeeze with his long arms. She pulled a tray of little tarts out of the fridge. Asparagus and goat’s cheese, red onion chutney and butternut squash. She’d spent half the night making those. Paul suddenly realised he’d learned to show love through cooking from his mother.
“I think I’ll just pop these under the grill for a few minutes before they start to arrive,” she said, thoughtfully.
“Lucinda!” his dad called from outside. “Lucinda!” He was panicking. Dad always panicked when there was an event.
The marquee was set up right against the house, opening onto the dining room so people could move in and out through the open French doors. His dad was standing on a ladder, holding a tangled snake of white bunting.
“Lucinda,” he said again. “I don’t know how you want this. Do you want it across,” he gestured, “or criss-cross?” He waved his arms expansively.
“Is that from Jim’s wedding?” Paul asked. His brother had gotten married in his parents’ garden five years before, and they still had all the decorations in the garage.
“Yes, Paul,” his mum said distractedly. Then to his dad, on the ladder, “Just like we had it last time. Across the marquee.”
“Aye,” said his dad, “Of course. The harder way. Come and help me, son.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she quipped right back. “Paul doesn’t have time for this! He needs to go get ready!”
“Oh Mum, I do have time. It’s only nine. Holly doesn’t get here until eleven!”
“All right, dear, but do hurry.” She scuttered away. His mother was a world-class party planner, she had things to do. And she loved a good marquee.
Paul climbed on the ladder on the opposite side to his dad’s. He untangled the bunting, each little flag beating in the morning wind.
“How are you feeling, son?” God, he loved his parents. His dad defied every stereotype of the emotionally illiterate male and distant father. He had worked in the city for forty years, and had always made it back to Kent by the end of the day. Sometimes it was after Paul and his brothers had gone to bed, but he always made it back. He always had time to talk, even in the years when he was really busy and it was late at night, at the expense of his own sleep. While he had admittedly not done many loads of laundry or cooked many meals when Paul and his brothers were little, he had always more than pulled his weight emotionally.
“I’m good, Dad. In fact, I’m excited.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? I’m only asking because it’s all rather new.” He seemed embarrassed. “Your mother and I don’t want you to make hasty decisions in the heat of the moment.”
“I know, Dad. But this is right for me right now.”
“I trust you, son. And we love Holly!” He smiled. His dad found it easy to say nice things about people.
“I’m really happy about that. You’ve not had that much time together.” Holly had only visited the house in Kent a handful of times since they’d got together.
“Love.” His mum had crept back out behind him. “We’ve got more out of Holly in seven months than we did out of Alice in the decade you two were seeing each other.” Mum had never liked Alice. She’d never said anything, of course, but she didn’t have to. With Holly, he knew she meant it.
They finished setting up the bunting, and Paul sat there watching it wave in the breeze for a few minutes. His brothers, Jim and George, arrived and they all had a big cooked breakfast. Jim and his wife had come down from Glasgow on a morning flight, they were staying on for a whole week to catch up with English family and friends. Jim went on about his gap-year adventure in the Andes throughout breakfast. His wife affectionately ruffled his hair and joked he would no longer be allowed to just take off for a few months to the other side of the world. She was pregnant, only a few weeks along. Paul was the only other one who knew. “You’ll miss the announcement,” Jim had said, “but we still wanted to tell you in person. Please keep it a secret from Mum though!” Paul had a feeling Jim’s wife didn’t know that he knew. That could be a disaster waiting to happen. Didn’t matter, he would not say a word.
After breakfast, Paul was shipped off to “get ready”. How he was supposed to shower and dress for an hour and a half was unclear. He was in his room, looking over some of his old books, when he caught a glimpse of Holly getting out of her dad’s car from the window. He smiled to himself. She’d promised him a surprise, and there it was. Her hair, a faded teal the last time he’d seen her, was a bright fuchsia colour. It moved loosely in the wind as she tried to keep the full skirt of her dress down. She was laughing, and she looked beautiful. He threw on his shirt and ran downstairs. They collided in the hallway, just as Holly was introducing her dad to his parents.
“Paul!” his mother squealed. “You’re not wearing any trousers! Go put some on, immediately!”
His eyes met with Holly’s. She looked so beautiful today, it was as though the sun was shining just on her face. She was laughing.
“All right, all right,” he mumbled, and ran back up the stairs.
By the time he came back down, dressed in his finery, his parents had installed Holly, her mum and dad at the breakfast table. His brothers were standing around. Everyone held a glass of champagne in their hand. He checked nervously to see how Holly’s parents were doing. “They get twitchy around your kind,” she’d joked. She meant posh people. They seemed perfectly at ease. His parents were, all in all, good eggs. His mum especially could make anyone feel welcome in her home.
“Paul, well done, mate,” said George. “We were about to have a toast. We probably won’t get a chance later.”
He shoved a glass in Paul’s hand. It was chilled to perfection, and filled with bubbles up to the top.
“Right.” His dad got up and raised his glass. “This is for my youngest son, Paul. Today, we are celebrating you setting off on a twelve-m
onth adventure across the world with your wonderful girlfriend, Holly.” He nodded in her direction and she raised her glass. “You leave tomorrow morning from London Gatwick a young man full of talent and you will hopefully return older, wiser and stronger than you were before.” The room erupted in giggles. Holly and her parents clapped, and everyone clinked their glasses.
They still had an hour or so before guests would start to arrive. What had started off as a small gathering had snowballed into quite a medium-sized one. All their friends from London were coming down, and everyone in his large family wanted to come along and wish him bon voyage. They were going to Southeast Asia first. Thailand, then Cambodia. They planned to take the train through Vietnam. Then Indonesia, then Fiji. Then South America, probably. Mexico, perhaps, or maybe Peru. The trip of a lifetime. They had plans to stop for a few weeks in a couple of places, and work remotely doing copy editing to earn some money. The work was boring and not particularly well paid, but it would get them far in not depleting their budget too quickly.
They strolled to the bottom of the garden and sat on the crumbling set of swings his parents were still holding on to in the hope of grandchildren. Boy, were they going to be happy once they heard Jim’s news.
“Are you happy?” Holly asked. The sunlight shone through the first leaves on the trees, throwing angular patterns on the cream skirt of her dress. He recognised it as one of her granny’s, something she would have worn as a much younger woman.
“I am so happy I can barely breathe,” he replied.
They sat on the swings for a while, looking back at the house where preparations were in full swing. Holly’s dad had been roped in to help set up the barbeque. Paul’s mind drifted back, to the last time he’d sat in the garden.
