My gaze flits around the field. Would it be rude if I excused myself to go and grab a toasted marshmallow, mid-conversation?
‘There isn’t much to tell. I didn’t grow up around a fairy-tale castle, though I suppose I always wished for it. I had a fantasy of being rescued by the handsome prince and being carried away to his fairy-tale kingdom.’ I sigh theatrically in a bid to mask my discomfort. ‘And I’m still waiting.’
‘I’m afraid old Wallace is the closest we’ve got to a prince around here,’ Tom says. ‘And I don’t think he’d be able to carry you far – he’s a bit rusty.’
I give a dismissive wave of my hand. ‘Who needs a prince anyway? I soon learned you can’t rely on some fantasy hero to pick you up and whisk you away to your happily ever after. You’ve got to carve your own path in life. That’s why, at the age of seven, I tossed my fairy tales book on the bonfire and started believing in reality.’
Tom folds his arms across his chest and shifts so he can observe me. I squirm under his scrutiny but try not to let my discomfort show. ‘You stopped believing in fairy tales when you were seven?’
‘Yes.’ I can still remember that feeling of freedom as the book sailed through the air and landed on the flames, the way it quickly started to char as though it had even less substance to it than I’d assumed. I’d been dragged away from the bonfire – it had started to engulf the fencing between our garden and the neighbour’s by then, so somebody must have rescued the book as I was ushered inside. It wasn’t Mum; she was dancing next to the flaming fence.
She’d kept hold of the book, though, for all these years. Kept it hidden away for Aunt Dorothy to discover while she was clearing out Mum’s house after the funeral. It was like a bad penny, that book, turning up when I least expected it to.
‘What made you stop believing so young?’
I draw my knees up to my chest (not an easy task while being swallowed by a deckchair) and hug the blanket closer to my body. ‘I guess I realised happily ever afters don’t happen. Not in real life, anyway.’
Tom sits up in his deckchair, leaning towards me. ‘You realised that at seven though?’ He shakes his head. ‘It took me thirty-two years to come to reach that conclusion. Why so young?’
I shrug, though I know exactly why. Seeing the string of failed relationships my mum had, seeing her devastated time after time, put a negative spin on falling in love even when I was a little girl. Tom remains in his leaning-forward position, waiting for me to elaborate. Maybe it’s the smoke billowing from the bonfire scrambling my brain, or the effect of all that sugar in my hot chocolate, or maybe there’s just something overwhelmingly trustworthy about Tom, but I roll my eyes and allow the sorry tale of Emily Atkinson to tumble out.
‘My dad left a couple of months after my sixth birthday. I didn’t know it at the time, but he’d found someone else and decided to play happy families with her instead. All I knew was that one morning he left for work and never came home again, though I suppose he did because all his stuff was missing from the wardrobe when I got home from school. I checked, when Mum said he’d left and wasn’t coming home again. I checked every day for two weeks, but I never really wished for him to come back – I suppose even then I knew he couldn’t fix Mum.’
‘Fix her?’ Tom’s voice is gentle, almost not there at all.
‘She had… issues. With drugs at first, and then men too, after Dad left. She couldn’t always keep either of them under control. She used them both as a prop, to give her confidence and self-worth. All her relationships were disastrous, and I swore I’d never follow in her footsteps. If you don’t have relationships, you don’t get hurt, right?’
‘I guess I can understand that.’
Finally! It’s so refreshing to find someone who doesn’t dismiss my feelings, or think they can fix me by shoving their own opinions down my throat.
‘So your mum really put you off men – for life?’
‘I’m afraid so. She was pretty screwed up. She’d do anything to keep hold of a man – no matter how badly he treated her – and she was inconsolable every time she was dumped. Which was a lot. She’d spiral out of control and I’d end up being packed off to stay with my great aunt until she’d managed to sort herself out. We didn’t have much family around us, just Mum’s aunt, so I spent a lot of time with her. Aunt Dorothy was the wicked witch in my fairy-tale fantasy.’
‘She’s the one you wanted rescuing from?’
‘Actually, no, not always. It was mostly Mum. I know that makes me sound like a terrible person, but it was tough. I didn’t have a regular mum like my friends did. She never picked me up from school on time – if at all – and I could never invite my friends round for tea. Not because I was embarrassed by Mum – I was, she was a mess – but because there wouldn’t be tea for us to eat together. If I was lucky there was cereal or toast or chocolate biscuits, but not the home-cooked meals my friends had. Sometimes, there wouldn’t be any food at all in the house for days. Funnily enough, there was always enough money for Mum to get off her face.’ I grab my mug of hot chocolate, but find there’s no way I can drink it as my stomach is in knots, so return it to the ground. ‘I went away on an overnight trip when I was about nine, but when we got back to school, it wasn’t Mum waiting for me but Aunt Dorothy, looking most put out that her afternoon quiz shows were being interrupted. That was the first time I had to go and stay with her. I asked where Mum was, but she wouldn’t tell me. Just said she was “away” and she’d be “home soon”.’
‘It must have been confusing.’
‘It was, but it was also a relief. Mum had really gone downhill. She was erratic – one minute dancing around the living room to music so loud the neighbours banged on the wall, the next sobbing in her bed and refusing to get up.’
And the vomit. I can still smell it, as if I’m cleaning it from Mum’s grubby dressing gown even now. And I can still hear her choking in the night, paralysed with fear and not knowing what to do. Finally bursting out into the cold winter night in my flimsy nightie, screaming for help. The relief as a neighbour rushed past me. Relief that she was no longer my problem, my responsibility, at least for a little while.
‘Aunt Dorothy was strict. There was no telly during the week – for me, at least. She loved her quiz shows and sitcoms, but there’d be no cartoons – and toys were limited, so I had to entertain myself with the books crammed on her shelves. They were mostly history books, which must have rubbed off on me, despite my reluctance.’ I smile wryly. ‘I wasn’t used to rules at home. But I felt safer within the confines of Aunt Dorothy’s house and her boundaries. I had a bedtime and I had to wash my face and brush my teeth every day, which I hated, but I also had proper, regular meals. I did miss the chocolate biscuits a bit though.’
‘Did your mum get help?’
I nod as I let the melted marshmallow drop from my fingers onto the grass. ‘Lots of it, time and time again, but she was never sober for more than a few months at a time. I sort of got used to the cycle, if I’m honest. I learned to predict her moods, so I knew when to start packing for another trip to Aunt Dorothy’s.’
‘You must have missed your mum during those times.’
‘I did, but I only missed my real mum, not the monster she became when the drugs took hold. And I got to see her sometimes. Aunt Dorothy would take me to visit her and we’d sit in this big room filled with lots of different families, all crying because they missed their loved ones or because they hated them. Mum would sometimes scream at me and tell me I’d ruined her life, that Dad would have stayed if I hadn’t been around.’
‘Blimey. That’s horrible.’ Tom sits up as straight as he can in the deckchair and I feel my hand being tugged gently with his movement. When I look down, our fingers are intertwined. When did that happen?
‘It wasn’t as bad as the times she stared vacantly at the wall opposite, her eyes dead. If she did look at me, it was like she didn’t even know who I was or why I was there.’ I shrug. ‘At least if s
he was screaming at me, she was there, you know?’
‘I’m sorry you had to go through all that.’ Tom’s hand feels warm in mine. Comforting. I’d normally snatch it away, but find I can’t.
‘I suppose it was a normal way for me to grow up. I didn’t know any different. It did teach me I can only rely on myself though, that I shouldn’t rely so heavily on a man that I can’t function without him. Because that’s what she did, over and over again, and I had to deal with the consequences when they left. I never want to end up like that. Out of control. Lost.’
‘What about your ex? Edward?’
I smile wryly. ‘Edward was an anomaly. He’s the only one who ever managed to break through the wall I’d built around myself. But even when I was with him, I held myself back. I couldn’t give everything to him. Could never truly let go.’ I shake my head and give a humourless laugh. ‘I never even told him half of what I just told you.’
Tom’s eyebrows lift. ‘You didn’t?’
‘Nope. He never even met Mum – I wouldn’t let him, no matter how much he pestered to meet my family – and I never told him about any of her problems. I could pretend, you see. I could pretend to be a normal person, with a normal family, if he didn’t know. But when Mum died last year, he wanted to come to the funeral. To support me. But how could I let him be there? How could I let him see the real me?’
‘I can see the real you.’ Tom’s eyes are fixed on mine, and I want to look away, want my stomach to stop churning under his intense gaze, but I can’t move. ‘The real you is beautiful and strong. Don’t ever hide her away.’
I finally break the eye contact. I feel too raw. Too exposed. I should go. I should find Alice and eat toasted marshmallows and pretend this conversation never took place.
But I remain seated, my hand still in Tom’s. I know he’s still watching me, but I’m afraid to lift my gaze and meet his again. Afraid of what he will see. Afraid of what I may say or do.
It’s all too much. I’ve said too much, given too much away. Panic starts to rise, taking my breath away, choking me, but I’m rooted to the spot, anchored down by the horror of what I’ve done. I’ve never felt as vulnerable as I do right now, and I realise this is why I’ve always pushed people away, to protect myself from this utter powerlessness.
My breath is ragged. I’m too hot, clammy. The blanket is shed, tossed to the ground.
Why did I spew the secrets I’ve worked so hard to guard all these years? Why now? Why Tom?
Because I wanted him to see the real Emily instead of the woman I present to the world. The Emily who cried herself to sleep as a child, lonely and confused and afraid. The Emily I push deep down inside in case she accidentally reveals herself. The Emily I could never give to Edward.
What have I done?
Tom’s fingers are tight against my own. I squeeze back, but I can’t look at him.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, but as the first firework shoots up into the inky sky and bursts into a rainbow of colour and sparkle, I burst into tears.
Chapter Thirty
I’m mortified as soon as the shock of bursting into tears in front of another person has worn off. My hands are at my face, as though I can mask the tears, but I hear Tom shift beside me, his deckchair creaking as he shifts his weight.
‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have probed about your childhood. I wouldn’t have asked… God, I’m such an idiot.’
I lift my face from my palms and give a watery smile. ‘I should have warned you that my childhood was dull.’ I’m trying to be funny to lift the mood and deflect my embarrassment, but it doesn’t even work on me, let alone Tom, and I start to snivel again.
What is wrong with me? I never cry in public – not even in front of Alice – and here I am blubbering like a baby. It’s hardly the image of the strong, independent woman I claim to be. I used to watch my mum cry over her latest lost love and I’d feel anger rather than sympathy towards her. For being weak. For allowing another human being to control her emotions when they weren’t even around any more. It would bubble up inside me, and I’d want to shake her and tell her to get a grip, to show strength instead of vulnerability. And yet here I am, doing the same.
‘Hey, it’s okay.’ I jump back as Tom places a gentle hand on my shoulder. I don’t want him to touch me or show compassion. I don’t want him to acknowledge my tears (and probably snot if I don’t pull myself together). I need him to make a joke, to laugh and pretend I haven’t made a fool of myself.
‘Sorry.’ Tom holds his hands up, to show he isn’t a threat.
‘No, it’s fine.’ I pull my sleeve over my hand so I can mop my face. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being silly.’
‘Getting upset isn’t being silly,’ Tom says, but I snort. Isn’t it? It doesn’t achieve anything, unless you want people to think you’re feeble. ‘You’ve been through a lot. It can’t have been easy, especially losing your mum.’
I didn’t lose my mum. I didn’t misplace her. She chose to leave me, just like she chose the drugs and the men over me time after time. I wasn’t important to my mum. I wasn’t enough. And I’m angry – livid – that I’ll never get to ask her if I ever was. With her gone, other people have been on the receiving end of that anger: Alice, as she tried to coax me out of my bedroom during the first few weeks, when I refused to talk to her – about Mum, about anything – and Edward. Poor Edward, who did nothing but love me. But I couldn’t love him back. How could I ever be enough for him when my own mother found me lacking? When my own father couldn’t be bothered to stick around? Edward deserved better than me, so I let him go. It hurt, obviously, but the pain simply merged with the pain of everything that went before. And he’s happy now, according to his Facebook updates, which I occasionally have the tiniest peek at.
‘You’re shivering.’ Tom places a hand on my arm, his fingers barely touching me. ‘Let’s get you inside. We’ll get you a drink, something to warm you up.’
I look up as the sky fills with bright pink sparkles. ‘I want to stay out here. I want to watch the fireworks.’
So that’s what we do. Tom removes his jacket, despite my protests, and drapes it over my shoulders when even the blanket can’t warm me. His arm remains across my back, his hand resting on my shoulder, as we watch the sky light up, and I allow it to remain there. At some point, I rest my head against his chest, enjoying the warmth seeping through his T-shirt, the solid, reassuring beat of his heart.
The fireworks are spectacular. So vibrant and glittering against the dark sky, their shrieks and crackles and booms filling the field around us. I don’t want it to end, but of course it does, and Tom stands up, wiping down his jeans where he’s been kneeling beside me on the ground, scrubbing at the two damp patches at the knees.
‘Another hot chocolate?’ he asks, and I nod before trying to struggle out of the deckchair. But I’m trapped. The chair has swallowed me whole. My arms and legs are flailing as I try to gather the momentum to tip me out of the bloody thing. With all those chairs inside the castle, whose genius idea was it to provide the most difficult, frustrating seating known to man?
‘Would you like some help?’ Tom holds out a hand and I take it, smiling my gratitude as he hauls me up onto my feet. But he’s pulled me with a bit too much force and I’m propelled forward, slap bang into his chest. Tom staggers ever so slightly before managing to right us both, his hands firm on my shoulders.
‘Sorry,’ I say, but we’re both giggling.
‘My fault entirely.’ Tom is still holding me by the shoulders, and though his grasp has loosened now I’m steady on my feet. I’m waiting for the instinct to bat his hands away to take over, but it doesn’t materialise. ‘Shall we go and get that hot chocolate now?’
‘Yes.’ I nod, but neither of us moves. Tom’s hands are still on my shoulders, as though he’s accidentally superglued himself to me but is too embarrassed to confess his predicament. And then his hands are on the move, but they aren’t lifting off my body. They’re gliding, ever s
o slowly, across my shoulders and to the back of my neck, and then they’re in my hair and Tom’s face is inching closer to mine. This is usually the part where I take a step back, make my excuses and run like the flipping wind, but I do none of those things. In fact, I’m up on my tiptoes, my hands reaching for Tom, pulling him closer, quicker, and we’re kissing. Right there in the field. And it is the most spectacular kiss of my life. Butterflies are erupting in my tummy like the fireworks in the sky a few moments ago, lighting up my entire body.
Blimey, I did not see this one coming.
What am I doing?
And should I stop it?
But of course I should. An image of the scan photo I found in Tom’s drawer pops into my head. The baby. Lydia. This is wrong.
My hands are on Tom’s chest, pushing gently but firmly.
‘I’m sorry – again.’ Tom closes his eyes and shakes his head. ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’
‘No.’ My fingers are on my lips, as though I can capture the remnants of magic.
‘You’re seeing Archie, and this isn’t me. I don’t kiss girls who are involved. It’s shitty. It’s unfair.’ He takes a step back, his hand combing angrily at his hair.
‘And I don’t kiss men who are engaged.’ I turn, running back towards the castle as Tom calls out my name. I need to get away, because I would – more than anything else in the world – like to kiss him again. And again. And I know it’s wrong and I feel terrible, but that’s how I feel. The safest option is to steer well clear of temptation.
‘Emily, wait.’ Tom has caught up with me – easily – and I come to a halt as he takes my arm. I tug my arm away and set off again. I can’t be near Tom right now.
‘Please listen to me.’ He’s back again, his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him. I shake my head, my eyes refusing to look at him, because I know I’ll cave if I do. I’ve never felt this before, this insane need to be with someone, to kiss them, to touch them. To forget anything and everything but them. It’s exhilarating. Thrilling. Terrifying. And I’m greedy for more.
The Wedding that Changed Everything Page 22
