by Megan Tayte
The room was so full of colour and light it was momentarily blinding. I didn’t wait for my eyes to focus. I shot upright. Patted my body to check it was there, solid. Arms, legs, yes. Fingers bleeding! No, wait. Crimson nail polish.
I scanned the room. Empty. Luke – where was Luke?
Last time I’d returned to him, I’d come upon him gently, quietly; built a moment of soulful poignancy. This time, I had no such patience.
‘Luke!’
It was meant to be a yell, but it came out as a barely audible rasp.
‘Luke!’
I shoved back the covers and launched myself out of bed, and discovered it was not only my vocal chords that had seized up during my time in limbo. I hit the floor hard.
‘Luke!’
I scrambled up, lurched to the door, fumbled with the knob, turned it, flung open the door.
‘Luke!’ With every attempt, the word got a little clearer, a little louder.
Two steps down the hallway I thundered to the floor. Ear pressed to the carpet, I heard chair legs scrape on tiles. A voice:
‘Scarlett?’
‘Luke!’
Like a foal on ice, I worked on getting on all fours. A door banged open.
‘Scarlett?’
‘LUKE!’
Grabbing a doorframe, I hauled myself up and staggered forward, to the top of the stairs.
Footsteps pounding now, and I turned the corner
and there he was, at the bottom of the stairs
and there I was, at the top of the stairs.
For a moment in time we were still, staring, someplace between then and now and what could have been and what would be.
Then I stepped on the first stair tread, and the next, and the next, but I missed the fourth and my left leg gave out, and my right hand went trembly, and I pitched down the remaining stairs into my rooted-to-the-spot boyfriend.
There was a little confusion then, a chorus of groans and a tangle of body parts and banister spindles. And then we were sitting on the hall floor, panting, touching, sobbing, grinning.
Until Luke pulled away and brushed back my hair and said in horror, ‘Your head! You’re bleeding!’
And I reached up and touched his nose and said, ‘You’re bleeding too.’
We looked at each other.
‘Hold still,’ I whispered.
I closed my eyes. I focused on my fingers, pressed to his nose. I willed my light into those fingers, into him: I willed him to heal.
I opened my eyes.
We waited, staring at each other.
A drip formed at the end of Luke’s nose. I cupped my hand underneath and caught it, that fat, red, beautiful drop of blood.
‘You can’t heal me!’ Luke yelled.
‘I can’t heal you! I really can’t.’
Then we were laughing, and whooping, and shouting, and kissing, and kissing – and then not kissing, because of all the blood.
And Luke said, ‘I’d better call someone to come heal us.’
And I said, ‘Not yet. Let’s go find the first-aid kit and patch each other up.’
And Luke said, ‘That, Scarlett Blake, is a bloomin’ brilliant idea.’
He stood, wincing, and I stood, dizzily, and we clung to each other and hobbled down the hallway – to sit, bruised and battered, at the kitchen table and drink horrible coffee and eat delicious cake and talk and laugh and be together, just be together.
Nine months later
It was a florist’s heaven. There were flowers everywhere, everywhere: woven around the roof supports, attached to the ends of each row of chairs, cupped in tall holders scattered around the room, intricately laced through an archway set up before the central doors of the conservatory that were flung open to let in the warm summer air – and even beyond, a red petal path leading across the lawn to where a marquee was set up. Red chrysanthemums. Red roses. Red tulips. Red lilies. Red daisies. All tied up with little grey ribbons.
I was glad of all the red. Something to make this day seem different to the last time I’d stood, knock-kneed, preparing to walk down this aisle.
I tugged at the neckline on my dress for the umpteenth time, which earned me a slapped hand.
‘Leave it,’ Cara snapped. ‘It’s perfect, just as it is.’
‘She’s right,’ said Mum. ‘You look stunning, Scarlett.’
‘You do!’ Estelle sniffed, dabbing a tissue under her mascara-heavy lashes.
‘You,’ I said, pointing my posy at her threateningly, ‘are to stay sublimely calm the entire time. There will be no going into labour at the altar today. Got it?’
She rubbed a hand over her swollen belly. ‘Plenty of time before he’s due,’ she assured me.
‘I don’t know about that,’ I said, eyeing her bump. ‘Looks like he’s dropped down. Head’s probably engaged. Your cervix –’
‘Euh!’ shrieked my sister. ‘You’re not going near any cervixes today!’
I patted her arm. ‘’Course not. Not in this dress.’
The soft background music cut off, and the intro to ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ (the Manic Street Preachers’ cover, naturally) rang out.
As one, we stiffened.
‘So romantic,’ breathed my mother.
Estelle whipped her tissue out again.
‘You’re on, Scarlett!’ hissed Cara. She gave my skirt a final tug and then shoved me forward, to the door of the conservatory.
I hovered there, wobbling precariously on my heels, and then an arm slid through mine, holding me steady.
‘Ready?’ said my escort.
‘Ready,’ I said.
A sea of faces greeted us as we began our walk down the aisle – a muddle of Ceruleans and Vindicos. I focused on putting one Valentino-clad foot in front of the other and getting to the groom, who was waiting alone under the archway in a simple grey suit with a red tie and a red rose buttonhole. He looked unspeakably handsome and his smile made my heart sing.
Somehow, we made it to the end of the aisle.
My escort looked at me and I looked at him, and he leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
‘Beautiful,’ he whispered.
Then Luke and I stepped aside, and we turned to watch my mother walking down the aisle, barefoot and beaming, hand in hand with her little grandson. Jack was clutching Bob the elephant, both boy and beast decked out in miniature suits to match the groom’s.
The ‘ahhhs’ had barely dissipated before a hush fell. And there she was, the bride, my sister, leaning on my father’s arm and gazing, with every step forward, at her husband-to-be.
And one look at Jude’s face, the sheer elation on it, was enough to make me glad that Estelle had slipped a spare tissue into the binding of my posy.
‘Like I said, mushy as frosting,’ Luke murmured in my ear as I hid my face in his chest and dried my cheeks.
‘Shut it, Ook,’ I told him.
His hand slipped into mine, and it was big and warm and just a little rough from kitchen work, and it was exactly what I needed to ground me.
We stood together quietly then as Reverend Helmsley greeted the ‘dearly beloved’, and we watched the union of two people who belonged together after all.
And when Jude and Sienna finally reached the end of their vows, and they promised to love and honour each other all the days of this life, and the next, we joined the congregation in a cheer so loud that it sent birds fluttering from the treetops.
Because all assembled here had the privilege of knowing, knowing, that there is no ‘until death do us part’. And that was something to celebrate indeed.
*
After the ceremony, the reception was short. Hundreds of bags of confetti thrown exuberantly into the sea breeze. Several rounds of congratulations and hugs and kisses. A six-tier wedding cake cut and served and devoured, down to the tiniest sugar rosebud.
But no speeches. The newlyweds valued their privacy. And their space, which was why, after a couple of hours, we all went our
separate ways.
Jude and Sienna left for a honeymoon night on a remote Italian vineyard. From there, they would dot around Europe for a fortnight, making time each day to come back and see their son.
Gabe took his little grandson to London. Later, he would drop Jack off with Luke and me, so he could catch a plane to New York, where he was to speak before the new Vindico Council.
Mum went back to Hollythwaite, part venue these days and part Cerulean/Vindico open house. She had a hot date tonight, she’d confided, with a Scottish Vindico named Hamish.
Cara and Si were also bound for London, for Queensway, where they were renting a shoebox apartment. They had free tickets to a West End show tonight, courtesy of Cara’s new job as a theatrical wardrobe assistant.
As for Luke and me, we returned to Twycombe. To the bemusement of our friends and family, we declined all their offers to Travel us home in an instant, preferring to pilot a little dinghy across the water.
Once ashore, we didn’t go up to the cottage on the cliff. It wasn’t mine now; I’d given it to Sienna and Jude. We walked up to the house in the village that Luke’s father had built – that was home for us both now.
Inside, the house was much as it had ever been, but with a few notable additions:
A line of framed photos of people we loved on the mantelpiece.
A blue patchwork quilt on the bed in the master bedroom.
A painting of Twycombe Bay in the hallway, signed Michael.
A desk in the guest room stacked high with university textbooks for a bachelor’s degree in midwifery.
And all over the house, in every room, the paraphernalia and colourful clutter that comes with bringing up a young child.
For this was not the Luke-and-Scarlett house. This was the Luke-and-Scarlett-and-Jack house. For the early morning and the late afternoon and the evening and the night Jack wasn’t with his parents in the cottage on the cliff, or his grandmother at Hollythwaite, or his grandfather in London. He was at home with us, his ‘Car’ and ‘Ook’ and ‘Ter’.
And he was the noisiest and messiest and most exhausting part of our lives. But he was also the source of so much laughter and so much love and so much pride.
I stooped to pick up a toy train abandoned on the floor, perfectly positioned to slip on. Luke took it from me and threw it into the living room.
‘Come on,’ he said, tugging impatiently at the ties on my bodice. ‘Hurry, hurry! I’ve been dying to do this all day.’
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Is it weird, do you think, that in the midst of all that serious, grown-up, forever stuff today, this is what we’ve been longing for?’
‘Nope.’
‘So you’re okay that it wasn’t you with a ring on your finger today?’
‘Yep.’
‘And you’re okay that my belly’s not round like Estelle’s?’
‘Yep.’
I pushed up onto tiptoes and kissed him. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘For not giving you the happy-ever-after?’
‘For knowing we don’t have to do it all yet. That being together is enough, right now.’
‘All I want to do right now,’ Luke growled, ‘is get you out of this dress…’
*
With a lot of huffing and puffing, he did eventually get me out of that dress. And my underwear. And I got him out of his suit and tie and shirt. And his underwear. And then…
… we dressed again, immediately: in swimwear and wetsuits and seriously unattractive aqua shoes.
Down on the beach, we raced to the ocean (he let me win) and we plunged into the water and paddled out.
As we lay on our boards, waiting for the best wave, I remembered the first time we’d met in the cove, and how frightened I’d been that day, how alone, until he found me. I looked over now to find Luke watching me, smiling. And I smiled back, thinking how right it was that here – in the sea, in the sky, in his cerulean eyes – was all the blue I would ever need.
The sea rose and fell, rose and fell, and we surrendered to its age-old rhythm. Until Luke pointed to the horizon and I saw it coming: The Wave. And we turned and we paddled and we knelt and we stood and we flew together – wild, exhilarated, free – into our happily ever now.
The End
***
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I can’t tell you how much emotion those final words ‘The End’ have unleashed in me. I’ve been working towards them for a very long time, and now I see them on the page, I feel liberated and fulfilled – and also a little sad, that my time in Twycombe is done.
I will miss Scarlett. I will miss Cara. I will miss Jude. I won’t miss Luke so much, though, because I see a little of him every day across the dinner table (Yes: ‘Reader, I married him.’ Well, an inspiration for Luke at least; he doesn’t surf or bake and he rocks a kilt like Luke never would).
Thank you for reading this, the final book, and all that came before it. Most of all, thank you for opening your hearts to the emotional journey in The Ceruleans. The story isn’t my own, but the feelings are, and it has been dark and deep and beautiful to share these truths with you. (If you’d like to know the background to my writing the series, read on for ‘The Bit Where Megan Interviews Megan’.)
May we meet again, in my next story world.
Megan x
PS: Did you know I’m an indie author? That means on top of writing and editing my books, I publish and market them myself. But when it comes to getting the word out about my books, I’m very fortunate to have a little help. A growing number of readers support me by posting reviews of my books online and asking fellow bookworms, ‘Hey, have you read any Megan Tayte…?’ If you’re one of those readers then thank you – you’re the reason I often do this *dances it out to Blur’s ‘Song 2’*.
THE BIT WHERE MEGAN INTERVIEWS MEGAN
Why write The Ceruleans?
The story of The Ceruleans, about love and loss, light and darkness, good and bad, is based on my own efforts to make sense of a world in which people close to you can die; in which being true to yourself can be incredibly difficult; and in which love – for people, for places, for a way of being, for an ethos – is the only reason to hold on.
Toni Morrison once wrote, ‘If there’s a book you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.’ These are the books I wanted to read – now certainly, but even more so when I was a young adult like Scarlett: making my own way in the world, dealing with loss, messing up over and over, finding someone to love, finding myself.
How did the ideas for The Ceruleans form?
The story grew over a year or so, and went through countless iterations before I began writing.
In its earliest form, it was two separate books: Wiped Out, about a girl who’d lost her brother in a surfing accident, and Daydream Believer, about a girl with a brain tumour who struggled to tell reality from illusion.
Then, my grandmother – who lived in Plymouth, Devon – passed away, and I felt compelled to take a trip there and visit old haunts. Together with my husband and son, I explored the little coves along the coast, the city, the harbour, the zoo… and the Mount Edgcumbe Country Park, over the water in Cornwall. When I stood at the top of that crumbling folly and looked out over Plymouth, I had a massive attack of vertigo – and a massive surge of inspiration.
How much research did you do?
I talked my husband into three ‘research trips’ (a.k.a. holidays) during the year I wrote the first drafts: to Newquay, Cornwall; to Chelsea, London; and to Plymouth again. These trips, together with previous travels, inspired the settings in the series.
Twycombe is a fictional cove based on the coastal villages of Heybrook Bay, Wembury and Noss Mayo near Plymouth, Devon. The locations in the city of Plymouth are real: our first apartment overlooked the Sound and Drake’s Island; our second was at Royal William Yard with views over to Luke and Scarlett’s folly.
The Newquay apartment is based on one we rented at Britain’s surfin
g hub, Fistral Bay, and Maud’s guesthouse/Gabriel’s retreat is the famous ‘House in the Sea’ on Towan Beach.
Cerulea’s inspiration is the tiny, unspoilt Channel Island of Herm, the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. (With a population of just sixty and a no-car rule, it’s the island that time forgot.) The hotel on Cerulea is a reimagining of the iconic Art Deco-style hotel on Burgh Island.
Hollythwaite and Kikorangi were inspired by various imposing stately homes I’ve visited in England. Gabriel’s home, The Belvedere, is a block of luxury apartments at Chelsea Harbour (known for its very wealthy residents).
The Tate Modern, London, and the Miró Foundation, Barcelona, are of course real, and they’re among my favourite places on earth because there, as a young adult, I discovered modern art.
Last but by no means least: St Mary’s. The building itself is loosely modelled on the parish church of St John the Baptist in Beeston, Nottingham. The graveyard is inspired by the grounds around the secluded medieval church of St Mary’s at Attenborough, Nottingham, a mournful but peaceful place.
What’s the thinking behind the titles?
Death Wish clicked very quickly. I knew there was no other title for the book, especially with the final lines haunting me: the cake, the candle and Scarlett’s wish.
For the subsequent books, I wanted to bring in the theme of blue: the sea, the sky, the divine – but also melancholy.
Forget Me Not signifies loss and remembrance. But for me, it also relates to the sibling bond. In a garden in an early childhood home, my father allocated each of us kids a patch. My sister grew pretty flowers. My brother grew vegetables. I ‘grew’ forget-me-nots. (Or so I thought, until my brother pointed out they were just weeds.) Forget-me-nots remind me of balmy summer afternoons playing outside with my siblings, and so I wrote the same association for Scarlett.
Wild Blue Yonder and Devil and the Deep went down on paper after a lengthy ‘blue idioms’ brainstorm. Originally, they were The Wild Blue Yonder and The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, but I’m from the ‘less is more’ school of thought, so I stripped them back.
