by Lisa Jewell
“I’m not sitting here trying to persuade you of my superior emotional intelligence, Caroline. But you asked me why I left, and I’m telling you. And I agree, from this vantage point it’s ludicrous, but there and then, it made total sense. I left Susie because I had fallen out of love with her and I left you because I thought you’d fallen out of love with me. That you’d turned the lights off.”
“Are we back to moths again?”
“Yes. We’re back to moths again.”
Caroline sighed and appraised Adrian coolly. “It’s all well and good talking about moths, Adrian, it’s all very good talking about fields of clover. But what glows more brightly than children, Adrian? Huh? How did you do it? How do you square yourself with that?”
“Well, you know, I can’t, obviously. Of course I can’t. But I can tell you that I honestly thought . . . well, thought is the wrong word, because I wasn’t thinking, was I? But I honestly just assumed that as long as the children had their home and their mother, they wouldn’t miss me. I mean, I was never there anyway.”
“Oh, that’s crap. You were there all the time.”
“Well, not as much as you. I suppose that’s what I thought. So long as they had their constants: their house, their school.”
“Oh, Adrian. That’s pathetic.”
“I know it is. That’s the thing, Caroline, there is no longer anything you can say to me about my behavior or my . . . my motivations over the last few years that I could disagree with. When I look at myself, objectively, without the obfuscations of being in love or, you know, the grieving process, I find it hard to believe I could have made the decisions I made. Did the things I did. Walked out on a baby.”
“You walked out on five babies, Adrian.”
“Yes. Yes. I did.”
“Have you read the letters?”
“Of course I’ve read the letters.”
“And?”
“And they are all amazing.”
“What did they say?”
“You didn’t read them?”
“No, of course not.”
“Not even Beau’s?”
“Not even Beau’s.” She glanced at him. “Anything interesting?”
“Pearl wants me to choose more imaginative birthday presents. Luke wants me to be friends with him. Cat wants me to forgive her. And Beau wants me to tickle his feet. Oh, and . . .” Adrian smiled and then glanced up at Caroline. “He wants me to move home. Actually, so does Pearl.”
Caroline didn’t respond. Instead she pulled her handbag onto her lap and took a letter from it. “Here,” she said, sliding it across the table towards Adrian. “From Otis.”
Adrian pulled it towards himself. This was the one, he thought, the one he had no idea about at all. “Shall I . . . ?”
Caroline nodded. “Why not.”
Adrian opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, typed onto a word processor.
Dear Dad,
I don’t really know what to say. I’ve been trying to write this letter all night and all day but it keeps coming out wrong. First of all I’m really sorry that I wasn’t nice to Maya. That thing with the Skype—that wasn’t really what I was thinking. It was just a thing, with Cat. It made me feel close to her. I didn’t hate Maya. I liked her. I thought she was really nice. I miss her.
I’ve really hated myself since Maya died. Totally despised myself. But I think I’d rather hate myself than hate you. Because you’re the best dad in the world. I know I don’t show it much. But that’s just me. It’s hard being the middle child. It’s hard being the oldest child. And I’m kind of both. I sometimes don’t really know how I’m supposed to be.
I’m trying to think of things I want you to do, but I can’t. I guess I just want you to be you. Because you’re nice. And you’re generous. And everyone likes you. I’d like to be like you when I grow up. Except I would just choose one woman to marry and I’d stick with her. I don’t really like change. I like things to stay the same. It took a lot of getting used to when you left, but I got used to it eventually. I’m not like you in that way, I suppose. You obviously like change.
I’m still not happy with this letter. It’s not really saying a lot. But then maybe I haven’t got much to say. Except I’m sorry if I’ve let you down. I’m going to try harder now. At everything. At school and at home. And maybe if I can be a better person you might want to come and live with us again.
I love you, Dad. You’re the best.
Otis x
Adrian passed the letter to Caroline and wiped a tear from the side of his nose.
She looked at him curiously.
“Read that,” he said.
She took the letter from his outstretched hand, her eyes still on his. Then her eyes dropped to the letter. He watched her reading, his chin balanced on top of tented fingers. He saw a judder of emotion pass through her body. He watched as a tear coalesced at the rim of her lashes and dropped onto the back of her hand; then he watched her wipe it away.
Their boy.
When she’d finished reading she slid the folded letter back into its envelope and handed it back to Adrian. He caught her fingertips inside his and squeezed them. “OK?” he asked quietly.
“OK,” she said.
“He’s right, you know. I should just choose one woman and stick with her.”
“But he’s also right when he says that you like change.”
Adrian sighed. “You know, I think I’m too old for change now.” He ran a fingertip up and down the back of Caroline’s hand.
She didn’t move her hand, just left her gaze on his and waited for him to finish talking. But he had nothing left to say. He pulled her other hand across the table towards him. For almost a minute neither one of them spoke. In the background a Chinese swimmer was winning a gold medal on the giant screen. Around them the young, smooth-skinned hipsters of London N1 sat and talked about things that seemed important to them in their nebulous world of media jobs and marriage engagements, clubs and flat-shares and broken hearts. Their world was all about change. All about the next golden glow and the next field over. And there, in their midst, sat Adrian and Caroline, halfway through their lives, if they were lucky, five children, two careers, three homes, two dogs, one cat, a dead wife and a fresh-faced boyfriend between them.
But as they looked at each other across the table, their hands entwined, as they studied the familiar angles of each other’s faces, read the silent messages behind each other’s eyes, it was as though some invisible bellboy had been to collect all their baggage. It was as though they were starting over, with hand luggage.
“I really like you,” said Adrian, picking up one of Caroline’s hands and holding it to his lips.
Caroline laughed. “You fool,” she said, her eyes still on his.
“Shall we go home?”
“Yes,” said Caroline.
Epilogue
The energy was still there in the London air, like a lingering perfume. The Olympics were over but their scent remained. As Adrian walked from his empty flat through the back streets of north London towards Highgate Road, he felt the warmth of strangers, the connections built over weeks of communal screen-staring and eruptions of national pride. He knew it wouldn’t last but for now it enhanced his already heightened sense of rightness with the world.
The box he was carrying was much heavier than he’d thought it was when he’d first picked it up twenty minutes ago and he needed to keep transferring it from hand to hand as he walked. Each time he did so the contents slid from the back to the front and complained quietly. Halfway to Highgate he felt the need to sit for a while. He brought the box up onto the bench next to him and peered through the holes in the front.
“You all right, girl?” he said to the anxious-looking cat crouched inside.
Billie meowed at him and he stuck his fingers through the ho
les to tickle her nose. “Nearly there,” he said. “Not long now.”
He took a bottle of water from his backpack, had a good long sip and then carried on his way.
The flat was in a converted Victorian house, just like his own. He rang on the doorbell and passed a hand over his newly trimmed hair.
A moment later the door opened and there she was.
“Hello!” she said. “Hello! Come in!”
She greeted him with a kiss on each cheek, her golden hair brushing against his face, her perfume clean and floral. He followed her into an open-plan living room, vintage, bohemian, tidy, clean, done out from trendy markets and eBay. The man called Matthew sat at a small desk in the corner on an Apple Mac, wearing the sort of colorful, tight-fitting clothes that Luke liked to wear, an earpiece connecting him to his smartphone. He pulled out the earpiece when he saw Adrian walk in, got to his feet and smiled.
“So we meet again!” He shook Adrian’s hand firmly. “Sorry about the last time. Blame her,” he said, pointing at Abby, who stood behind him smiling. “And who do we have here?” He dropped to his knees and peered through the holes in the cat box. “Hello, you!” he said. “Aren’t you lovely!”
Adrian unclipped the front flap of the box and let it fall open. Billie emerged, one leg at a time, her face full of fear and excitement.
Matthew offered Adrian a cup of tea and Adrian requested a glass of water. “Welcome to your new home,” said Abby, kneeling down to address the cat. The cat appeared to recognize Abby and greeted her fondly, rubbing her face against her hands.
“So,” she said, smiling up at Adrian. “You’re leaving your flat?”
“Yes. Yes. Today, in fact. The builders start today in Islington. Building me my man-shack.”
“Ah, your little house in the garden?”
“Yes, my monk’s quarters. I need to be on-site to oversee the works. But until it’s built, I’m in the spare room. With the computer.”
“So, she didn’t take you back?”
“No. She did not take me back. But I’m allowed in the house. For mealtimes. Like a dog. And she hasn’t ruled out a reconciliation at some later date. But for now I have to prove myself.”
“Prove what exactly?”
“That I am able to be alone.”
“Chastity?”
“Yes. That.” He exhaled. “I would have moved out earlier but I still had a little problem to deal with.” They both looked at the cat. “But now, thanks to you . . .”
“No, no, seriously. This is a pleasure. I feel honored to have her. It’s like destiny. Don’t you think?” She looked up at him and he felt that kick to his gut he always felt when he looked at Abby, that kick of sheer red-blooded appreciation. She was wearing a cream camisole top, with a bra visible above the fabric, a slim chiffon tie around her narrow waist, tight denim jeans and yellow flip-flops. Her toenails were painted pale rose and she was looking at him as though he was interesting to her. Not like he was an old man, not like he was Dad or idiot or silly old fool. She was looking at him as though he was a man. And he could see right down her bra to two swells of young, tanned flesh.
“I like your hair,” she said, getting to her feet, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans.
He touched it and flushed pink. “Yes,” he said, “my daughter’s idea. As was this.” He patted his tiny paunch, just visible now above the waistband of the trousers Luke had forced him to buy in the Reiss sale last week.
“You look good,” she said appreciatively.
“For an old man.”
“No, not for an old man. For you. Compared to the man I saw half-dead with grief six months ago.”
“Thank you,” he said. “It’s been quite a journey.”
“And now it’s over?”
“Well, it will never be entirely over. There’s still the ghost of Maya. There’s still the scars. There’s Cat. Not this cat”—he pointed at Billie, who was sniffing curiously at the skirting boards—“my Cat. She’s still suffering. Obviously. She’s going to therapy. Trying to get to the root of the whole thing. That will take time. And lots of little bridges to build here and there. But, on the whole . . .” He shrugged. “Yes, the journey’s over. I’m home.”
“And you’re happy?”
Adrian smiled at the question. “Yes. I’m really happy. I can’t really believe I ever thought I could be happier anywhere else. Than there. With them. You know.”
Matthew appeared with a glass of water for Adrian and two cups of tea for himself and Abby. But Adrian didn’t drink the water. This was it. The final moment of the transition. He wanted to go home now. He took one last look at Maya’s cat and smiled fondly. “Bye bye, Billie.” He crouched down to stroke her. “I hope you’re very happy here.”
“Oh, she will be,” said Abby, eyeing Adrian in that eviscerating way of hers. “We’ll make sure of that.”
She would fall in love with him. It wouldn’t take much. A few drinks. Some charming self-deprecation. He hadn’t imagined the chemistry between them from that first meeting in March.
Adrian absorbed the look and held it inside himself. This is what he would do now with compliments and loaded moments with beautiful women who weren’t his wife. He would absorb them and hold them inside. He would keep them like souvenirs, reminders that he was once a man who could choose his path in life according to the wiles and desires of beautiful women. But that he was now a man who’d found his sticking point.
He kissed Abby hard on each cheek, inhaling the unfamiliar, giddying smell of her, basking one last time in her golden aura, and then he left. As the door closed behind him, so did the memory of a weaker man than him.
He turned the corner and he headed home.
Acknowledgments
This book was conceived, written and rewritten almost entirely alone. Every time I tried to explain what it was about, people would look at me strangely and say: Oh. Right. So I stopped talking about it, shut all the blinds and just got on with it.
So my thanks really must go to Adrian, Maya and the rest of the fictional Wolfe family for making me care about them so much that I was compelled to keep going until I’d found a story good enough for them.
And, back in the Real World, a huge thank-you to my wonderful editor Selina Walker for writing me “that” blurb when I was nearly at the end which allowed me finally to see the book I had been writing and make sense of it all. Thanks also to all the magnificent team at Arrow; to Jen and Najma and Beth and Sarah and Jenny and Susan and Richard. And thank you to Richenda Todd for the top-notch copyedit.
Thanks to Jonny Geller and everyone at Curtis Brown. And in the US, thanks to Deborah Schneider at Gelfman Schneider. I am so lucky to be represented by the best in the business both sides of the pond.
Thanks to all at Atria, my US publishers. Especially thanks to Sarah Branham, Ariele Fredman and Daniella Wexler.
And, closer to home, thanks to Jenny, Jojo, Mike, Jascha, Sacha, Tanya, Grace, Nic, Yasmin and Sarah, who are always there to talk writing even though they don’t get paid for it.
Lastly, Amelie and Evie, my girls, who don’t help me write books in any way. But they do provide a very helpful counterpoint to the process. And they’re really lovely. Thank you.
For more from New York Times bestseller Lisa Jewell . . .
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photograph © JASCHA GORDON
Lisa Jewell was born and raised in north London, where she lives with her husband and two daughters. She is the internationally bestselling author of twelve novels, including Before I Met You and The House We Grew Up In. One of the UK’s most talented contemporary novelists, she has sold more than 2 million books in the UK and is published in more than twenty countries. To find out more about Lisa, visit Facebook.com/LisaJewellOfficial, or follow her on Twitter @LisaJewellUK.
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