by Sue Watson
Not long after I left the UK Isobel and Richard told Peter the news and he was sworn to secrecy. Isobel was right, I would have been a mess for the whole nine months but I was blissfully travelling the world unaware. Meanwhile, back home Peter was there for everyone, taking Isobel to and from the hospital, ferrying grandchildren, helping Anna in the shop and holding Richard’s ladders during a particularly tense period with the famous loft conversion, now a nursery. I think perhaps, in my absence the others have learned to trust and rely on Peter, creating a new family dynamic involving him in their everyday lives. And when Anna called the other day to ask if she could talk to Peter I smiled from ear to ear – as I passed him the phone. Life does have a way of working stuff out after all.
Peter and I look out onto rolling fields and a feeling of pure happiness rushes through my bones. You know those rare and lovely moments when you want time to stand still, everything is right, from children, to partners to dogs, everyone’s happy and healthy and the world’s a wonderful place? That.
‘So, Rosie, now you’ve seen the world – are you ready to come home to me?’ Peter asks.
My heart swells then dips. I cast my eyes down, not sure how to say what I want to say. We sit for a while longer while I try to work out how to answer him.
‘Peter, I love you, but . . . ’
‘Ah, there’s a but?’
‘Just a little one. I want to be with you, and I have no doubts. But recently I rediscovered the flower in the rubble and I need to get to know her, just a little longer. I want to find out who she is . . . ’
‘And her favourite flavour of ice cream?’ he says, touching my cheek.
I nod, my eyes filling with tears. Peter gets me, he always has.
He runs his hands through his hair. ‘Okay, I understand . . . you need to know some things before you settle down again. Perhaps I could share some ice cream tastings along the way?’
‘I’d like that.’
‘So, I know we have the grandchildren to think of, but – let’s run away to Paris, just for a little while?’
‘Yes. We owe it to those teenagers who wanted it so badly – and we’re only forty-eight years too late.’
‘I told you, Rosie, it’s never too late,’ he smiles and kisses me.
Then he takes my hand and we walk back through the park, Lily at our feet, the sun in our eyes, and Paris, as always, in our hearts.
Sue Watson was previously a journalist on women’s magazines and national newspapers before having a career in TV working as a producer with the BBC. She has published six novels, her most well-known being Love, Lies and Lemon Cake. Originally from Manchester, Sue now lives in the Midlands and writes full time.
For more information visit the author’s website at www.suewatsonbooks.com or follow her on Twitter @suewatsonwriter.
