Messy, Wonderful Us

by Catherine Isaac

He lifts his cup to his lips. People are talking in whispers and I suddenly long for some music, something to make this feel a little easier.

  ‘Our trip to Lake Garda feels as though it’s gone so quick. There are still so many places we haven’t seen.’

  ‘You should come back here for a proper holiday one day,’ he says and for some reason my spine prickles at the use of the ‘you’ and not ‘we’. I push the thought out of my head, appalled that it even crossed my mind.

  ‘One coffee, strong,’ says the waiter as he places it in front of me.

  ‘Thank you.’ I pick it up to take a sip, jolting as it hits my taste buds. ‘You might have been right.’

  When Ed smiles, the feeling it provokes in me is so unbearable that I have to lower my eyes. But it’s then that I realise it’s no longer enough to simply sit in front of Ed and not look at him. Just knowing he is there, the memory of last night piercing into me, turns me inside out. I don’t need to look at him to know the way his lips press against his coffee cup, the gentle shift of his Adam’s apple when he swallows, or the way his fingers move when he picks up a fork. I know all these mannerisms because I’ve seen them a million times and could see them a million more without ever tiring of them.

  ‘I’m going to call Julia today,’ he says. ‘To have a proper conversation about our future.’

  ‘Oh good!’ I reply. ‘I’m so glad.’

  ‘I’ll do it when we get to Portofino.’

  ‘You’re still . . . coming then?’

  He looks surprised I had to ask. ‘Of course.’

  For the first time I’m not sure he should be coming. The thought that I should say something about last night tiptoes through my head, but I dismiss the idea immediately. I have known Ed long enough to be sure that we both prefer this civilised pretence, the one in which we can silently reassure ourselves that nothing happened. Which is of course true, or at least a version of the truth. Even the other variant is short on actual, solid happenings. A brush of skin against mine as we sat next to each other on the bench. A skipped heartbeat. A locking of eyes.

  ‘I’ve made my decision, Allie,’ he continues. ‘I’m going to be telling Julia that I’m coming home. To make a go of things.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Ed.’ I sound like I really mean it. I want to mean it. ‘And is that what you want now?’

  He hesitates. ‘Yes.’

  I think about asking him what made him change his mind, but I suspect I know. While my feelings for him were exploding last night, for him it had the opposite effect. It crystallised how important his marriage is.

  ‘She’ll be very happy.’ When he doesn’t respond to this commentary, I add: ‘And so will you.’

  ‘I need to explain something though, Allie,’ he says. ‘I haven’t told you everything. Julia hadn’t wanted me to say anything—’

  ‘Then don’t,’ I say dismissively. ‘You don’t need to explain anything at all.’

  Chapter 48

  I sometimes feel as though I’ve been powering through most of my adult life, striving, achieving, pushing the boundaries of my intellectual capabilities. This approach has made me happy, give or take the odd break-up, bereavement and punishing bout of PMS. But has something ever happened to you – something you knew would be coming sooner or later – that unravels so quickly and leaves you with so little influence upon it, that it shakes your definition of happiness to the core?

  When I won my dream job at Liverpool University nearly three years ago I was ecstatic. It was everything I’d wanted professionally – to be independent, to lecture at a Russell Group university, to have my own lab. Of course, the fact that Rob reacted to the news by dumping me did take the gloss off my triumph somewhat.

  ‘No one deserves this like you do, Allie,’ he said, about a minute after Alistair had phoned me to tell me I’d got the job. ‘You’ll be amazing.’

  I was about to throw my arms around him, but he stiffened and something in his body language made me pull back. ‘We haven’t talked about what this means for us, have we?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll be fine,’ I shrugged. ‘We survived a long-distance relationship when I was in the US. Cardiff and Liverpool are significantly closer together.’

  ‘Thing is, Allie, I don’t think that’s going to work for me,’ he said, as if he was referring to a faulty printer.

  I spent the next twenty-four hours trying to work out how I felt about this, realising that the distress I was experiencing wasn’t entirely about Rob himself. I felt oddly numb to the fact that I wouldn’t share another meal with him, or lie on the sofa watching another Scandi thriller, even though we’d been together for four years and I’d always had a huge amount of respect and affection for him.

  It took this rejection to make me realise how little appetite I had for being alone. That I might have work, but work wasn’t everything – I don’t think I’d ever believed that it was, contrary to what some people might have thought. I wanted someone to share my life with, even if that someone might not have been him. It struck me that perhaps that was the issue, what had kept us with each other for so long. Being together meant neither of us had to be lonely.

  There was no point going into work to take my mind off things now that I’d handed in my notice, so instead I went shopping in St David’s and emerged from Jo Malone in a cloud of sample fragrances, when Ed phoned. ‘You’re a dark horse. I’ve just bumped into your dad. He told me your news about moving to Liverpool. You kept that quiet!’ He sounded in an ebullient, playful mood.

  ‘I’ve literally only just handed in my notice,’ I replied.

  ‘Have you got an official date for your return?’

  ‘Four weeks today.’

  ‘So we can get together on the Saturday night? Or will you have too much to do?’

  ‘I’m technically unemployed, at least for three days. I’ll have absolutely nothing to do.’

  ‘Great. It’s a date then. Leave it with me and I’ll plan something good. And, Allie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I can’t wait to see you.’

  *

  We went for small plates and cocktails at a new place in Bold Street, with exposed bricks and candles flickering on rustic-looking tables. We ate falafel and drank Whip Royales as we sat in the shadows, reminiscing.

  There were times that night when I’d look at his face, at the light in his eyes, and I’d think, not just about Rob, but some of the people I’d hooked up with at university all those years earlier. The one-night stands, the flings and the flirtations. Suddenly a question that I’d tried to stop myself from asking for years pressed into the front of my mind. Why did nobody ever make me feel the way Ed did?

  ‘Is Rob going to follow you to Liverpool?’ he asked.

  I froze and looked up at him from under my eyelashes. ‘Oh. Dad didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Well . . . we broke up.’

  His expression changed like a flash flood. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I just assumed . . . I don’t know. Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly, stabbing my fork into my food. He frowned disapprovingly. ‘It’s fine. Honestly. We’d grown apart,’ I offered, a line I hoped would satisfy him.

  ‘I feel like an idiot, sitting here and telling you how wonderful it is for you to be back.’

  ‘It is wonderful. I’ve got my dream job.’

  He remained cautious. ‘So it was you who ended it?’

  I squirmed. ‘No. But, honestly, I’m fine.’

  A strange silence hung in the air and I was keen to change the subject. ‘Have you done any more work on your house?’ Ed had spent a fortune on his place since he’d moved into it.

  But he didn’t answer. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the flickering candle between us, the black dots of his pupils dilating.

  ‘Ed?’

  ‘Hmm? Sorry.’

  ‘How’s the house? You were getting a new bathroom last time we spoke.’

  Th
en he looked up and downed the last of his drink, as I felt the heat of his eyes travelling across my face.

  ‘It’s on the market. We’ve been looking at a place in the Wirral.’

  ‘Very posh.’ Then I registered something. ‘We?’

  He swallowed. ‘You remember I told you about Julia?’

  It took me a moment to recall that he’d started seeing someone by that name when I’d last met up with him at Christmas. They’d got together through one of the charities he was involved with. I’d looked her up on Facebook afterwards and slotted her into the same category as the Emilys and the Annabels. I’d assumed that, just like them, she wouldn’t have lasted.

  ‘We want to get somewhere before . . . before we get married. That’s the reason I wanted to see you tonight, Allie. I wanted to ask you to be my best woman.’

  *

  Organising Ed’s stag party felt wrong on every level and I don’t mean because I have a vagina and therefore tradition says I shouldn’t have even been there. Perhaps I was simply in shock, that he was marrying a woman who by this stage I’d never even met.

  But I was determined to like her, I truly was.

  On the morning of the festivities, I picked him up at his house, noting as I stepped into the hall that it already looked different now that she’d moved in. The dark walls had been painted in a subtle palette of stone and grey-blue. The books that had been stacked rather haphazardly from floor to ceiling had been subjected to a cull and what remained were placed in beautiful, glossy shelves. But the most striking change was the absence of clutter. There wasn’t a remote control on show, nor a magazine, there were no house keys or notes stuck on the fridge.

  I told myself that I wasn’t apprehensive about meeting her, yet my stomach had been churning since the moment I’d woken up. But as Ed took me through to the kitchen, she greeted me warmly and, within moments, had linked her arm through mine like I was her long-lost sister.

  ‘I think you deserve a medal, Allie,’ Julia said, in the kitchen, flicking on the kettle. It was the solitary item on the worktop, an Alessi polished to within an inch of its life. ‘There can’t be many women brave enough to go on a stag party with twelve men, let alone attempt to organise them.’

  I remember being fascinated by her skin, which was as flawless as the surface of a satin ballet slipper, and marvelling at how her hair swept into a side bun that, unlike my disobedient locks, did exactly as it was told. ‘I just hope they treat you like a lady.’

  ‘Nobody else does so that’d be a first,’ I replied.

  Ed was smiling. ‘Allie will cope. She’s seen The Hangover so knows what to expect.’

  Julia walked over and squeezed his hand. ‘You’re so silly,’ she murmured and planted a kiss on his temple.

  She took the time and trouble to ask me about work and my family. She complimented me on my boots, even though they were scuffed, a little old, and I’m sure she wouldn’t have been caught dead in them herself. She was generous with her small talk, refusing to give in to the temptation to discuss her own life, as fascinating as she was, at least to me.

  I felt this keenly at one point, and that there was an elephant in the room that needed to be broached, something I did when Ed went to collect his overnight bag from his bedroom. ‘I hope you don’t mind the fact that Ed has chosen me to be his best woman?’

  She turned around and smiled. ‘Allie, of course not. Why would I?’

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t. I’m sure Ed’s explained to you that in all the years we’ve known each other, our relationship has never been anything other than platonic.’

  Her eyes softened. ‘He did explain that. It’s really good of you to say this, Allie, you’re a real gem. But you don’t need to worry. Ed told me the first time he even mentioned you that he’s never felt the slightest attraction to you.’ She paused momentarily. ‘That sounded awful, sorry! But I’m sure the feeling is entirely mutual.’

  It occurred to me that from anyone else this might have been interpreted as a barbed comment, but at the time, it seemed to be an innocent remark, not intended to cause offence. So I didn’t let it. Yet there have been times when I’ve thought about it since that have made me wonder. Julia isn’t a woman prone to putting her foot in it.

  *

  I’d put a lot of thought into the perfect stag party, hoping for something with originality and style, until I realised that the only prerequisite for the twelve invitees was that it would involve lots of testosterone and alcohol. So that meant paintballing, followed by the pub. I couldn’t knock their enthusiasm, bless them: I’ve never seen such excitement at the prospect of signing a disclaimer form waiving all rights in the event of concussion, major injuries and hospitalisation.

  Still, it was easy to get into the swing of it and, during one invigorating moment, I managed to shoot Ed’s brother Mike in the side. Only, when I’d stopped fist-pumping, I realised he was lying on the floor groaning and clutching his torso.

  ‘I think I might have ruptured my liver.’

  I gasped, stooping down to examine him. ‘Oh! Mike, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘What are you talking about – this is brilliant,’ he grinned, before staggering to his feet and running off for more.

  Afterwards, we went to the pub for the booze and debauchery part of the event. It was rather light on the latter, until Jeremy was asked to leave a club after he’d split his trousers while attempting to breakdance. Still, everyone enjoyed themselves, including Ed’s dad, who came over to congratulate me near the end of the evening.

  ‘Well done, Allie. Your first best woman duty is now done and you’ve done yourself proud.’

  ‘Well, I hope Mike doesn’t feel put out. He is his brother after all.’

  ‘Mike would be the first to admit that he couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. Anyway, Ed thinks the world of you. His mother was convinced you two would end up together, you know.’

  ‘Oh. Ha! Really?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He chuckled. Then he caught my eye and whatever he saw in it made his laughter dissolve in his throat.

  *

  Six weeks later, I rose to my feet to deliver my speech in the magnificent dining room of Knowsley Hall. Every little touch of their big day had been perfection: the sprawling, Grade I listed mansion surrounded by blossom trees in full, delicate bloom. The vows, touching and understated, leaving barely a dry eye in the house. The wedding breakfast – succulent saddle of organic lamb and English asparagus with Jersey Royal potatoes, followed by a trio of tasteful desserts, none of which I’d been able to stomach.

  I wore an exquisitely tailored suit in a rich shade of navy, to match those worn by the groomsmen. Julia had told me that I could choose peach like the bridesmaids if I’d wanted, but that hadn’t felt right. Besides, the suit was so finely crafted, made just for me, that when I slipped it on with my Louboutin shoes and the singular rose pinned in the sweep of my hair, it gave me a welcome confidence boost after days of feeling fuzzy with nerves as I tried to get my speech right.

  I’d known before I even stood up that it wasn’t the best I could do.

  Because filling it full of all the memories I had of Ed would’ve been impossible without laying bare what I really felt for him. The whole room would’ve seen it written on my face, heard it in the quiver of my voice.

  So I skipped the conversations we’d have on the bus that would have us rolling with laughter until our cheeks hurt. I bypassed the hours we’d spend in his bedroom, talking about everything and nothing, and how, even at the age of fourteen, I’d somehow known that Ed was different from anybody else I would ever meet. I couldn’t tell them about the time we’d considered starting a band together, or the night we spent at the bonfire party, when we planned a future that never materialised. All of that would’ve revealed that my relationship with this man had caused me more pleasure and pain than any other. It also would have revealed something that only then, at that precise moment, I finally admitted to myself.

&n
bsp; I was hopelessly and irreversibly in love with him.

  Chapter 49

  Peggy met Gerald after she stumbled near the waterfall in the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont and he helped her to her feet. It was mid-autumn, on a day of colliding clouds and leaves that tripped and danced in the wind.

  ‘Mademoiselle! Ça va? Vous vous êtes fait mal?’ he asked.

  He spoke good French, but she could tell he wasn’t a Frenchman. His accent had a familiar intonation that warmed her insides.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she replied and a smile breezed onto his features, illuminating the soft grey eyes that he hid behind boxy spectacles.

  ‘You don’t look as if you’re from these parts,’ he said and she laughed.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  As much as Peggy loved France, it was nice to be around an Englishman. Gerald was relatively new to Paris too – he worked for Thomson Holidays, giving rich holidaymakers from England tours of the sights and taking them to restaurants with food that ‘pleased English tastes’.

  ‘There aren’t many of them, believe me,’ he’d chuckled.

  She liked Gerald’s kindness and humour, and the fact that he kept a jar of Branston Pickle to spread on his cheese for lunch. He was the first person she’d met since being in France who could make a proper cup of tea.

  She decided early on to tell him everything. She thought it only fair that he knew what he was getting: a girl who’d got herself pregnant out of wedlock, who’d scandalised her family and allowed strangers to take away her baby.

  Shame boiled inside her as she confessed every detail to him, expecting that, when she was finished, he wouldn’t want anything more to do with her. But he listened in silence, then pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair, whispering, ‘you poor love’ as she cried until her insides were raw.

  Peggy didn’t fall in love the way other girls do. She didn’t dance around her bedroom, giddy from the thought of his touch. Instead, on her nights off, she’d sit next to Gerald in his tiny flat in Montreuil, dunking galettes into her Ovaltine as she felt the warm press of his hand in hers. Gradually, she realised that she’d found gold: a man who knew her secrets and still loved her, regardless.