27
Six months later.
My mum looks more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. So beautiful, in fact, that I’ve had to ask the poor make-up artist to touch up my eye make-up several times because I keep crying it off. Her dress is delicate, her hair simple – a few orchids pinned to a low bun, a style that we chose together. It’s hard to remember the version of myself that fell apart in that hotel room in Ireland, devastated by the news of her wedding. Today I feel nothing but a vast sense of joy spreading through my chest, growing with every moment.
As I watch her put the final touches on her hair, I wonder whether my dad has been on her mind today, whether she’s thinking about the last time she got ready like this. Tears threaten at the thought: she must have been so excited then. Just as beautiful as she is now, only younger, less familiar with the struggles of being human.
I could ask her: we talk about him almost every day now.
My first week back in London, we pulled down the old family photos from the attic where my mum kept them, and have spent some time over the last few months organising them into albums together. We’ve cried – a lot – and shared memories I’d forgotten about, conjuring my dad in a vibrant shared memory. At times it’s almost felt like he’s been in the house with us. His jokes, his warmth. Though I still feel a little terrified sometimes, the dam has not gone back up: the flow of grief that started on the call with my mum has continued, releasing gradually into a deep sadness, which has edges of light. A sense of honouring the loss, but also a joy in remembering. Both coexisting, like my mum said they could.
To my surprise, Nigel has also been a great part of this process: a warm audience for anecdotes about my dad, a gentle spectator who has brought cups of tea and removed himself when we’ve needed a moment alone. If before I thought he was taking away the space that should’ve been reserved for my dad in the family, I couldn’t have been more wrong. There are photos of my mum and dad, and Nigel and his wife, all over the house. It’s been the perfect place to finally let myself grieve, after all this time.
My favourite photograph, which I’ve framed, is one of us all on the beach together. Mum and I are building a sandcastle, and Dad’s kneeling to watch, looking at us both like we’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, like he can’t believe how lucky he got. It feels heavy, sometimes, when I look at it, but mostly it’s a reminder: that he was here, that he loved us no matter what. That Mum and I can keep building, together.
‘You look beautiful, Mum,’ I say, deciding to focus on the present for now.
She takes my hand, and squeezes it hard. ‘If only I could see you this happy, Andie,’ she says, her voice thick.
‘I am happy,’ I say, squeezing back. And I mean it: the last few months have been full-on with all the wedding planning, but despite my lack of future plans I’ve felt calmer and more purposeful than I have in a long time. I’ve been getting comfortable with my own company, revisiting places I ran to New York to get away from: the cafe I visited with my dad every Saturday, the bookstore. I’ve even attended a few classes at his old yoga studio, and met some of his students, who’ve told me stories about him. The time he showed up to class wearing one of the fourteen pink T-shirts he bought me, because everything else he owned was in the wash. How sometimes he would blast death metal music in the middle of his sessions, to ‘keep everyone on their toes, and test their mental peace’. I’ve been writing them all down: a record of him, of us.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Just, if I can give you a piece of motherly advice—’
‘—Mum, if this is about setting me up with Elizabeth’s son again, I’ve already told you he’s gay—’
‘—OK, OK, that one was a mistake. Elizabeth said he was single, and his sexual orientation had simply never come up. I swear! But this isn’t about that. Listen to me, Andrea. I’ve gained some wisdom in the sixty years I’ve been on this earth.’
She’s called me Andrea, which she only does when she’s serious, so I quiet down and listen.
‘Sometimes,’ she says, putting her hand on my arm and leaning in so I have to look her in the eye, ‘you need to believe that you deserve the things that you want. Otherwise you’ll spend your whole life settling.’
‘What’s this about, Mum?’ I ask, though I think I already know.
‘All I’m saying, love, is that everyone has flaws. You’re impressively aware of yours. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to love and be loved.’
Ah, so this is about Jack. These are the perils of moving towards a more open relationship with my mum, as I’ve been trying to do over the last few months. She knows everything, and that means she has opinions about everything. Opinions I don’t always agree with.
I can’t deny I have been thinking about Jack a lot recently, wondering what he’s doing, how he’s feeling. Missing him, even. But I’m not sure I’m ready to reach out yet. Besides, based on the cosy pictures I saw of him and Aoife at her latest book launch, I don’t think it’s a line worth pursuing. Luckily for me, Sara interrupts the conversation before I have to respond.
‘Ladies!’ Her voice calls down the corridor as she clatters towards us in the very low bridesmaid heels that she absolutely cannot walk in. She pops her head round the door, takes a quick snap of us with her polaroid camera with no warning and before I can protest, then pulls us both into a hug which might also just be her using us to steady herself. ‘It’s time,’ she says as she pulls away, ushering us out of the room and giving my hand a squeeze as she does so.
As we emerge into the sprawling, rose-covered garden of the venue that I helped my mum find, the music starts and the tears start falling again. I catch Nigel’s eye at the other end of the aisle and see he’s been set off, too. He gives me a warm glance and a self-aware shrug that says ‘look at us’, laughing as he wipes away the tears. I bask in our shared love for my mum, tears flowing freely now. I’m absolutely sure my make-up is ruined again, but I don’t care. I’m happy for my mum, overwhelmingly so – she deserves every second of this celebration.
As I glance into the crowd, for a fraction of a second my breath catches – I could swear I see someone who is the spitting image of Jack. I stumble briefly, my heel catching in the grass. I must be imagining things, I’ve been seeing him everywhere lately: last I heard, he was in Spain at a writer’s retreat. I force myself to continue walking down the aisle, turning my attention back to the music, to my arm looped through my mum’s, her skin warm against mine.
I reach the end of the aisle and assuming my position to the left, next to Sara, who takes my hand and laces her fingers through mine. The ceremony starts, and suddenly Jack could not be further from my mind.
After the service ends, and my mum is swallowed by a crowd of guests, I send Sara and James in search of some champagne and find myself drifting towards the lake on the other side of the garden, in search of a moment alone. This view was what sold this venue for us, in the end. It’s vast, peaceful, a seemingly endless stretch of blue surrounded by trees.
I gaze over the water and my thoughts drift to my dad, as they often do these days. He’d be happy for her today, I know that. He was completely unselfish in that way – all he ever wanted, before all else, was for her to be happy.
I miss you , I think, willing the words to reach him. It hurts, still. But I’m learning to lean into it, the dull ache a reminder of the love. To let myself miss him, even in the moments when it feels impossible that he’s gone. Even though it still sometimes feels vast and overwhelming, it’s not something I want to run from anymore.
As I hold him in my thoughts, my gaze moves upwards, towards a flock of geese rising in smooth synchronicity, flying over the lake. A memory comes, floating into my mind – I am five years old, in Phoenix Park. My dad stands next to me, his arm outstretched to the sky. I gaze up in wonder at the formation of birds he’s pointing out, moving gracefully across the landscape. I lift my finger, tracing the V across the sky. He reaches down and holds my hand. I close my eyes, willing the memory to stay a little longer, so I can be in his presence for just a moment more. When I open them again, the flock has formed a perfect V, swooping above me. It’s as if I’m five, again – I can almost feel him next to me. I lift my finger and trace it, a tear rolling down my face. If I were a person who looked for signs, this would be one.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I say, under my breath. Maybe I am becoming that sort of person now.
After a few moments, I turn, preparing myself to return to the party, and walk straight into Jack.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ I say, clutching my chest. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
He smiles. ‘Ah, I’ve missed you swearing at me.’
‘Seriously, that was creepy,’ I say, smoothing my dress so I have something to do with my hands, hoping he can’t tell how flustered I am, how fast my heart is suddenly beating.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I was going to approach you, but it looked like a private moment.’
‘I was thinking about my dad,’ I say. ‘How he’d feel about today.’
‘Any thoughts?’ he says, tilting his head, the silence welcoming. If I wanted to, I could tell him about the memory.
‘I think he’d be sad to miss the party,’ I say, deciding against it.
He smiles, acknowledging the invisible line I’ve drawn, and allows silence to settle again. I wait it out. ‘The service was beautiful,’ he tries, but I can see from his eyes that this isn’t what he wants to talk about.
‘Jack,’ I say. ‘Why are you here?’
At this, his gaze moves over my shoulder. I turn to find my mum, standing outside the marquee, not-at-all-subtly staring at us. Ah. So that’s what the pre-wedding pep talk was about . I wave, and she waves back then returns to the tent. I’ll be having words with her tomorrow.
‘I still don’t understand,’ I say, turning back to Jack. ‘You know, with the way we left things. It looked like you and Aoife—’
At this, he rolls his eyes. ‘What is this thing about Aoife?’ he laughs. ‘I made a bet with myself that you’d see those photos and say something. I owe myself ten pounds.’
‘All I’m saying is you looked very cosy.’
‘Andie,’ he says, trying and failing to keep his expression serious. ‘I was leaning in to tell her that she was about to have a wardrobe malfunction. I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer not to be told out loud in front of Ireland’s best and brightest that my dress was about to, uh, stop performing its duties.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, now I feel very stupid.’
‘Not stupid,’ he says, taking a step towards me. ‘Just jealous. I find it endearing.’
He’s too close now, in the danger zone where I might stop thinking and start kissing him. I take a step backwards, and his face falls momentarily, but he recovers himself.
‘The real reason I came was to propose a new truce,’ he says, clearing his throat, his tone smooth and nonchalant, but I see through it. ‘I’ve had an opportunity to spend the next few months in London. My publishers over here want me to do some PR, and I’d like a change of scene while I write my next book.’ He pauses, as if considering his words carefully, then seems to throw caution to the wind. ‘But to be honest, the main appeal is that it brings me several thousand miles closer to you.’
This makes me momentarily unsteady on my feet. Maybe the bridesmaid heels aren’t so stable, after all .
‘The terms of the truce are this: I promise I will put all of my feelings for you to one side, if you agree to hang out with me occasionally. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I’d rather have you in my life than not at all.’ He pauses, rocking on his heels. ‘You’re the best person I’ve ever met.’
‘Oh,’ I say, disappointment flooding through me despite how heart-wrenchingly lovely his last words are.
And then, all at once, just how stupid this all is dawns on me in such a rush it almost knocks me over: I love this man. I love him.
And he has flown thousands of miles to ask me to be his friend. What are we doing ?
‘Or,’ he says, looking nervous now. I listen with every fibre of my being: all my energy is focused on what he’s about to say next. ‘Or, I can reject the offer, fly back to New York and leave you alone. If that’s what you want.’
If the first option was disappointing, this one is gut-wrenching.
I want him, more than anything. And these last six months, I haven’t allowed myself to even consider that I might be able to have what I want. But now he’s here, right in front of me. I can keep waiting indefinitely, or I can decide, right now, to trust myself, the way Sara and my mum trust me. The way Jack trusts me.
I’ve taken so many steps forwards in the last six months. All it would take is one more.
‘I don’t want you to go back to New York,’ I say, a sudden resolve forming inside me. I take a step closer to him, and watch his jaw clench almost unnoticeably as I move within touching distance.
‘So, option one, then,’ he says, his voice quiet and breathless. By this point, I’m right in front of him. I reach out and take hold of the lapels of his suit jacket.
‘Is option one what you want?’ I ask, looking up at him for confirmation. I have a hunch but I’m still tense, ready to back off at the first sign that I’ve got it all wrong. He shakes his head slowly and relief floods through me. It’s all I can do not to kiss him then and there, but I need to hear it. I need to be sure. ‘No, Andie,’ he says, his voice firm. ‘I think you know what I want.’
‘Good,’ I say, pulling him towards me until his face is inches from mine, his breath warm on my cheek. My heart is beating at a hundred miles an hour, but I hardly notice, the gravitational pull towards him is so strong. I run my hand down his back, and I hear his breath catch in his throat. ‘Because I don’t know about you, but I’m really fucking sick of truces.’