Epilogue
A year later…
“I’ll get it!” I shout to Ryan as the doorbell rings. I’m heading down the corridor to inelegantly drag open the heavy chapel door and welcome the first of our living-as-a-couple housewarming guests.
Sir John, whom I have accompanied on several more shopping trips, thanks to the lure of Emma’s discount, is on the front step in his brand new ‘casual barbecue apparel’ (pastel rather than striped tie). He hands me what looks like a very expensive bottle of wine, which I resolve to squirrel away at the back of the fridge.
He greets me with his usual bluster, “Is this a church? Why the devil does he live in a church? Is your young bedfellow a squatter?”
I steer Sir John towards the garden, “No, no, it’s a chapel, remember. He converted it. He did the…architecting. Remember the present from Henry?”
“Hmm. It’s very small,” Sir John mutters, glancing around the place. “Is there enough room for the two of you here?”
I smile as I pour him a glass of wine in the kitchen. “Is this your way of saying you miss me, Sir John?”
He harrumphs as he takes the glass. “Don’t be ridiculous.” After a beat, he says, “It is a little quieter, I suppose.”
“I’m around for a writing session every weekday! And you’re never in on the weekends anyway!”
Today is one of the rare Saturdays when Sir John isn’t staying with Ophelia’s family in Sussex, having taken to grandfathering with aplomb.
“Well, perhaps you are missed a little,” Sir John says without his usual bombast, “but as long as you’re happy.”
I think back over the last two months of squabbling, cuddles (and yes, more squabbles). “I am,” I say truthfully. Sir John smiles and pats me on the shoulder before wandering out into the garden. I follow him. Ryan is keeping a watchful eye on the burgers while Cecille stands beside him, giving him a long list of helpful tips. Sir John wanders over to add his own views despite the fact he never mastered toast, and I grin as Ryan’s frown furrows further. Adam is flirting outrageously with Ryan’s mum, and Ryan’s dad is fruitlessly trying to engage Javier in football talk. Emma looks on, thoroughly bored. I wonder if the kind thing to do would be to redirect Gareth towards Adam, who would enjoy the football talk, but I remember Javier’s haiku and decide to let him suffer.
Emma makes a break for it and wanders over to me. I feel my heart rate quicken. Emma and I have an unspoken truce, but we’re still guarded with each other. In all of our meetings since Ryan and I got back together, I’ve felt her studying me. I totally get it; she’s looking out for her brother like any good sibling, and it’ll take a while before she trusts me. Today she offers a quick smile and cheers her wine glass against mine, and I almost relax. We trade stories about Ryan’s annoying tidiness (which has thankfully been the only real source of our quarrels since moving in together two months ago), and we laugh. Things are easier than they’ve been since the Anastasia reveal. Her smile seems genuine as she wanders back and rescues Javier from her dad’s “seventy-eight interesting facts about Tottenham Hotspur.” I’m not quite there yet with her, but it’s better.
An arm drapes over my shoulder; I turn my head to Ryan’s grin. “Third degree again?” he asks. “No, we were mostly complaining about you,” I grin back.
“Me?” he laughs indignantly. “What is there to possibly complain about?!”
“Well, the fact that you’ve abandoned your post for a start. Why aren’t you tending to the burgers?!”
“Too many cooks. I’ve left Sir John and Cecille to duke it out.”
“Sir John doesn’t know anything about cooking!” I protest. “He only ever enters a kitchen to hurry Mrs Jenkins’ breakfast along and possibly for some sociological research. And I’m not sure he’s even had a burger! But he does like opinions.”
Just then, the doorbell goes again, and it’s my parents and Bea – looking remarkably cheerful for a city-phobe who’s also had a long journey with my parents.
“Bea – you survived,” I cry, hugging her.
“Why shouldn’t she have survived?” my mother mutters indignantly.
Bea whispers urgently in my ear, “Point me directly to the beers, now!” I do, with the greatest sympathy.
Mum and Dad are next in the line-up. They hug me and Ryan, my mother managing to simultaneously make me feel guilty for not visiting recently while also telling me it’s a good thing I’ve finally moved in with a man, as it’s about time I became an adult who didn’t rely quite so much on her parents. They head straight through to the garden, Dad immediately going to add his unneeded support to the barbecue crew and Mum making a beeline for Joy to compliment her dress / interrogate her about whether Ryan visits his parents more than I do mine.
We watch them all for a minute – a motley crew of friends and family. It’s not what central casting would assemble for a Jacob’s Creek summer party advert, maybe, but it gives me the warmest glow to see them all there together.
Adam places Ryan’s chef’s hat on Sir John, who, somewhat miraculously, has taken up the task of dishing out the burgers. Narrowing his eyes and without turning around, he stiffly removes the hat with wounded dignity. While everyone else is distracted, Ryan nuzzles my neck. I lean into him, relishing the hardness of his chest, taking in the smell of soap and charcoal.
“So, Agony Alex, I need some advice,” he whispers. “I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long while. How do I keep that going?”
“No more advice for starters,” I whisper back.
“No?”
“No,” I say adamantly, “We muddle through like everyone else and just take it one day at a time.”
Ryan kisses the back of my neck. “Agreed,” he says happily.