Chapter 20
Rose is very firmly in headphones-only mode, her face a perfect picture of nothing at all. She is not giving me anything – not anger, not sadness, not even I-hate-your-stupid-face. Somehow this emptiness and neutrality is even worse, and part of me wishes she’d pour her coffee over my head and tell me to go screw myself.
She’s not the only one giving me the cold shoulder. Josh left for London on the same night we talked, and has maintained radio silence ever since. I have sent a few exploratory messages, and even sat on the fire escape of the Starshine Inn to send them – that’s where the best reception is, and where the teenagers tend to hang out. I felt like I should really be sneaking a ciggie and swigging a WKD while I was there.
He hasn’t replied, and I can’t say that I blame him. What I said to him that day in Kittiwake was harsh but true, and needed to be said. I still feel like my life is a bit of a car crash, and I don’t want him tangled up in the wreckage. I hope I won’t always feel this way, and I have talked to Priya about steps I might be able to take to help myself – but for now, going home is the right thing.
It makes sense. It is logical. It hurts like hell, and I have never felt so lonely in my life. I am a hollowed-out shell of a woman, pretending she knows what is for the best.
Rose, naturally enough, does not agree. She accepted that we were going back, but was very plainly upset and disappointed. At least she was while she was still sharing her emotions with me – now I’ve been shut out, and I think that’s worse.
Connie dropped us off at the station in Dorchester this morning, and we both had tears in our eyes as we said goodbye. This time I didn’t even mind her hugging me.
“Come back soon,” she’d said, passing us small packets of her home-made cookies for the journey. “Both of you. There’ll always be a place for you here.”
Rose’s headphones had gone on as soon as we were in our seats, and have remained there ever since. I don’t know if she’s listening to music or a podcast or nothing at all, and just using them as a way to blank me. Again, I can’t say that I blame her – it is a difficult age, sixteen. You have all of the urges to be independent, to make your own choices, but, most of the time, none of the ability.
We are now at Heathrow, waiting for our flight to Dublin. From there I will pick up my battered old Nissan from the long-stay car park, and we will drive over the border and back to our home. I can’t imagine what that will feel like, walking through the front door, the place unlived in, letters pooled on the hallway floor and the whole house filled with that musty smell that buildings get when they have been left empty.
I realise that I feel sad at the prospect – melancholy at what I have left behind, and what I am returning to. I remind myself that it was my choice, that it is what I wanted, what I needed – and that at least I was in charge of that decision. Poor Rose was not.
We are sitting at a table in one of the bars. I have done my normal duty-free raid on the perfume, but am not feeling my usual airport vibe. Can it really only be weeks ago that I met Josh in a place very similar to this? Since then, so much has happened – so much has gone right, so much has gone wrong. I feel like one of those wobble-headed dog ornaments, not sure which way to look or what to think.
I check my phone, and sip my coffee, and look around at my fellow passengers. I try, but it’s no use – I can’t even make up any back stories for them. I can, however, imagine the back story other people might make up about us – uncommunicative teen and desperate mum. They’d probably assume the sadness in my eyes is because of that – and part of it is – but part of it is because I suspect I’ve made an awful mistake. I can tell myself I am right all day long, but it still feels wrong. I miss him already, and the knowledge that I pushed him away – not just as a lover but as a friend – has left a fault line down the middle of my heart.
I need to hold it together, I remind myself. If not for my sake, then for my daughter’s. While she is supremely focused on ignoring me and staring at her phone screen, I let my own eyes wander over her, taking in the winged eye liner in its dramatic swoops, the purple stripes in her hair. The fa?ade of not caring when I know that she must be a seething mass of everything beneath the surface. God, I love her so much.
I gently kick her booted ankle, and she jerks up her eyes to glare at me. Okay, she doesn’t look happy, but at least it’s a response. I make a gesture of headphone removal, and she reluctantly complies.
“I’m sorry,” I say simply, almost amused when she frowns at me in confusion.
“What for? Kicking me? ’Cause I’m pretty sure you did that on purpose.”
“No, I’m sorry for all of it. I know you didn’t want to leave, and I know you feel steam rollered and I know you feel like I haven’t listened. And I’m sorry. I love you so much, and all I want is for you to be happy.”
She turns this over in her mind, and absently winds the wires of her earphones around her fingers.
“Does that mean we can go back then?” she asks, predictably enough.
“No,” I say. “Not right now anyway. I know things have been tough for you recently – you’ve had to face up to stuff that no child should need to face up to, and I’m sorry about that. I wanted to protect you from it all.”
“Well, you didn’t – and that’s fine. Pretending things are great when they’re actually shit isn’t protecting someone, is it? It’s kind of lying to them. So, I’m glad I know, even if it does make me feel mega-ick inside.”
“Mega-ick? That’s new!”
“Yeah. I just invented it. Might get it trademarked. So, is that what you’re sorry about?”
“That and a lot of things,” I reply, trying to get this right. “I’m sorry you were hurt, and I’m sorry about the mega-ick. But I also know how much you wanted to stay in Starshine Cove, and now you must feel like I’ve shut you down – like I’ve made everything about me.”
She raises her eyebrows at me, and answers: “Well, you have. That’s exactly what you’ve done, Mum. And I’m not a baby, I understand that – I know it’s complicated for you, I know you need… I don’t know, a safe space or whatever. But that doesn’t make it all right for me. I’m too selfish to pretend it does, and I’m still upset.”
“That’s okay,” I say, reaching out to place a calming hand on hers. “It’s fine to be selfish at your age – actually, at any age really. Sometimes we need to pay attention to our own wants and needs, and that isn’t always easy. Sometimes the last voice we listen to is our own. So, how about this – we both keep an open mind. I do need to go home, love, you’re right – and this is one of those times that I have to be selfish too. But I promise that I have listened to you, and I am not ruling out any of your suggestions. I need a bit of time to regroup, to go to work, to do laundry, to just be normal for a while, you know? I’m not setting any timescale on that, because I’d be lying if I did – but I do promise you that we will look at all the options for you. For us.”
“Do those options include going back to Starshine? I talked to Archie about it, you know, and he said he’d give an apprenticeship scheme some thought. If it’s not me, it might be someone else.”
“Yes, that could be one of the options. But not the only one – I do think it’s worth looking closer to home as well. Is that a deal? Will you hate me less now?”
She shrugs and rolls her eyes and responds: “I never hated you, Mum. I just had hate-like feelings towards you. And yeah, that’s a deal. Now, as we’re both being all mature and stuff, what about Josh?”
I stiffen slightly as she says his name and wonder if I will always feel raw when I think about him, or if it will fade. If I will always feel this sense of loss. If I will always wonder where he is, what his life looks like, what we could have had together.
“As before, love, there’s nothing to tell you,” I reply, sounding calmer than I feel. “There might have been, in another life – in some kind of parallel universe.”
She nods and squeezes my hand. She looks very serious, and I’m expecting some kind of teen-girl wisdom. Instead, she says: “That’s a shame. He was really, really hot.”
I laugh out loud, because she says it in such a deadpan way it’s impossible not to.
“He was, for sure!” I say, grinning.
“Do you think you might stay friends?” she asks. “I mean, if you could, would you still have him in your life?”
I’m not quite sure how much to say in response to this question. We might be sharing, but she is still my child, and these are turbulent waters to navigate. I’m also simply not sure what the answer is. Maybe it would be too hard, seeing him, speaking to him… being close to him but never as close as I’d want. I’m not sure look-but-don’t-touch is a trick I would have been able to pull off.
“I’m not sure,” I say in the end. “I do really like him, and yes, he is hot, and… maybe we could be friends. But I suppose I didn’t want to keep him hanging on, you know? I didn’t think it was fair to keep him around just in case I had a change of heart.”
“Sounds like you made his mind up for him,” she replies, frowning. “And I’m not totally sure he agreed with you.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask, confused – surely she hasn’t been in touch with him?
“The fact that he’s walking towards us right now.”
I splutter, and feel my eyes go wide, and wonder if she’s winding me up. I mean, as practical jokes go, a bit cruel – but definitely effective. I twist my head around to take a quick look over my shoulder, then whip it back again so quickly I feel something tweak in the side of my neck.
“Oh God,” I mutter, suddenly nervous. It wasn’t a joke – it really is him. I have no idea what he’s doing here, and even less idea how to react.
My daughter smirks at me, openly amused at my bamboozled response, and stands up, grabbing her backpack and headphones.
“Think I’m going to go and buy one of those giant Toblerones. Good luck!”
I am tempted to grab her hand and pull her back into her seat, but she seems to predict that move and skips quickly away. I take a deep breath, and gulp down some now tepid coffee, and have the irrational thought that I wish I’d done more with my hair this morning than barely run a brush through it.
Within seconds he is standing in front of me, half a smile on his lips as he takes in my dishevelled state and the furious blush I can feel predictably enough creeping over my cheeks. He’s wearing jeans and T-shirt tonight, far less formal than the first time I met him – but just as delicious.
“Hi… is this seat taken?” he says smoothly. “No problem if it is…”
“Ha! What if I said yes, it is taken?”
“I wouldn’t believe you,” he replies, twisting Rose’s chair around so that he is facing me when he sits. He simply stares at me for a few moments, and I return the favour. It is barely two days since I last saw him, but it feels like a lifetime. I find myself looking for signs of change, convinced that his hair is visibly longer, his skin more tanned. The deep brown of his eyes even more hypnotic.
“Umm… what are you doing here, Josh?” I eventually ask, tearing my gaze away from his. “Are you going somewhere?”
“No,” he says, grinning, “but I did have to buy a ticket to get this far. Got the cheapest I could – and now I have the option of taking a one-way flight to Jersey if this conversation doesn’t go well.”
“Okay. That’s weird. How did you know I was here?”
“Psychic powers.”
“Did Ella tell you?”
“Maybe. Are you mad at her?”
I smile and shake my head. How could I be mad with her? When Ella found out about me and Josh, she wasn’t even surprised – she said she’d known all along that we’d like each other. That woman has become a hopeless romantic since she found her own happy ending.
“I’m not mad at her, no. But I’m still not sure why you’re here…”
He lets out an audible sigh, and takes one of my hands in both of his. I am distracted by the touch of his fingertips against the flesh of my palms, and even that mildest of touches is enough to spark a tendril of warmth in my tummy.
“I’m here because I wanted to tell you something. I even wrote a speech, but decided it was rubbish and threw it away… first of all, I want to say I’m sorry for how I behaved the last time we saw each other. I should have given you time, and breathing space, and not piled on extra pressure at exactly the time you couldn’t cope with it. You were still in shock from dealing with Robert, and then I turn up like a macho arsehole talking about my feelings…”
“I don’t think that’s a thing macho arseholes are renowned for – talking about their feelings. And please don’t apologise. You’re entitled to them, you know? Feelings. You were upset too. And I… well, I regret the way that conversation went as well. I didn’t want to leave things like that – but that doesn’t mean that I was wrong.”
I hate saying this. I hate the fact that I might hurt him, or disappoint him. That I might not give him the happy ending that a romantic gesture like this deserves. I hate it for my sake as well – because I don’t just feel glad to see him, I actually feel relieved. Something about being near him again allows a tense, clenched part of me to unfurl, to relax. I hadn’t realised how much better I feel, simply being near him.
But while all of that is true, and while part of me wants nothing more than to reach out, take his face between my hands and kiss him, I still don’t think that would be fair.
His fingers tighten around mine, and he shuffles forward so that our knees are touching. He looks me directly in the eyes, and says: “Okay. I think maybe I’m going to use some of that speech now, if that’s all right by you? All I need is for you to be quiet, and just listen. Stop trying to be fair and do the right thing and warn me off, and just listen – can you do that?”
I nod, and do as I’m told. I stay quiet. He gives me the lop-sided half-a-grin and speaks.
“So, when I met Amelia, I thought she was someone I could fancy. She was sassy and confident and sexy as hell. Definitely the kind of woman who brightened up a boring hour in an airport lounge. But when I met Lucy – when I got to know you as you, not the pretend version – I liked her even more. She wasn’t as sassy, and not as confident, but she was just as sexy. More than that, she was strong – so much stronger than she thought she was. She was kind, and caring, and a good mum and a good friend, and someone who just got me. And that day Robert turned up, and when I found you packing your case? That’s when I realised that although Amelia was someone I could fancy, Lucy was someone I was falling in love with.”
My mouth falls open as he says these final words, and I feel tears sting in my eyes. I am caught between so many feelings: delight, fear, relief, panic. And tenderness – such a huge amount of tenderness for this man, for his courage, for his honesty. For everything he is. For the way he has held my heart in his hands and brought me back to life.
“I haven’t finished yet,” he warns, when I try to speak. “And if I’m going to end up on that flight to Jersey, I at least want to make sure I said my piece, okay?”
I clamp my lips closed, and just let him talk. I had no clue what I was going to say anyway. It would either be “I’m sorry but this isn’t the right time”, or “I will love you for all eternity, never leave my side”. There doesn’t seem to be very much in between.
“I know you’re a mess, Lucy – because you never stop telling me that. You never stop telling yourself that – as though everyone else is all neat and tidy. Thing is, I happen to like that mess. I like you, and everything about you. I like you enough to wait, for as long as it takes. Go home to Ireland, and see how you feel. Go back to your life there, and see how it fits. Stay in touch with me or block me from your contacts for a while – whichever might feel better for you. But don’t just end this because you think it’s for the best – it’s not for the best, for either of us.
“I’m not demanding anything from you right now, Lucy, and I’m not expecting anything. There is no timetable for this. No checklist. I just need you to hear me: I will wait for you. For a moment, for a month, for a lifetime – I will wait for you, because you are worth it. We are worth it.”
I am silent, lost in his eyes, lost in his words. Lost in a world of new emotions – in this surge of simple joy. Lost in feeling accepted, wanted… and safe. Can that actually be right? Is that something I’m even capable of? Maybe I am a mess. Maybe he’s a mess. Maybe we can be a mess together.
“You can talk now,” he says, looking slightly nervous. “Or tell me to have a nice time in St Helier.”
“I don’t really want to talk,” I reply, “or think. Or be sensible. I just want to trust the way I feel right now.”
He is still holding my hands, and I pull myself free from his grip. I do what I have wanted to do since the moment I saw him – put my hands on either side of his face, lean forward and kiss him. His fingers wind into my hair, pulling me closer, returning my kiss with such intensity that if I wasn’t already sitting, my legs would quiver.
When the kiss finally ends, we are both laughing, both holding on to each other, both oblivious to the world going on around us. To the other people, the suitcases on wheels, the flight announcements, the hustle and the bustle and the noise and the motion. None of it matters, because we are together.
We are together, and he will wait for me, no matter how long it takes.