Epilogue
NOAH
‘But I don’t wanna go to Richmond Park.’ Rollo’s face is mutinous. ‘It’s boring. It doesn’t even have a playground.’
I stifle a laugh. It’s been a month since Stephanie’s funeral, and a month since Honor told me she was leaving Jackson. And while it’s been bloody amazing, we’ve had to tread carefully while she and Jackson have rolled out their “conscious uncoupling” strategy with a small army of advisors.
We’ve been careful not to be spotted anywhere publicly together, so there have been a lot of hotel rooms over the past four weeks.
Not that I’m complaining about that at all.
We could be Tripadvisor experts by now. The Montague had the softest bed, The Lanesborough, the best power shower, and The Connaught won the prize for best room service (truffled pizza).
Basically, we’ve been shagging all over London, and I’m permanently in a sex-and-love-fuelled haze, because there is no feeling like being with Honor and knowing that she’s mine alone, that I get a future with her, when the time is right and her kids are sufficiently okay to deal with the idea that their mum has a new man in her life.
Today’s a big day: it’s the first day we’re going out together, in public, and the first time we’ll be seen with Honor’s kids.
But one of the moves she and her publicist have made this month is to withdraw consent for the press to photograph Rollo and Serena, so any published photos of them will be pixellated.
It’s a small step, but an important one in Honor’s journey to claw back some semblance of privacy.
She asked me to come to the house today to spend the day with them, but I have no idea what her plans are. She seemed self-conscious about my seeing her home for the first time, and now I’m here, I understand why.
Holy fuck.
Hector, who’s Honor’s weekend security detail, picks me up and drives me through the gates of an enormous white stucco villa in the exclusive oval-shaped enclave that is The Boltons.
It’s only the last weekend in November, but the whole house is already fully decorated for Christmas, and I suspect it wasn’t Honor up a ladder, stringing the millions of fairy lights over all the trees in the front garden.
We park in the subterranean garage, thereby giving slip to any paps who may be hanging out of nearby vehicles, and Hector takes me up to the ground floor in a lift.
Yes. A lift. And when I step out, Honor’s waiting for me in a hallway full of glittering surfaces, and she puts her arms around me so tightly I forget about everything else.
‘We’re having Family Sunday,’ she tells me, her face muffled by my coat.
‘What?’ I disentangle her gently and gaze at her dear, beautiful face.
‘You told me once me you wished for Family Sundays. Well, I know they’re not your kids, and I can’t call it Family Sunday in front of them because I don’t want to freak them out—or you. But I want to give you some version of the day you’ve been dreaming of.’
I’m blown away. She remembers what I told her, and she remembers that I confessed to seeing her face in my Family Sunday fantasy. I wonder if she remembers that I said I imagined her as my wife.
‘You’re too much.’ I dip my head and kiss her, trapping her in my arms and gently opening her mouth with mine. She melts against me and moans a little.
‘Tell me what I said I wanted to do on Family Sunday,’ I murmur against her lips.
‘Richmond Park.’ A kiss. ‘Roast lunch, which you’ll be cooking, obviously.’
‘Mmm hmm. And what will you be doing, exactly?’
‘Keeping your glass topped up. Ogling you. Distracting you.’
‘Sounds acceptable. And what else?’
‘I believe you promised me a family movie which, I should warn you, will probably be Encanto. Again.’
‘I haven’t seen Encanto.’
‘That makes one of us. And then you promised to drag me off to bed and make love to me once we’d got rid of the kids.’
‘I promised my wife that. But, seeing as you want me to hold your hand on your deathbed, I’m pretty confident I can lock you down sometime soon. Until then, let’s practice.’ I kiss her again. She’s too kissable. Too loving. Too thoughtful. She’s perfect.
She’s given me a tour of her home, which is so stunning it’s fucking terrifying.
Jackson moved into his Knightsbridge pied-à-terre a few weeks back, and apparently he’s happy for Honor to keep the house.
And now we’re negotiating with the kids.
Rollo didn’t get the Family Sunday memo and I can see Honor’s torn between being desperate to uphold my dream schedule to the letter and not wanting to scream at her children in front of me.
‘You’ll quickly see, Family Sundays aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,’ she says to me through gritted teeth.
I laugh. I’m so thrilled to be here with them, and I’m so relieved neither of the kids has spat in my face or kicked me in the shin for breaking up their mum and dad that I’ll take any version of today. It’s not worth upsetting the kids over.
‘I’m easy,’ I tell Rollo. ‘If you want to go to a different park, that’s cool. But Richmond Park is great for making camps. There are lots of fallen tree trunks. And we can bring a ball and have a kick around. What do you think?’
He looks unconvinced.
‘There are lots of deer there, too,’ I continue. ‘Did you ever see that video of the guy whose dog went nuts chasing the deer in Richmond Park? It went viral.’
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Viral? Can I see it?’
‘Sure.’ I fish my phone out of my pocket and google up Fenton Richmond Park. It’s a decade-old video of a guy screaming at his dog, but it still gets me every time, and by the time I’ve shown the kids, the four of us are shaking with laughter.
‘Let’s go to Richmond Park!’ Rollo shouts. ‘I want to see the deer!’
‘You’re a genius,’ Honor mouths at me. First battle survived.
HONOR
Noah enchants us all.
He plays with my kids in Richmond Park—rather, he runs them ragged between football and deer-spotting and using fallen tree trunks as hurdles.
It’s been a late Autumn, and the ground is still a bed of vividly coloured leaves.
I know the kids are taking today at face-value: just because they’ve had a good time running around with Noah, doesn’t mean they’re going to instantly accept him as a new father-figure in their lives, but it’s a great first step. I’ll take it.
I have no idea if anyone, professional or opportunistic passer-by, got footage of us in the park today.
But we’ll deal with that tomorrow. For once, I’m relaxed.
Noah and I need to go public at some point, especially given how cosy Jackson and Leila looked at the Vet UK premiere a couple of weeks ago.
We’re quickly educating Noah on the gaping chasm between theoretical and real Family Sundays.
Serena vetoes Classic FM in favour of a Spotify UK Hits playlist, and Rollo hasn’t yet practised his spellings for school tomorrow, so I help him with them while Noah peels potatoes (I wasn’t kidding about him doing the cooking).
As a dyslexic, Rollo finds spellings excruciatingly painful, and I’m right there with him, ricocheting between frustration and heartbreak and wondering why the hell the kid needs to learn to spell anyway, when everything his generation writes will be voice-led or auto-corrected.
But there’s no point in trying to present some phoney, picture-perfect version of family life for Noah.
He needs to know what he’s getting himself into.
Noah surpasses himself with the most delicious roast sirloin, which even the kids devour, and after they’ve scarpered, he and I linger at the table over our bottle of red.
It’s so bloody fantastic having him here.
His presence warms the entire house up. I beam at him and brush his leg with mine under the table.
‘I love having you in my home. You make everything better.’
‘I’m not sure anything or anyone could make this place better.’ He looks up at the light installation, which is hundreds of wisps of smoked glass. ‘It’s a palace. It’s stunning, and elegant, and stylish. Just like its owner.’
I twist around in my seat to face him. ‘Could you see yourself living here someday? When the dust has settled and the kids are fully on board? I mean, your flat is gorgeous, so I don’t want to assume anything.
’ I finger the stem of my wineglass nervously.
‘I’m not saying this all has to be on my terms, obviously.
And I know it’s further from Good Vibes than your flat. ’
‘Darling.’ He’s grinning at me. ‘Stop overthinking. We’ll work it all out. And even if this wasn’t the most incredible home I’ve ever been in, hands down, I’d still want us to base ourselves wherever you and your kids are most comfortable. So chill.’
‘Okay.’ I let out a deep sigh.
‘Actually, there’s one caveat.’ He runs a couple of fingers up my thigh, over my jeans. ‘I may need to road-test your bed before I agree to anything long term with this place.’
Noah in my bed. Oh my God. I’ve wanted it so badly, and it’s going to happen. I practically jump out of my seat.
‘Let’s go.’
I abandon the idea of a family movie and leave the kids to it.
They’re far happier watching YouTube on the giant screen in the basement, anyway.
I give them bowls of popcorn and, having ascertained that they’re sufficiently disinterested in us, I lead Noah upstairs.
I hope he doesn’t mind omitting a key part of his Family Sunday schedule.
When we walk into the master suite, which takes up most of the first floor, he lets out a low whistle.
‘Jesus Christ, darling. This puts every hotel we stayed in to shame.’ He circles and points at the rococo nude. ‘That is sensational.’
‘Glad you like it,’ I purr.
‘But she has nothing on you.’ He glances at the giant bed. ‘I’m going to focus very hard on ignoring the fact that this is your marital bed.’
‘Was. Big was. And we can get a new one, if it bothers you. But I’ll do my best to help you focus.’