Chapter 55
Rachel
A few days before Christmas, Emma and I head to London for some last-minute shopping.
After several frantic months working on commissions, I’ve finally signed off for the festive season.
This is something I am steadfast on: a fortnight of quality time at Christmas, every single year, for me and my daughter.
Josh is in London today too, seeing his agent and publisher. We agree to meet rinkside at Somerset House for hot chocolates, to watch the skating.
I haven’t spent time with him one-on-one for eighteen months or so, since that day at the café, when he told me he was still hoping to find an antidote to the pill. But I agreed to meet him today – with Oliver’s full knowledge – because there is something I need to ask him.
But, so far, I’ve found it too hard to say the words.
It is close to five o’clock. The courtyard glints gold in the dusk, shimmering with Christmas and whirling with skaters.
Next to me, my six-year-old is watching it all, mesmerised.
Her blonde hair is wild and haphazard, in desperate need of a trim, and her mouth is smeared with hot chocolate, which has also found its way on to the front of her pale grey coat.
Lawrence occasionally gets huffy about what he sees as her scruffiness.
But I am determined never to get hung up on hairbrushes and wet wipes and on only letting her eat stuff that won’t stain.
Because it is moments like these – messy or not – that I cherish the most, that I use to plug the ache in me whenever we are apart.
Josh turns to look at me, the rosy glow of the rink reflected in his eyes, breath clouding in the rimy air.
His skin is so flawless, it gleams. He told me once he can’t shave any more, because it won’t grow back.
But I’m secretly pleased by this, because I’ve always thought stubble looks lovely on him.
I have known for a while that it can no longer be in question: a decade on, and he hasn’t aged a day. He will look, for the rest of his life, as though the best is yet to come.
In contrast, I’m aware that tiny lines spring to my eyes and mouth now, whenever I smile.
That my skin has a touch less spring these days, and my clothes are a little snugger.
I’m not sure if this bothers me, really.
I certainly don’t expend much energy thinking about it.
But, whenever I am with Josh, it’s hard not to compare the way I look with the appearance of a man who is, essentially, living life in freeze-frame.
He tells me about the meeting he’s had today, to discuss a potential project. His publisher has come up with an idea for a novel, and asked Josh if he will write it. ‘I know beggars can’t be choosers, but the idea was pretty bonkers.’
At this, Emma giggles.
‘What’s funny?’ Josh says, turning to her with a teasing expression. ‘Bonkers? What’s so funny about bonkers?’
This, of course, only makes her laugh harder.
‘So will you do it?’ I ask.
He nods, but so sadly it hurts my heart. ‘Can’t not write. Or turn down work. If that’s my only option then . . . of course.’
‘Have faith,’ I assure him. ‘I’m sure world domination is just around the corner.’
He smiles gratefully. ‘So, tell me. How’s everything going, with Oliver?’
I struggle to know how to answer this. Because there will never be an easy way to talk about my boyfriend with the man I once promised to love forever.
I let out a breath, nodding down at Emma. She has returned her attention to her hot chocolate, clamping the cup over her nose, determined to fish out every last drop with her tongue. ‘Can I fill you in later?’
‘Sure. Sorry.’ He nods back, then claps his hands. ‘Right. Who’s up for a skate?’
Emma immediately abandons her cup. ‘Me!’
‘No one?’ Josh says, pretending to look around. ‘You’re sure? No one else wants to come skating with me?’
‘Me!’ Emma squeals. ‘I do!’
Josh exaggerates a shrug. ‘Oh, well. I guess it’s just me, then.’
Emma tugs fiercely at his coat between gulps of laughter, practically falling off her seat in desperation. ‘Me, I want to!’
He looks down at her. ‘Oh, hello. Didn’t see you there.’
This elicits another feverish round of giggles, which makes me laugh too.
Josh dips his face to Emma’s. ‘Did I hear you say you’d like to come skating with me?’
She nods several times in quick succession.
He looks at me. ‘Coming?’
The truth is, I would love to get on the rink right now.
But I am a terrible skater, all legs and no co-ordination, even more so than Josh.
Which means that at some point I will be forced to grab his hand.
And that – at Christmas, on an ice rink together – would be crossing the line I have drawn inside my heart.
I shake my head, lift my sketchbook. ‘I’m recording it all for posterity.’
Josh looks down at Emma. ‘It’s just you and me, kid. Mum’s bottled it.’
‘Here, sweetie.’ I take out a tissue and wipe the chocolate from Emma’s mouth and chin before they go. Over the top of her head, I meet Josh’s eye, and feel his gaze tug at me, like a tide running out to sea.
‘Come on, then,’ he says to Emma, taking her mittened hand. ‘Better get . . .’ He pauses, raising his eyebrows at her in anticipation.
‘. . . our skates on!’ she squeals, delightedly.
I have worried since Emma was born that it is cruel, asking Josh if he would like to spend time with her. That I am parading parenthood in front of him. It often feels, at the very least, spectacularly insensitive.
But, whenever we are all together, those misgivings just melt away.
As they walk off hand in hand towards the ice rink, Josh bending down to hear something Emma is saying, I have to swallow a lump in my throat so large, it almost won’t shift.