Epilogue
Five years later
Dylan’s leg bounced as she scanned the busy conference.
The packed room and bright lights made it almost impossible to see as she shielded her eyes against the glare, searching the crowd.
She tugged at the high collar of her blue pinstriped shirt and brushed a hand down the lapel of her brown fitted suit jacket.
‘Fuck, where is she?’ she muttered under her breath.
Conversations petered out as the event coordinator, Jill Montrose, moved toward the lectern.
A shrill screech reverberated briefly through the sound system as Jill fiddled with the position of the microphone.
Hush descended across the room. Jill waited for complete silence as the last few delegates took their seats.
‘Thank you for returning promptly, everybody. I hope you all enjoyed your lunch, are feeling suitably refreshed and are ready for the second half of today’s exciting itinerary.
Once again, we’d like to thank The Kimpton Clocktower Manchester for hosting our annual TYA Congress.
’ She paused for a sip of water. ‘And thank you again to Rachel Mack for closing this morning’s talks with her insightful presentation on the challenges of TYA ward-based treatment compliance and complications.
We start this afternoon's talks with a presentation from Doctor St John-Vincent.’ She gestured with an open palm toward the side of the stage.
‘Where the fuck is she?’ Dylan murmured again, her hand clasped over her thigh.
‘Please give her a warm welcome,’ Jill added as applause broke out across the huge room.
A few moments passed as the applause died down.
‘Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Doctor St John-Vincent…but, thanks to my wife’s insistence that we double-barrelled, it’s a pretty tricky tongue twister.’ A low hum of laughter rippled over the audience. ‘So, in the interest of making life easier for everyone, please just call me Dylan.’
With her hand gripping the lectern she scanned the room again, her eyes falling to Greta on the front row.
With her bare legs crossed, Greta’s hands rested together against the navy blue of her pencil skirt.
Her pale pink blouse unbuttoned just far enough to expose the dip of her cleavage and the silver pendant resting against her chest. Her hair, now a long-tousled bob, kissed her shoulders.
Dylan’s gaze dropped to Greta’s lap as her thumb and fingers slowly turned the emerald and platinum engagement ring and wedding band on her left hand; a comforting, rhythmic ritual of Greta’s.
Dylan’s anxiety was immediately washed away as her wife smiled at her and winked.
Dylan smoothed over her lapel with her hand again.
‘This is my first time speaking at the TYA Congress, and I must say I was bitterly disappointed with this year’s location.
No offense, Kimpton, it’s just that I only live fifteen minutes down the road and a few days in Paris or Prague would have been preferable, but who doesn’t love Manchester,’ she said wryly with a shrug, her Mancunian accent as thick as ever.
Greta huffed a laugh through her nose as another rumble of laughter spread across the room.
Dylan smiled, licked her lips and took a steadying breath before returning her hand to the lectern and beginning the presentation that was five years in the making.
‘I’ve been asked to discuss the findings of my recent PhD thesis of how healthcare systems can be redesigned to improve diagnosis, outcomes, continuity and wellbeing for teenagers and young adults living with rare diseases. ’
***
Sitting on the front row the entire time, Greta had watched her wife—her magnificent wife—moving onto the stage, standing at the lectern and taking up the space she deserved.
She stared intently as Dylan shared her work with over five hundred delegates from across the world of oncology and haematology.
Tears suddenly blurred Greta's vision and she almost let them fall.
Dylan had worked so hard, been through so much and still maintained an unwavering dedication to her work.
Drawing in a shaky breath, Greta pushed back the emotion, allowing pride to expand and fill her chest instead.
Her eyes couldn’t take enough of Dylan in.
Between the chaos of house renovations, their quiet wedding at Manchester Town Hall, the weight and trauma of caring for their parents—all alongside Dylan’s own studies and Greta’s work—she realised she hadn't truly stopped to look at her like this for a long time.
With her head canted and an indelible grin on her lips, Greta raked her gaze slowly over the woman she had handed her broken heart to and who had hung it back in her chest whole again.
Standing proudly in her sharp, fitted brown suit and dark brown Chelsea boots.
The high-collared pinstriped Vivienne Westwood shirt—the replacement for the one Greta had ripped off her all those years ago—fastened with three buttons tightly against her broad neck.
Allowing herself to get lost in Dylan for a moment, reminded Greta of everything that had made her fall so hard.
The curls and low fade were the same because why change them?
They were perfect. Dylan’s tattooed fingers, strong and steady, were just visible as they curled over the edge of the lectern, the angle of her jaw moving gracefully as she proudly presented her research.
Greta stared at the beautiful shapes her mouth made while she spoke and her perfect teeth.
A pink blush suffused Greta’s cheeks as Dylan pressed a finger to her eyebrow while laughing at her own jokes, just as she always did.
Dylan was everything Greta could not imagine being without.
She had accepted from the moment she fell in love that their relationship would be scrutinised, but the unexpected fierce adoration for Dylan had forged an armour around the bounding need to hold onto her with both hands.
The judgmental looks and the whispered comments were placed into a box marked None of my Concern and buried.
She loved Dylan. She adored her, and she knew Dylan adored her too.
Under the gaze of the world, there was little else that mattered.
***
After concluding her presentation to reverent applause, Dylan found a seat among the delegates that would cause the least commotion and settled in to listen to the remaining speakers.
Greta’s profile was just visible a few rows ahead.
Dylan watched, smiling to herself as her wife tucked her hair behind one ear.
Keeping her movements small, Dylan fished her phone from her pocket.
She dimmed the screen and held it low between her thighs, out of sight.
She thumbed open WhatsApp and sent Greta a message, praying she had remembered to keep her phone on silent.
Dylan:
‘I can see you and I LOVE what I see. Dx’
Greta turned her phone over in her lap. Dylan smiled as three dots flickered on her screen.
Greta:
‘You were wonderful, Dr St John-Vincent. Gx’
Dylan:
‘Shucks. I bet you say that to all your wives, Professor. Dx’
Greta:
‘Just the violently beautiful ones’
Dylan:
‘I can’t wait to get you home, wife’
Greta:
‘We’re not going home’
Greta signed off with a winking face emoji.
Dylan:
‘You’re not trying to sex traffic me again, are you? Because I'll find my way home again, just like last time’
A line of alternating trucks, tacos and aubergine emojis ended the text.
Dylan:
‘…and the time before that. Dx’
Greta:
‘The only sex traffic I plan is your journey to room 118. Now go away please. I am very important. Gx’
Dylan pinched her lips with her fingers in a bid to stop the wide smile claiming her face entirely as she watched Greta turn to steal a furtive glance over her shoulder, her smirk sultry with one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in invitation.
Dylan swiped her phone open again, her heart filling as she sent one more message.
Dylan:
‘I love you so fucking much Greta. Dx’
***
After perfunctory pleasantries and professional goodbyes with Jill and various delegates, Dylan was absolutely over speaking to anyone who wasn’t her wife.
She was itching to get to the room, having lost track of Greta a little earlier in the crowd.
Standing in the grand foyer of the hotel reception, Dylan pulled her phone from her pocket and noticed an unread message.
Greta:
‘118. Tick tock, Mrs St John-Vincent. Gx’
Dylan:
‘DOCTOR St John-Vincent will be with you soon. Dx’
Dylan arrived at the hotel room and stood looking at the door.
Giddy and still riding the high of a flawless presentation, she lingered in the quiet of the hallway to let her racing heart and thoughts catch up.
With her hand cupped over the door handle, she felt suddenly overwhelmed.
Life had come at her and Greta so hard over the last few years, relentless and heavy.
There were times it was difficult not to believe that the universe was conspiring against them, as ridiculous as the notion was.
Greta’s determination to become the professor she once thought impossible—a dream she feared she’d traded to be with Dylan—had been a battle of attrition.
But they had weathered it all. They had emerged stronger than ever; a powerhouse of love, respect and unequivocal devotion.
A vibration thrummed in Dylan’s pocket, snapping her from her thoughts.
Greta:
‘I haven’t ordered room service so I hope that’s you out there loitering with the filthiest of intentions! Get in here!’