Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Chances are, we wouldn’t have worked. I’m not naive to that. How many first loves actually make it?
I know that even if he hadn’t died, our relationship would have run its course.
We would have not spoken for a few weeks, then met up at a pub, then had great breakup sex, then got back together just to break up again.
Then I would have moved to London, and he would have blocked me on his phone, but we would have continued to have an annual fling every December when I’d visit my parents back home over Christmas …
Until the day he met a girl he loved and who didn’t want to leave, someone who gave him everything he wanted.
And that would have been that …
We were not perfect.
But the hope was there.
I had hoped that we could have made it. That we would have worked out.
That in some alternate world, in a Sliding Doors kind of way, he would have moved to London with me, got a job he loved, felt fulfilled, and it would be our wedding day tomorrow.
Okay, maybe not here, in Whitby, the birthplace of Dracula.
But in Hackney Town Hall. Disposable cameras.
No flashy fireworks. No scallops or caviar. Just pure love.
Jake clears his throat, bringing me back to the room.
‘Spanner in the works, isn’t it?’ he says, tenderly. A softness to it.
‘It really is.’
‘So, was I your favourite?’ he says. This is the Jake I know, who comes across all macho but still needs reassurance.
‘I think so,’ I say. He raises his brows, wanting more.
‘Okay, yes, yes. Of course you were.’ I laugh. ‘I sort of wish we could have gone back to when we were both working in Maidstone that second summer we had together. In some ways, it was the best time of my life.’
‘You’re saying the nights we spent drinking pints and playing Boggle at The Red Lion, with its smelly carpets, were the best times of your life?’
‘You’re saying getting hit on by Suzie behind the bar wasn’t the best time of your life?’ I tease.
‘Her name was Sharon.’
‘And the ringworm you got from the lake?’
‘It wasn’t ringworm.’
‘Jake!’
‘I had sensitive skin.’
A rap at the door sends a jolt through my body.
I sit bolt upright, and Jake next to me goes very still, eyes wide.
‘Who is it?’ I shout as the door opens and Timothy walks in.
‘Just me. Who were you talking to?’
Fuck.
‘Myself,’ I reply, maybe a little too quickly, eyes flicking to Jake, who is still sitting, frozen, like one of those gargoyles from the fireplace behind him.
Timothy hovers in the centre of the room. He looks around suspiciously, then walks over to the sofa, picks up the remote, and turns off the TV. The room darkens.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Yes. I’m all good. You?’
He ignores my question. ‘You know …’ He’s not looking at me, but at the remote in his hand. He places it on the table and then drags his fingers back through his hair, shaking his head.
‘Timoth—’
‘Belle, if you’re having second thoughts …’ He takes a step forward. ‘If you want to call this off … Is that what you want?’
Jake doesn’t need me to look at him to know he should get up.
Slowly, he stands and sidesteps back to the wall.
He’s standing behind Timothy now, next to my wedding dress.
Two ghosts in a line. He slow blinks at me, then puts his fingers in his ears and tiptoes to the bathroom.
Timothy doesn’t see the door close behind him.
I open my mouth but Timothy cuts me off again.
‘I’d rather know, Belle. We can sort it if that’s the case, but I need to know.’
This is my chance. If I have second thoughts or doubts, now is my time to tell him.
I look at my hands. A decent man is standing before me, asking me politely if I still want to marry him. He’s not guilt-tripping me, calling me a shit shag, or trying to control me. He’s offering me the door.
And the answer in the pit of me that shows no hesitation now is one that I don’t expect.
If I could be with Jake, I would.
The realisation arrives fully formed, like it’s been there deep inside me all evening, just waiting for me to be still enough to reach it.
I know what kind of person this makes me: the kind of person who walks away from someone this good for a ghost. But he’s a ghost who hasn’t seen me for ten years and still knows me better than I know myself.
Who loves me despite my fuck-ups. Who was my first love.
But I can’t be with Jake. Jake is dead. And Timothy is here, now crouched before me, hands in mine, offering me a life most people would be grateful for. So I tell him yes.
‘I want to get married tomorrow.’
The warmth of Timothy’s breath hits me as he exhales. He reaches forward and kisses my forehead. ‘I love you, Belle. Get some rest. Big day tomorrow.’
I sit still as he squeezes my hand before walking out. He looks back just once then closes the door gently behind him, as I sink deeper into the sofa.
The room is quiet. Too quiet, without Jake.
I stand to walk towards the bathroom, ready for our last trip of the evening, and as I do so, my eyes land on my wedding dress once more. My veil is almost trailing the floor. And then it hits me – I didn’t say his name. I replay it in my head: I want to get married tomorrow.
I didn’t say, ‘I want to marry you tomorrow, Timothy.’
I hear the bathroom door creaking open, the fan whizzing, and I turn to watch as Jake steps into the room again, his hands outstretched. A blank look on his face.
‘Are you ready? Our last one.’
This is good. I need this. I need to remember why I fell in love with Timothy in the first place.
‘I’m ready.’ I nod, reaching towards him.