Chapter Fifty-Five
When it came to eating out, The Swan was West Malling’s jewel in the crown. The last time Dylan and I had been here, we’d enjoyed brunch. Tonight, we would be sampling the fine dining.
Our table was covered in crisp linen and polished silver. A jug of roses was centrepiece along with champagne cooling in an ice bucket. The whole thing was romantically set off with flickering candlelight.
‘Oh my word,’ I said to Dylan. ‘This is fabulous. And bubbly!’ I clapped my hands in delight. ‘You’ve been so extravagant. A bottle of house plonk would have been just as appreciated.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Dylan. ‘Every time I see you, Maggie, it’s a celebration. But, tonight – as we both know – is extra special.’
Eeeep! Absolutely. Let the romance begin!
Best to eat first, eh, Maggie! said my inner voice in amusement. Got to keep up your strength for later.
That’s enough of the smut, I silently retorted.
Although I had to confess, I couldn’t wait to unbutton Dylan’s shirt. Check out those muscles. I knew he worked out. That he was a bit of a gym bunny. Which was another reason why I’d recently started doing the same – albeit at home, or when out with Bess.
At Trosley Country Park, while Bess exchanged doggy chit-chat with other hounds, I’d been working out on the Trim Trail. Here, I’d climbed and dangled off various bits of apparatus that the Council had installed for children and adults alike.
I’d also been on Instagram and checked out some inspirational females. I was now following several women who sported grey hair and pleated cheeks. However, they all had washboard stomachs and the silhouettes of a twenty-year-old. Motivating, or what! Each woman – clad in vibrant active wear – had insisted it was never too late to build muscle or rediscover your abs.
At home, Bess had watched, head on one side, as her human mummy had performed tummy crunches, squats, and lunges, before swinging her arms about, all the while clutching tins of baked beans. I couldn’t do much about crepey skin, but I could stop my bingo wings from getting bingo wings.
I knew the work was paying off because Ella had made a comment about my arms looking more defined.
‘Go you,’ she’d said, when I’d told her what I’d been doing. She’d reached for her phone and tapped the Insta app. ‘Who are you following?’ she’d asked.
I’d looked faintly embarrassed.
‘Mainly a ninety-one-year-old woman,’ I’d confessed.
‘How old?’ she’d said in disbelief.
I’d then shown Ella the lady in question. An Australian female who, it had to be said, looked three decades younger than her age – and acted it too. The woman had incredible vitality, an amazing physique, and not a hint of a dowager’s hump. I’d deduced that if a great grandma could do press-ups, then I could too.
Also, the lady in question had been mentally sharper than a butcher’s block of knives. Given that she was the same age as my mother – who was mentally away with the fairies – I figured that exercise was also good for the brain.
Meanwhile, a camp waiter was hovering. He poured the champers, then took our orders. He gave Dylan a few smoulders accompanied by lots of head tossing and hip wiggling.
‘You look beautiful, Maggie,’ said Dylan, after the waiter had minced off.
‘Thank you,’ I beamed. ‘I did make a particular effort this evening. Note the lack of muddy walking boots and no sign of a bobbly cardigan.’
‘That dress is amazing,’ said Dylan. His eyes briefly roved over my body. ‘And being a bloke, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’ve done to your hair, but it looks amazing.’
‘I employed a heavy-duty dryer and vast barrel-shaped hairbrush. There were a few expletives when the latter got entangled in my hair,’ I confessed.
I decided that if the waiter could flirt, then so could I.
‘And might I add’ – I said huskily – ‘that you’re looking rather delectable too, my darling.’
‘Why thank you.’ He inclined his head graciously. ‘Sadly, I don’t have enough hair to use a barrel-shaped brush.’
‘But at least you still have hair,’ I pointed out.
‘True,’ he acknowledged. ‘And my own teeth,’ he added, with a wink.
‘Excellent,’ I dimpled. No way was I telling him about my two implants. It had either been that or a piece – as my dentist had called the alternative. Yes, a denture. Quelle horreur!
‘Anyway,’ said Dylan. ‘To us.’
‘To us,’ I echoed, grinning from ear to ear.
It felt both right, and yet strange, to make such a toast with another man. I half expected to hear Greg make a comment – if he’d ever truly been there, of course – and was relieved at the inner silence.
I cleared my throat. Fingered the stem of my champagne flute thoughtfully.
‘Do you ever…’ I trailed off awkwardly.
‘Do I ever what?’ said Dylan.
There was a long pause while I tried – and failed – to continue.
‘Come on, Maggie,’ he encouraged. ‘Spill the beans.’
I pulled a face.
‘I wondered if you ever, in a quiet moment, talk to… if you ever chat to…’
‘God?’ he asked.
‘Er, no. Not God.’ I paused. Then gave him a frank look. ‘Jennifer.’
For a moment, Dylan looked startled. Then he shifted awkwardly in his seat.
‘As it happens’ – he was looking uncomfortable now – ‘yes, sometimes I do. Why? Do you talk to Greg?’
I nodded slowly.
‘Yeah,’ I admitted. ‘Now and again. In the beginning I spoke to him all the time. Asked him where he was. What it was like there. What he was doing. If he’d seen my grandparents. His parents. Jesus.’ I attempted a deprecating laugh, but it came out shrilly. Like that of a bonkers person. ‘Do I sound like a nutcase?’
Dylan’s mouth quirked, but he shook his head.
‘Not at all,’ he said quietly. ‘I think it’s perfectly normal to talk to someone you loved – still love – and tell them about your day. How much you miss them. How you wish they were still here. I guess it’s part of the grieving process. On Terry’s wedding day, I spoke to Jennifer throughout the entire day. I said, “Wow, that’s our daughter getting married. We made her. Hasn’t she grown into an amazing human being! And stunning with it. We did a great job!” Obviously, I said all that silently. In my head,’ he added. ‘I didn’t want strange looks from the guests.’
‘Of course,’ I acknowledged. ‘And… and…’ I faltered.
‘Go on. Spit it out.’
‘Okay, this sounds daft, but… do you, sometimes… now and again…’
Dylan sighed. Gave me a knowing look.
‘You’re going to ask if I ever hear Jennifer answering me. Am I right or am I right?’
‘You’re right,’ I said.
Now it was Dylan’s turn to toy with the stem of his glass. For a moment he didn’t say anything. Just stared at his fingers as they twirled the champagne flute this way and that. The pale golden liquid sparkled as the candlelight bounced off the crystal.
‘To answer your question, yes. Sometimes I heard her voice in my head.’
I sighed with relief.
‘Me too,’ I confessed. ‘Not Jennifer’s voice, obviously,’ I added.
He laughed. Then the smile faded, and for a moment he looked serious.
‘Are you worried you’re a bit… potty?’ he asked gently.
‘Sometimes. In the beginning, my kids thought I was losing my grip on reality.’
‘I suspect it’s a coping mechanism. After all, we’re not truly hearing Jennifer or Greg. It’s our brains filling in what we’d like them to say if they were still here.’
I wanted to tell Dylan about the last time we were at The Swan together. How I’d heard Greg tell me that he was going to have some fun with a bragging lad. Take him down a peg or two. How the youngster had ended up with beer slopped down his front. And to suggest that this incident was proof that Greg had been present. But I didn’t. Dylan would say it was a fluke. Coincidence. And anyway, it didn’t put Greg in a very good light, now I came to think about it. I didn’t want Dylan thinking my late husband had been a delinquent.
The subject changed. Dylan spoke of his shock and delight upon Terry’s baby news. That he was astonished that he would soon be a grandfather. Also, that he was looking forward to a fresh start at Catkin Cottage. How Charlie was his best buddy, albeit a bestie with four legs. Small talk. Wonderful talk.
The waiter reappeared with our starters. He set it down with a flourish of limp wrists and flared nostrils.
‘Enjoy your din-dins,’ he said to Dylan, all the while batting his eyelashes.
I reached for the champagne. Dylan had told me to make free. After all, he was driving. And I wasn’t one who liked to waste. Especially the bubbly stuff.
The mains were sublime and the dessert delicious. By the time we’d got to the coffee stage, I was feeling extremely mellow. I had one elbow resting on the table, propping up my chin. I gazed dreamily at Dylan. My other hand was enfolded in his. Our fingers were interlocked. He stared deeply into my eyes, while I impersonated the candle –melting all over the place.
We were so preoccupied with each other, neither of us heard the pub door crash back on its hinges or see a woman – eyes scanning diners like a hawk looking for prey – head our way.
Dylan was now playing with my fingers and stroking my palm. Endless zingers were shooting up the underside of my arm causing mini explosions down my spine.
‘I am so glad I found you,’ Dylan murmured.
‘And I’m so glad I’ve found you too,’ shrieked a female voice. ‘YOU TOTAL SHIT!’