Chapter 28 Maggie
Maggie
Love-bombing, isn’t that what they call it?
When someone sweeps you off your feet and showers you with gifts and affection and all their attention?
Or is it just plain old-fashioned falling in love?
Those whirlwind first weeks when two people meet and you can’t get enough of each other. Every minute spent texting, talking, being together. Discovering you share the same sense of humour, dreams and desires. When the world both shrinks and expands with possibility and it’s like catching a wave.
The sudden feeling of being alive. Really alive.
Exhilarating. Intoxicating. Can’t-catch-your-breath alive.
It all happened so quickly. So unexpectedly. I wasn’t looking for love; I was grieving. But then Theo literally walked into my gallery and my life and everything changed. I’d been in such a dark place and now I was bathed in sunlight.
Three months later, he suggested we move in together.
‘It makes sense.’
‘What, do you mean financially?’
‘No, not financially,’ he frowns. ‘Do you really think I’m so unromantic?’
‘Of course not, silly.’ I laugh, and ruffle his hair as he pouts in his striped butcher’s pinny. ‘You’re the King of Romance.’
‘Which makes you my Queen,’ he replies with mocktheatrics, picking up a tea towel off my kitchen countertop and performing an over-exaggerated royal bow as I stop stirring the pan to hoot with laughter.
It’s a Saturday evening and we’re cooking dinner together in my flat, the radio tuned to his favourite Classic FM.
This is how I spend my weekends now. Him in my pinny, me with a glass of wine, moving in synchronicity around my kitchen island, chopping vegetables, peeling garlic, stealing kisses as my le Creuset pans provide an orchestra of aromas.
Even they look happy now, their bright orange faces cheerfully bubbling and steaming and sizzling.
Gone are the days of a bag of Kettle Chips and hummus for one on the sofa with just my ginger tomcat George for company.
Now it’s a scene of cosy domestic bliss.
The kind you want to hate unless you’re the one luxuriating in it.
We’re so comfortable with each other. Like we’ve known each other for ever. I can’t remember a time before he was here – in my flat, in my kitchen, in my bed. Even my cat loves him. I watch as George rubs himself against Theo’s legs, purring.
‘I want us to move in together because when you know you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, why wait?’ Taking the bottle of red wine, he tops up our glasses. ‘It’s like the line from When Harry Met Sally.’
The breath catches at the back of my throat. Not only is that one of my favourite films, but did he just say he wants to spend the rest of his life with me? I take a large gulp of wine, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.
‘I love you.’
He strokes the side of my face, lifts my chin towards his and kisses me.
‘I love you, too.’
We’ve been telling each other we love each other for the last few weeks now. He said it first, but I was quick to follow. It feels so natural. As if it was meant to be. Which sounds crazy, as I don’t believe in fate. And yet there’s something about Theo that might make me change my mind.
‘It’s just . . .’
‘Just what?’
Still, there’s a little part of me that can’t let go and embrace what’s unfolding between us.
The part of me that’s experienced heartbreak and heartache: the flings that went nowhere, the relationships that failed, a starter marriage in my twenties that lasted six weeks and should never have happened.
The part of me that’s loved deeply only to discover those feelings weren’t returned; that’s been disappointed and rejected and stood staring into the mirror wondering why not me?
The part of me that’s spent my whole life looking for exactly this connection and yet, now I’ve found it, is holding back, protecting myself, not quite believing I’m worthy of this love.
Who frankly is shit scared and looking for reasons why it can’t be true.
‘If we move in together, I want it to be for the right reasons.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I don’t want it to be a way to save money.’
As soon as I speak, I regret it – he looks so offended.
‘Is this because I borrowed a thousand pounds to pay the storage company?’ he accuses. ‘I paid you straight back, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, of course, I didn’t mean—’
‘Maggie, please. I’ve just been having a little cash flow problem because it’s taking so long to get the funds from the sale of my house in LA. The whole US system is so different to over here. Have you any idea how many emails I’ve been firing off to the realtor? I’ve been giving him hell!’
Slamming down his wine glass, he shakes his head. He looks so upset and furious, and I feel horribly guilty. I should never have said anything.
‘I know, you said it’s been difficult . . .’
I try stroking his arm, but he moves away, his jaw set. Awkwardly, I return to the stove to attend the orchestra of pans.
‘It’s hard enough not being able to access the funds yet – but having to ask the woman you love if you can borrow money? It’s embarrassing frankly.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’
But still he’s refusing to look at me and is staring down at his feet, the muscle in the side of his jaw twitching. The atmosphere has changed and I kick myself. We were having such a nice time, cooking pasta, making up our own recipe, in our little bubble, and now it’s all spoiled.
For a moment I fear he might go, that the evening is ruined and then –
‘Look at you, taking care of me. I want to take care of you.’ Coming up behind me, he puts his arms around my waist. ‘I want to be the one looking after you.’
I feel my body relax and relief floods through me. Just as quickly as his mood blew up, it’s gone again, like clouds moving quickly across the sun. And now I’m back in the sunlight, bathed in his rays of sunshine and adoration.
‘Are you for real?’ I tease.
‘Pinch me.’ He laughs as I pinch him. ‘See.’
I laugh and fall back into his arms.
‘And we spend all our time together; it doesn’t make sense me renting my own flat.’
‘I still can’t believe you haven’t invited me over there.’
‘Because it’s still filled with boxes and the rest is still in storage. I never got round to unpacking. I meant to, but then I went to look for something to put on the walls and got a little distracted.’
I smile, flattered.
‘Am I distracting?’ I flirt.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Very.’
‘Plus, I’ve been away a lot with work these last couple of months, scouting locations for this new movie.’
‘I’m not sure I’d call flying all over the world visiting exotic locations for film shoots work,’ I tease, and he laughs. ‘I still can’t believe someone gets paid to do that. Why did the career’s teacher never tell me about that job?’
‘Trust me, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. The jetlag is a killer. Not to mention, I hate leaving you.’
It’s true. Every time he packs a bag and leaves for the airport he insists he doesn’t want to go, that he misses me already and wishes he could stay.
‘It was different before, when I was married. Things were so bad at home, I’d relish going away, being able to leave, but not now. Now it kills me to even tear myself away to grate the parmesan.’
He nuzzles his face against my neck and I laugh, feeling his hot breath, and kiss his cheek before he makes his way across the kitchen to my large double fridge.
At first, when he went away, I suggested we video-call, but he was on some tiny island in Indonesia and the time difference made it too difficult, plus often he was out scouting remote locations and the WiFi was non-existent, so instead we had to make do with texts.
Though later he confessed he preferred it that way.
‘Seeing you will just make me miss you more. Make me realize how far away I am. Let’s just text.
Or leave voice messages. I like hearing your voice last thing at night or first thing in the morning when I wake up.
’ So now we leave each other voice messages and I listen to them when I’m in bed before I turn out the light or pull back the curtains.
It’s amazing how close you can feel to someone who’s far away.
‘And then of course I’ve been visiting Mum,’ he says from across the kitchen.
I nod sympathetically. ‘I’d like to meet her one day.’
‘She’d love you. It’s just . . .’
I turn to see his face clouding and I stop stirring and go over to give him a hug.
‘What?’
His eyes water. ‘I’d hate you to see her like this. She’s just a shell of who she was. She’d hate anyone to see her like this.’
I nod sympathetically.
‘I know, it was like that with Dad at the end in the hospice. Cancer really does a number on you.’
‘Try dementia.’
I stroke his arm supportively. Just last week they’d got the diagnosis he was dreading.
Theo’s mum has dementia and is probably going to have to move into a residential care home.
He’s been finding it difficult. He’s had so much emotional upheaval in recent years.
There was me thinking I was in a vulnerable place when I met him, but he was too.
Both of us were grieving the loss of our old lives; I’d lost Dad, but he’d gone through a divorce and moved across an ocean.
Two lost and lonely souls, looking for love and hoping to start over. We were so lucky to find each other.
‘Which is why we’ve got to grab happiness when we find it,’ he says, grabbing me to prove his point. ‘Live life like there’s no tomorrow. We’re not getting any younger.’
‘Is this just your excuse to open another bottle of red,’ I laugh, but he looks hurt.
‘Don’t make fun of me, Mags.’
‘Oh love, I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .’
Releasing me, he reaches into the fridge for the parmesan, then opens a cupboard and pulls out a grater.
I watch him, allowing myself to feel a small, delicious moment of contentment.
He knows where all my ingredients are. Where my spoons go and where I keep my cheese grater.
There’s something so basic about all of that, so comfortable, and I feel a rush of love.
Back in my twenties I craved adventure and excitement, but now in my forties the domestic thrill of someone knowing where my kitchen utensils go is what I want.
‘I was just joking, being light-hearted; cancer and dementia are pretty depressing.’
‘But I’m being serious. There are no guarantees and life is short.’
My eyes meet his.
‘Come on, let’s get a place together, let’s move in together.’
‘Seriously?’
‘I’ve never been more serious about anything.’
‘But shouldn’t we move a bit slower? I mean, it’s all moving so fast.’
‘What are we waiting for? We’re both grown-ups. Neither of us has kids. We’re footloose and fancy free!’
I pause. Trying to be sensible, but his enthusiasm is infectious and the possibility of what this might become is bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to overwhelm me. And this time it’s in a good way.
‘We could get something amazing together if we pool our money. You could sell this place, I’ve got the money for the house sale in LA once all the paperwork’s done, we could buy a place in the country—’
‘The country?’
‘Get some animals . . . a couple of donkeys, some chickens . . .’
‘Since when did you want chickens?’
He’s getting all excited now, twirling me around the kitchen, and I’m laughing.
‘Imagine it, just you and me against the whole world.’
But I don’t need to be told, I am imagining it, though I can hardly believe it. Just a few short months ago I was at my lowest, feeling lonely and still grieving Dad. Life seemed hopeless, pointless, and now look. It’s unbelievable how one person can turn it all around.
‘But the flat’s part of the gallery, I won’t want to sell it.’
As I speak I see his mood dip, like when the wind suddenly goes out of a boat’s sails, his face crushed.
‘But I can remortgage,’ I suggest quickly.
‘No, it’s OK. Forget I mentioned it.’
‘No, no, but I want to.’ I’m insistent now. ‘I can remortgage and that way I can keep the gallery and rent out the flat. If we need more money, I can even take out a business loan.’
‘You don’t have to. Seriously. It’s not about the money.’
‘I want to be in this all the way. Fifty-fifty. You and me.’ I’m powered up now, absolutely convinced. ‘I want to do this. You’re right. What am I so scared of?’
‘Allowing someone to love you, allowing yourself to be loved,’ he says.
And just like that, it floors me. For so long I’ve been protecting myself.
Ever since my brother died, I’ve been building a wall around my heart.
Looking after myself, never relying on anyone, determined that no one could ever hurt me, or let me down, or leave me.
My eyes blink back tears. The grief. It was so overwhelming.
I felt like I was drowning. I thought I’d never recover from the loss of Charlie, we were so close, but I did, and I’ve been doing everything myself, trying to remain in control.
But then my dad died and I realized just how lonely I was.
How exhausted I was of being alone. And now here’s this man asking me to let down those barriers, to allow myself to be vulnerable, to let him in, to let myself be loved.
I start crying then, and he takes me in his arms. The pasta pan starts to bubble and boils over.
Spilling water all over the stainless-steel hob.
But he doesn’t let me go. He’s never going to let me go.
Everything that I’ve been looking for my whole life and that I never thought I’d find is here with this man.
‘I love you,’ he whispers over and over. ‘I love you.’
I don’t know how long we stay like this but his eyes never leave mine, and when he asks, it feels inevitable.
‘Marry me, Maggie.’