Chapter 18
Eighteen
Twelve Years Earlier
EMILY
It’s late by the time I finish my shift, the bar sticky with spilt lager and the sweet-sour smell of citrus cleaner. My feet ache and my brain feels scraped thin. The hotel had a wedding on, so the bar was heaving and the customers loud.
I’ve just grabbed my coat and handbag when Oliver appears in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets. The sight of him warms me and no longer surprises me—we’ve been dating a few weeks now, after all—but he still looks sheepish, like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to be here.
Outside, there’s snow on the ground and it’s cold enough to sting. We trudge back to his place—a narrow first-floor flat above a hairdresser’s—picking up a takeaway en route.
Inside, we shrug off our coats and boots. The flat is cramped but warm. He’s already laid the coffee table, with mismatched plates and wine glasses.
Before I can sit down, he kisses me on the cheek. ‘Happy one-month anniversary, Em.’
I beam. ‘You remembered.’
‘Course I did. Best four weeks of my life.’ Oliver produces a brown paper bag from his coat like it’s a magic trick.
‘What’s this?’ I say, taking what is obviously a wrapped bottle. I know he’s skint; he doesn’t get paid until next week. ‘You didn’t have to get me anything.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘But I wanted to.’
I take the bottle out and my mouth drops open. Moet & Chandon Rosé.
‘I remembered what you said that night we met. Now we can try it together.’
My words drift back to me: One day I’m going to treat myself to a bottle of proper pink champagne. Rosé Moet.
Oliver beams. ‘I asked the guy in the off-licence for that exact one and he had to order it in. Not much call for it around here, apparently.’
He grins and pops the cork badly. It ricochets off the ceiling and rolls under the sofa, and we both laugh. He pours it carefully into the two wine glasses, watching as the bubbles settle.
‘Cheers . . . to us!’ he says, handing me a glass. ‘The budget didn’t extend to cut-glass flutes, sorry.’
‘Who cares? Cheers to us both,’ I echo, taking a sip and savouring the fruity, vibrant taste. It’s everything I’d hoped and more.
‘That’s good,’ he says, smacking his lips. ‘I like it—could get quite a taste for the stuff.’
‘Don’t fantasize,’ I say drily. ‘We’ll be back on supermarket Prosecco by the end of the week.’
He grins. ‘If I start buying champagne regularly, I’ll be eating noodles at my desk for the rest of the month.’
‘You already eat noodles at your desk every day.’
‘That’s true,’ he says. ‘But I could upgrade to a sandwich if I really wanted to.’ The jokey facade drops away, and he adds, ‘Sometimes, I feel like I’ll be eating flaming noodles for the rest of my life.’
‘Tell me about it.’ I take another sip of champagne. ‘Every day I hate bar work just a little bit more.’
We sit on the floor, backs against the sofa, plates balanced on our knees. We eat the chicken chow mein in silence for a few minutes, appreciating the treat. When I sigh, he notices.
‘Long day?’
‘Long, tedious day, as always,’ I say, then wince. ‘Sorry. I love that we’re doing this, and I don’t want to be on a downer. Until I met you, I felt so alone, so I should be counting my blessings.’
‘Well, you’re not alone any more.’ He puts down his fork and studies me. ‘I don’t want to pry, but I’ve noticed you don’t talk about your family much.’
A weight settles on my chest, but I keep my voice light.
‘My dad died when I was just one, and Mum remarried when I was three. The twins were born a couple of years later. Identical girls—Beth and Loren—my half-sisters.’ I smile thinly. ‘The four of them were a unit, and I sort of . . . I don’t know, got in the way a bit. Or that’s how it felt.’
‘Oh yeah, I know all about getting in the way,’ he murmurs.
‘Thing is, I was nearly six—old enough to remember what it felt like before them, which I think probably made it worse.’
He nods, like that makes sense.
‘My stepdad died after a long illness when the twins were teenagers and then, within a year, Mum was diagnosed with MS. The three of them—Mum, Beth and Loren—they sort of closed ranks. That’s the only way I can describe it, really.
’ I stare at my glass. ‘It went downhill from there. I’d walk in the room and they’d stop talking.
Evening meals were prepared and the table set for just three people.
After a while, Mum said it was time for me to get my own place. ’
‘Which is code for “we don’t want you around”,’ Oliver says quietly.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Exactly that.’
I don’t tell him about all the arguments or coming home to a packed suitcase in the hallway, or the way none of them would meet my eye. But I don’t have to. He seems to understand.
‘I left, found a room to rent in a shared house. I survived. I tried to keep in touch,’ I say.
‘I still do, sometimes. But it’s so . . .
toxic. Like, I always feel worse when I’ve seen them than if I stay away.
’ I push food around on my plate. ‘Everything I do is wrong. Everything they need is urgent. I’m either too much or not enough. ’
‘I hear you, Em.’ Oliver swirls his champagne. ‘My mum died when I was eleven.’
I mute the TV and the room grows still around us.
‘After that, it was just me and my dad.’ He shrugs. ‘And he drank. A lot. Whatever money came in went straight back out again. Some winters he didn’t heat the place at all. I learned to sleep in a coat and woolly hat.’
I wait.
‘You learn things in those years,’ he continues. ‘How to make yourself small, how not to ask. How to believe others deserve more than you because, somehow, you manage to do everything wrong.’
‘And how anything bad that happens is all your own doing.’ I drain my glass and reach for the bottle.
He looks at me, surprised. Then he smiles and, in that moment, I feel something click between us like two puzzle pieces fitting together. Recognition that, in each other’s company, we’re not alone any more.
I top up our glasses.
‘I formally declare this is going to be a thing,’ he announces, raising his glass. ‘Champagne nights. That’s what we’ll call them. Not because something big happened, not because we need to celebrate. But just because we decide we deserve it.’
I grin and clink his glass. ‘I don’t want to be a party pooper, but how exactly are we planning to afford this exciting new policy?’
He looks thoughtful. ‘I’m not sure yet, but we’ll find a way. I’ve got a feeling that if you and I put our heads together we could make quite a formidable team.’
‘Sounds intriguing, and possibly a bit worrying,’ I say. ‘But if it means regular champagne, then I’m all for it.’
Later, when I curl against him on the sofa, my head tucked under his chin, he runs his thumb lightly over the small bones in my wrist. My breathing slows and the noise in my head starts to fade.
No one is asking anything of me.
No one is disappointed.
No one wants me to leave.
For the first time in years, I feel held.
‘Emily,’ he murmurs, already half asleep himself.
‘Mm?’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says. ‘I meant what I said before. I think we’d be good as a team,’ he adds softly. ‘Really good. And I’ve got an idea. It’s a bit reckless, but . . . I think it could work.’
He says it like a confession . . . or a dare.
I raise myself up on an elbow and look at him.
‘I’m listening,’ I say.