Chapter 19
19
CALLUM
Three months later
Wow. I blink. I think it might take some time for my eyes to recover. I’ve just walked into a pink fluffy bunny alternate universe. It’s Rose’s first birthday party, in a church hall in Putney that’s been decorated with pink and bunnies to within an inch of its life and is filled with people who have very much bought into the pink theme. Many of them have also adopted bunny motifs. I am very underdressed, in a green shirt and blue jeans, entirely bunny-free.
I wish Thea was here because I think she’d love it, but she had a party of her own to go to today so couldn’t make it.
‘Callum.’ Becca rushes towards me carrying Rose on her hip. Rose is wearing a blue dress with pink bunnies all over it and a fluffy bunny headband thing. Given the way everyone else is dressed (some of the adults have gone full head-to-toe bunny), I’m genuinely surprised to see that Becca is not wearing any kind of rabbit costume; she’s just wearing a regular (although pink) dress that you could wear in a normal, non-bunny environment. ‘So lovely to see you,’ she says and gestures around with her free arm. ‘We have a bunny-themed party. Rose likes bunnies.’
‘I would never have guessed.’
Becca rolls her eyes at me and laughs, and I immediately see why she and Emma get on so well.
Emma.
I haven’t seen her since the christening and I didn’t ask Azim whether she’d be here today, but I’ve been operating on the assumption that she will be.
That is to say: I’ve been periodically panicking about seeing her and then pushing all thoughts of the possible meeting out of my mind and throwing myself into work, exercise and spending time with Thea. It’s almost worked. I’d say I haven’t thought about her more than maybe a hundred times this week, and it’s been three months since I last saw her. Totally over her, totally not missing her. Totally not behaving like a love-sick juvenile.
I try to scan the room without Becca noticing and I can’t see Emma anywhere. I very much want to ask whether she’s coming but I’m not going to.
I am not that pathetic.
Maybe Emma’s one of the bunny-costumed adults. She’s a loyal friend; she’d do that for Becca.
One of the bunnies is a lot shorter than the others; maybe it’s her.
I’m about to casually ask who the bunnies are when Rose makes a lunge for freedom, leaping out of Becca’s arms in my direction.
I catch her, laugh with her for a moment, and then put her down on the floor, and she toddles off holding Becca’s hand, which is ideal as I can now scan the room more thoroughly for Emma.
My eyes have adjusted now to all the pink and fluffiness and I can’t see her anywhere. I think I’m going to have to go and check whether the small bunny’s her. Then I can relax and just watch the door like an obsessive hawk.
I make my way over to Azim (who’s wearing a pink shirt with navy jeans but nothing bunny-related) on a route round the edge of the room that takes me past the smallest bunny. Nope, not Emma. Even though I can’t see her face I just know that it isn’t her; whoever this woman is, she holds herself differently.
It’s always good to see Azim, and I take an immediate liking to the (pink-clad) cousins of Becca’s he introduces me to.
As we chat, I position myself so that I can see the door, and as the minutes tick by, I begin to relax. I was a little bit late and perhaps three other guests have trickled in after me, but there have been no more arrivals for a while, so I don’t think Emma’s coming. I’m relieved. I’m also something else – maybe disappointed, I’m not sure. But mainly, I’m relieved. Definitely.
I relax so much into the conversation that when the door suddenly opens and a woman in pink hurtles through – and I realise very quickly that it’s actually Emma – I physically start and almost spill my glass of (pink, naturally) prosecco.
‘Sorry, sorry, very clumsy of me,’ I say to Azim.
I begin to move forward towards the door, forgetting momentarily that Emma has not come here to meet me and that it isn’t an automatic thing that we’ll greet each other before she speaks to anyone else.
And in fact she’s now surrounded by people but I’ve already started to approach so if I don’t keep on walking towards her I’m going to draw attention to both of us and I don’t think we want to do that. We don’t want Azim and Becca to feel awkward inviting us to things together (Emma pointed that out to me at the christening and she was definitely right) so I just keep on walking anyway and wonder when the last time I felt this gauche was. Possibly never.
So a few seconds later I’m interrupting a group of hugging, pink-clad women to say hello to Emma. And to all of the others. I need to greet them all, otherwise it will look weird.
‘Hi, hello,’ I say around the little group. A couple of the women are very effusive with their greetings and I wonder if I’m coming across as the kind of person who’d be on the pull at my god-daughter’s first birthday party.
I eventually manage to sidle round the edge of the group to have a separate word with Emma.
‘How have you been?’ I immediately wonder why it was that I was so keen to speak to her in the first place, because this suddenly feels overwhelming and I just want to run for the hills. ‘You look well.’
Pink suits her. Every colour suits her, actually.
She’s wearing wide jeans and a short, pale pink jumper, and she has her beautiful thick hair up in a highish ponytail with a big pink scrunchie round it, and she has very nice pink lipstick on; she’s making every woman in the room who’s wearing a dress look overdressed and the few people in the room (like me) who haven’t done the pink thing look like they haven’t made enough effort. Basically, she looks perfect, and no one else does, because no one else is her.
Basically , I’m an infatuated idiot. What I should do, for both our sakes I’m guessing, is not try to start a lengthy conversation with her.
Emma looks up at me properly for the first time since I walked over and very suddenly my whole body goes cold. Her eyes look slightly damp and they only meet mine for a second before they slide away, and her features are just… frozen. She looks… stricken. And I obviously can’t tell for certain but I’m pretty sure that it’s seeing me that’s caused her to look like this.
And all at once, I see things clearly, for the first time in twelve years.
I’m a complete idiot.
Emma’s hurt. And I know that I hurt her.
I told her we couldn’t be together because I didn’t want to hurt her and because I didn’t want to get hurt when things finished. And I believed what I said.
But she’s hurt anyway. And I’m not exactly loving life at the moment. I mean, I can keep myself more than busy with Thea and work and exercise and friends, but it’s only the time I’m spending with Thea when I’m really living. The rest of it, the keeping myself busy, it’s like I’m just killing time. Until what? For what?
Emma visibly straightens and looks back into my eyes for a moment and does a half-smile. ‘I see you read the dress code.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, relieved, because small talk is going to be a lot easier than dealing with my thoughts right now. ‘I was in a rush and didn’t make it past the date, time and venue. You know what’s really ridiculous? I bought a new pink shirt literally the other day.’
Emma shakes her head, sorrowfully, looking a lot happier now that we’re definitely talking about absolutely nothing remotely important or related to us . ‘Rose is going to be really offended if you aren’t careful. I’m not sure you’re going to be her favourite godparent if you carry on like this.’
‘Hey. I can be a favourite godparent.’
I am good at this. I can totally do acquaintance-style chat with Emma.
‘Really. What present did you buy?’ Her smile’s very smug. She’s definitely bought something amazing.
‘In my defence, I’ve been very busy. Really busy.’
Emma mock-horrified gasps and narrows her eyes. ‘Did you… give her money?’
‘I mean… everyone likes money to spend?’
‘Yes, I see her now on the Tube by herself next week on the way to Westfield with cash burning a hole in her pocket. Oh, no, wait, that won’t be for at least another thirteen years I’d say?’
I’m not going to take this lying down. ‘You scoff, but thinking of future Rose, and Azim’s excellent eye for an investment, she’s going to be very grateful to me when she is fourteen, because by then this money, and any other monetary gifts I thoughtfully give her for every single Christmas and birthday, will be worth a lot , and she will therefore have a lot of fun in Westfield in her teens courtesy of me.’
I smile triumphantly because that’s a great spur-of-the-moment argument.
‘I feel like one-year-olds are famously quite big into instant gratification, though?’
‘Well, maybe that isn’t healthy; maybe godparents should be teaching them a bit of restraint and financial prudence.’
‘Oh, please. Basically, I have an amazing, actual present and you do not.’
I relent, because she obviously really wants to boast. ‘Okay, what is your amazing present?’
Emma’s smile is incredibly smug now. ‘It’s over there. The best one.’
I look over to the present table.
‘Not…?’ There’s an enormous, unwrapped present, which is clearly going to be hands-down the best one of the day, given the party theme and Rose’s clear preferences. It’s a gigantic, incredibly fluffy pink toy bunny. It’s almost as big as Emma.
‘Yes,’ Emma crows. ‘It’s clearly going to be the winner. I’m going to be the best godparent ever . And I will be this good every single Christmas and every single birthday, just so you know.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Are you suggesting that you genuinely believe you’re going to achieve favourite godparent status?’
‘I mean.’ Emma spreads her hands, smug smile still in place. ‘Yes?’
I give a scornful laugh. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. There are other ways of being the best godparent and I’m all over them.’
‘What are those other ways?’
I have no idea. Obviously, Emma is going to be the favourite godparent. She’d be the favourite in any group and she’s my favourite too, because she’s just perfect and gorgeous, and oh my God I am besotted with her. I love her.
Oh my God, I love her so much. I’m reeling from the magnitude of it.
‘Um,’ I say, trying to recover my wits, ‘I can’t actually divulge my secrets because you might copy them.’
‘I never copy.’
I open my mouth to continue, because honestly, Emma and I can talk crap like this for hours and hours and I love doing it and I’m desperate to spend time with her without any stressful deep conversation, but I’m interrupted by a woman I don’t know (in a bright pink all-in-one trouser-and-top garment and a bunny hair-band) coming over and giving Emma an enormous hug.
‘Ems,’ she shrieks.
Emma hugs her back and they exclaim about how they haven’t seen each other for ages and I realise that I should really bow out of the conversation now with good grace.
‘I’ll catch you later,’ I say, before walking away in a daze.
As I go, I think about how we were great together in the summer.
Emma was great. She’s always great.
And I was great insofar as I did not behave like the stupid dick I used to behave like when I was young.
I liked the person I was when we were travelling together. Emma had a good effect on me, made me a better version of myself.
I’ve grown up, I realise. I’ve proved for years now that I can live well. I’m a good father to Thea.
But maybe I haven’t been letting myself have fun. Maybe I’ve been scared that it was having fun that turned me into a complete idiot.
I had a lot of fun with Emma in the summer. The only other person I have that much fun with is Thea.
Oh my God.
I’ve been such an idiot.
I know what I want to do.
I want, very desperately, to talk to Emma.
She is, unfortunately, surrounded by people.
For me, the party is long, because I spend the entirety of it watching Emma while trying not to look as though I’m watching her and instead trying to look engrossed in whatever conversation I happen to be having with some other pink-clothed person.
We go full first-birthday-party.
We play games including pass the parcel and pin the tail on the donkey. Adults as well as children of all ages. (The adults are at least as competitive as the children.)
We eat a lot of pink food on pink plates with pink napkins.
‘Do you think I got the theme right?’ Becca asks me and Azim at one point.
‘It’s perfect,’ Azim tells her. ‘The perfect little girl’s party. You’re perfect.’
And then they exchange a quick kiss and a hug and then stand with their arms round each other’s waists and I realise that I really, really, really want that with Emma. Forever.
Right now, though, we are two entirely separate people who happen to be at the same child’s birthday party. We’ve only interacted for one conversation and could easily not speak to each other again today and will then have no reason to interact again until the next time we’re at a party of Azim and Becca’s. I have really messed up.
The party drags while I try to be as natural as possible chatting to different people (but not Emma because she’s extremely busy the whole time with other guests). Eventually, several small and not-so-small children enter various states of meltdown, which I’m really not surprised about because the amount of sugar that’s been eaten is insane – I remember Thea on the occasional sugar rush when she was younger and it wasn’t pretty – and people start to make a move.
I’m talking to Azim’s parents, as always with half an eye on Emma (I do not like this version of myself), when I see her hugging Becca and making for the door.
‘So great to see you again.’ I pump Azim’s dad’s hand and kiss his mum’s cheek and turn and almost sprint across the hall to the exit.
There are two routes out of the churchyard, one straight ahead and one to the right. I just catch a glimpse of Emma’s swishing ponytail as she disappears through the gate maybe twenty metres ahead of me. I run up the path and see that she’s halfway along an alleyway to the left.
I begin to speed-walk until I’m fairly close to her, and then say, ‘Emma, hi.’
‘Oh, hi,’ she says over her shoulder, not slowing down.
The alleyway isn’t wide enough for us to walk side by side. She carries on walking, fairly fast, and I obviously don’t want to overtake her because I’d like to speak to her. I’m not going to bar her way because that would be ridiculous, so I carry on walking just behind. It doesn’t feel comfortable.
When we emerge onto the street, she says, ‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Which way are you going?’ I ask.
‘That way.’ She points left. My car’s parked to the right.
I passed my driving test last month; something about being with Emma on the trip made me think that now was the time to do it, so I took a few lessons and then regained my licence. I wanted to message her to tell her but obviously couldn’t, since I’m the one who walked away. Now isn’t the time, either.
‘Me too,’ I say and turn left with her.
Emma doesn’t speak, and fair enough; we don’t have to pretend now because there isn’t anyone from the party in sight.
All I can think about is how much I love her.
I’d love to spend time with her. I hope she feels the same way. I don’t want to rush things, though, make any more stupid mistakes.
There’s a big silence between us and I’m beginning to panic that we’ll reach the main road too soon and she’ll just hop on a bus and be gone. I mean, I could take the bus with her, obviously, but I can hardly follow her all the way home. So I should say something.
Suddenly, words just fall out of me. ‘Can we go on a date?’
I can’t believe I just said that and am terrified that she’ll say no, but I’m also so pleased to have asked.
Emma stops dead in the middle of the pavement and looks at me.
A young couple with a baby in a buggy dodge round us, and then Emma says, ‘Sorry, what?’
‘I’d love to go on a date with you if you’d like to.’
I don’t feel encouraged by the expression on her face, which is kind of shocked, and maybe annoyed, definitely not a big yes-I-love-you smile or anything else positive.
‘I… No.’ Emma shakes her head. ‘No, I can’t.’ She sounds pretty decisive.
‘Could I ask why not?’ I say, because in for a penny, in for a pound, and having asked, I’d like to know.
‘I am…’ She pauses and then continues, ‘Never going to be able to go on a date with you.’
‘Could I possibly ask why?’ I repeat, promising myself that I’ll have the dignity not to ask a third time.
She starts walking again, very briskly, and then after a few paces says, ‘Because I got back with my ex. In Paris actually. We got engaged and so that’s that really. It’s over between you and me. Forever. End of. I mean, not that I’m suggesting that we ever started again. But if we had done. We’d be over. Because I’m engaged.’
Oh. God.
I had not thought of that. I am so… arrogant? Stupid? Whatever, I realise that I’d just assumed she would still be single. But there is absolutely no reason that she should be, of course. Fuck, though. And in Paris . Straight after we… Well, again, totally her prerogative.
‘Your fiancé wasn’t here today?’ I sound pathetic but I really don’t care.
‘He’s busy. Anyway, goodbye. Lovely to see you. See you at the next one.’
She walks off while I stand staring after her before turning round and trudging back to my car.