Safe, I think, gazing up at those eyes. I can’t remember the last time I felt safe – but right here, in this man’s arms, I wonder if it might just be possible after all.
Spring, twenty years ago
I am sitting with Simon in the caves that are hidden off to one side of the beach. The little splash of turquoise that I’d seen from the car that first day turned out to be Starshine Cove, the place that I now call home.
A lot has happened in the last few years. I have abandoned my work in London. I have been sacked by my agent, and completely blown all chance of becoming a celebrity. I have ditched my Louis Vuitton bag, sold my flat, and donated all my designer duds to charity. I shed my skin, and disappeared from the world I’d known.
In return, I have gained more than I could ever have imagined. A husband. An extended family. A community. A beautiful little boy called James. Plus, to be honest, over a stone in baby weight that I suspect I might not ever lose. I am rounder and softer and happier than I have ever been in my whole life. This little village by the sea in a hidden corner of Dorset has brought me purpose and contentment. By slowing down I have filled up.
These caves, the place where I am now sitting on a blanket with the love of my life, are my favourite place. It’s dark deepinside them, but it’s magical. We have a torch with us, and Simon switches it on and sweeps it around the cavern.
As always, it takes my breath away – as the beam of light dances through the darkness and shimmies over the cave walls, they shine and glitter and twinkle. Apparently it’s some kind of freak geological thing, but I don’t care about the science – it’s just so beautiful. As soon as the light touches, the place sparkles with reds and greens and blues and purples. The colours glimmer over our heads and all around us, ordinary on the surface but dazzling in the right light – it’s like being surrounded by precious gems.
The first time Simon brought me here I’d been in Starshine Cove for three days. There wasn’t much phone reception and hardly any internet either, so I’d decided the village was the perfect place to hunker down and get a grip on my life. I’d always intended to go back – to patch things up with my agent, to flirt with Zack the producer until he forgave me, to return to my night-time routine of screaming at my team in the restaurant. To keep running on and on and on, with not even fumes left in the tank.
Somehow, none of that happened. Simon’s kind blue eyes and gentle humour distracted me. Then I met his family, and they welcomed me. And then he brought me here, to these caves, and they bewitched me. I’d stood in this exact same spot, looking around in astonishment as Simon revealed the shimmering rainbow that was all around us. It was one of those moments – ones so life-changing that even someone as pig-headed as me recognised it.
I’d looked up at his smile, and known – with absolute one hundred per cent certainty – that I’d found my place. That I didn’t need the Louis Vuitton, or the fame, or the agent. I just needed this place, and time to heal.
I’m not sure I expected to stay forever, but that’s what happened. I sold up in London, and opened my own business here. Not a swish restaurant where tempers boil as hot as the gas and where the pressure threatens to choke you every night. Just a café, perched on the edge of the world, with views to infinity and beyond. Just a haven, a heaven, a safe place filled with goodness. Like these caves – nothing special on the surface but made of pure magic.
Simon asked me to marry him right here in these caves, getting down on one knee with the starshine all aglow around us. We talked about having a baby right here in these caves. We made plans for the café, and for our future, and for our lives together. All right here.
And now, we are back – holding a flimsy scrap of printed paper and staring at it in disbelief.
“So, Constance Llewellyn,” Simon says, using my full naughty name. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it?”
My hand goes to my tummy with a sense of both wonder and fear. Just one more, we’d decided. One more baby. James is almost four, and he is the light of our lives. A little blonde-haired monster with a smile that shines even brighter than the jewelled walls of the cave. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone as much as I love James, and I’d been worried that having another baby would be wrong – surely there was no way I could love anyone else as much?
“Don’t be daft,” Simon had said, giving me that lop-sided grin of his. “Love like this doesn’t come with limits. You don’t run out.”
“Maybe. But I’ll gain even more weight, and things will be even more chaotic, and how do you know that I won’t run out?”
“You could stand to gain a bit more weight – there’ll just be more of you to love. You’ll always be perfect to me, Connie. You could double in size, shave your hair off and start wearing clip-on elf ears. You’d still be the sexiest woman in the world. And I know you won’t run out of love because I know you. You’re made entirely of love.”
“And cake. I think I’m made of cake.”
“Possibly a scone or two – but mainly love.”
It is, as ever, unbelievable to me – that I literally crash-landed into this life. This place. Into the arms of this man, with his strength and warmth and never-ending laughter. I’ve been so very, very lucky – and now, here we are. Looking at that scrap of paper.
“You said just one more,” I murmur, stroking the blurred black and white image. “One more.”
“I suppose I lied. But how was I to know it would be twins? It’ll all be fine, my love. It’s our next adventure together.”
Twins. Two babies who will come into our world later in the year. Two siblings for James. Two more grandchildren for George and Molly. Two more everything. I am excited, but I am also scared. Simon has a lot more faith in me than I do, which is one of the reasons I love him so much.
He takes the scan photo from my hands and puts it away in his wallet. He wraps me up in his strong arms, kissing my neck in a way that is both gentle and promising.
“Stop that right now,” I say, not sounding very convincing. “It’s behaviour like that that got me into this mess…”
“It’s not a mess, Connie,” he replies, stroking my hair back from my face. “It’s our life. And I love it.”
Autumn, last year
I am pathetic. Truly pathetic. I am a grown woman in her fifties, and I am sleeping in a single bed in a room that smells of dirty socks and sweat. The floor is non-existent, coated with an array of discarded clothes, gym equipment and a scattering of videogame controllers and chargers. There’s a mouldy towel bundled up in one corner, and a collection of used mugs beneath the desk that seem to be growing their own biosphere. I don’t care about any of it, because it’s all part of my boy.
Last night, I was also pathetic. Last night, I slept in a single bed in a tidier, more fragrant room: pale pink walls decorated with Taylor Swift posters and the scent of Marc Jacobs’ Daisy lingering on the pillowcase. The only clutter was an overflowing jewellery box and a scattering of hair slides on the dresser. I’d spent ages picking them up and stroking the stray strands of long blonde hair that still lived in them, like I was about to steal them for a DNA test.
