Will puts his arm around me during the service. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt with a red trilby, which looks ludicrous for a February wedding, while I am in a bright pink cocktail dress I bought especially for the occasion. “Third time lucky, hey,” he says, nodding toward Loretta.
“I think she makes her own luck in life,” I say, leaning my head on his shoulder.
The reception is at the Pump Room. The ceiling has been decked out in a riot of streamers and rainbow bunting, and they’ve hired an accordion band. Will pulls me onto the empty dance floor while everyone else mingles and eats canapés.
“We can’t dance before the bride and groom,” I say, grinning into his shoulder, but the bride and groom are still outsidehaving photos taken. Will has flown in from Paris for a long weekend. We’ve been taking turns to travel back and forth. We usually manage to be together at least once a fortnight. Though he prefers to get the Eurostar so he can work on the train, while I like the speed of the flight. I thought doing a long-distance relationship would be impossible, and sometimes it is hard, but other times I think it suits us perfectly. We speak every day, we work hard when we’re apart, I have time to dedicate to my children. And nine months on, every time we’re together it still feels like our first date.
Dan and I have adapted our childcare arrangement, so the children now spend long weekends with him. Regardless of my needs, I think we all prefer it that way. Though it’s taken work, I’m grateful that Dan and I have remained civil, perhaps even friends. It makes the logistics so much easier. Though on the flip side, Sylvie invited me to her baby shower and that was a special kind of hell I don’t need to go through ever again.
On top of getting to spend time with the man I love, our unique arrangement has allowed me to scratch a long-suppressed itch—to travel more. I’ve been working on my laptop from cafés on the Champs-Élysées, learning French via an app and some haphazard practice. In the spring we’re taking two weeks off to backpack around Italy together.
“Mum, you’re so embarrassing,” Jess hisses from the edge of the dance floor. Ethan runs around and around making strange firing noises and using his blazer as a cape, then pulls on Will’s arm until Will throws him up in the air in a move they call “flying cannonball.”
“Dance with us,” I call to Jess, but she resolutely shakes her head. Jess has stuck to her uniform of black and white, and I can tell she feels uncomfortable because today, rather than blending in, her monochrome look is making her stand out. She was reluctant to come to the wedding; her group of friends are goingpaintballing and insisted it wouldn’t be the same without her. Though she still struggles in social situations sometimes, Jess is so much happier at school. She set up an afternoon animation club, where she’s found a wonderful group of like-minded people.
“You want to wear my hat?” Will asks her, as though sensing her discomfort. She nods and he places his red trilby on her head, then pulls her into a spin. She does that face where she pretends to be mad but really, she’s delighted. I think she gets that face from me.
This is the only real tension in our new setup. The kids love Will and Will loves the kids. They want to come with me to France so they can see him, and when he’s here, he wants to spend time with them. They’ll play a Jenga marathon at ours, or we’ll be invited to Will’s dad’s house to have Sunday lunch with all his brothers. Much as I love these big family occasions, selfishly, I long to have Will to myself. I love the mornings where we wake up alone in his Paris apartment, sun streaming through the window, long lazy breakfasts in bed. But in Bath, if Ethan’s playing a hockey match or Jess wants dropping off at a friend’s house, Will is always the first to volunteer. In truth, the time and energy he dedicates to my children only makes me love him more.
The only other slight issue, from my point of view, is that now that he’s a TV news journalist, Will has a small, though dedicated and obsessive, fan base. There’s an Instagram account called @IWantWillHaversBabies and a website dedicated to screenshots of his forearms, which makes me a little uncomfortable. I am no longer on Instagram, which has helped with both my screen time and my feelings of irrational jealousy.
As Loretta and Roger make an entrance, we clear the dance floor for them and cheer as they start a dance routine that looks like they cobbled it together this morning. Knowing Loretta, they did. At the door, Lottie and Seb arrive late. They were invited tothe service, but Lottie was worried that baby Josie might cause a disruption. I wave across to them as she bounces up and down, holding Josie in the carrier. When Jess sees them, she sprints across the room to ask if she can hold her little cousin. Jess is obsessed. Will’s arm tightens around my waist as we watch Lottie hand Jess her baby.
“Do you feel like you’re missing out?” I ask him quietly, because even though our relationship is still quite new, it is something I worry about.
“No,” he says. “Not at all. I have all the family I need right here.” Then he looks at me suspiciously. “Why? Do you?”
“Absolutely not,” I tell him.
“I don’t know where you got this idea from, that I was so set on having children,” he says.
“From you! In the woods, you told me you wanted to take your kids camping. You were very specific.”
“I was probably trying to impress you, reassure you I’d be good with children.” He pauses. “…Your children.” He leans in to kiss me and his hot, firm lips send me giddy. I love that he still has the power to make me lightheaded.
“So you’re happy?” I ask.
“So happy. You?”
“Yes. Happy on my own, but even happier with you.”
I lean my head on Will’s shoulder and when we turn back to look at Jess, we see she’s dancing in the corner, singing to Josie. She never sings in public. It’s lucky Jess likes babies so much, because she now has two in her life. Sylvie gave birth last month, to a little boy, Will. Yes, they called their baby Will. Sylvie swears it was top of her baby name list for years, and she was hardly going to change it on account of her partner’s ex-wife’s new boyfriend. It makes life confusing for everyone, except, I imagine, her.
As I wave across the room to my sister, Loretta reaches out and pulls me onto the dance floor with her.
“All’s well that ends well,” I tell her, my hands around her shoulders.
“No. It’s only the end when you’re dead, darling,” she says, and then she pulls up her sleeve to show me the ampersand tattoo she got to match mine.
The End
