14
Angus and I are with Angel, by the basketball courts, as her first class are rolling up their mats and leaving, some on foot, others cycling. After bumping into Angel just over a week ago, I got in touch via email, and she agreed to slot Lauren, Angus and me in between her classes, at eight o’clock, telling me it was no problem, that she’d have her coffee and breakfast on the go. Today is a trial run, she said, no charge, and again, no problem. Angel has that kind of demeanour where nothing feels like a problem, or at least there is no problem that can’t be solved. She is kitted out in black again, only this time she’s wearing a black cap and lightweight jacket with an orange zip, as the sky is an ominous grey. ‘Shall we wait for Lauren?’ she asks, sipping her coffee from a flask.
‘She should be here any minute now,’ I say, scanning the park again.
Angus and I devised a new approach: not to mother her. We felt, after our dog walk on Sunday, that the last part was like dragging a teenager round the park. She’s nineteen. Maybe the last thing she wants to do is hang out with us? ‘She’s survived living on the streets,’ I said to Angus, ‘so she can make her way from the shelter to the park if she wants to.’
Angus agreed. ‘Also means we don’t have to bump into her bodyguard.’
Angel peers at the sky. ‘We could make a start?’ she suggests as it begins to drizzle. ‘What I want to do today is have a general chat, see what you enjoy doing, what you hate doing, how much time you can put into a programme.’
I’m still scanning the park from every angle. Maybe she forgot? I did remind her at the café on Saturday but should I send her another text?
‘While we wait, have either of you got any injuries I need to be aware of?’ Angel asks.
‘No injuries,’ Angus declares, ‘just a dodgy liver, pair of knackered lungs, and a lot of excess fat to keep me warm. I’ve avoided the gym for years. You have no idea what you’ve signed up to Angel.’
‘I was a late starter,’ she replies.
‘Can’t have been as late as me,’ Angus says.
‘When I moved over here, my home’s Ghana, I’d never felt different until people treated me like I was. I was overweight at school, got called every name under the sun. The colour of my skin didn’t help either. I spent most of my time in my bedroom, hiding, and hating myself. I never did any exercise until my thirties.’
Angus looks impressed by her honesty. ‘I’m trying to quit the booze and fags. I haven’t smoked or had a beer for a week.’
‘That’s a lot to give up all at once,’ Angel considers. ‘How about reducing—’
‘I’m an all-or-nothing man. I don’t want to abuse my body anymore. Full-stop.’
‘OK. Well, keep going, and think of all the money you’re saving,’ Angel says, as the rain steadily worsens. ‘Guys, I think we should go to the café. Today is mostly talking, with a few exercises at the end.’ Angel clocks me checking my mobile. ‘Nothing from Lauren?’
‘Can we wait a few minutes longer?’ I urge, thinking perhaps we should have picked her up. I hate the idea of her being stuck in her bedroom, hiding and hating herself. Maybe she felt too anxious to meet Angel. She could have had another one of her attacks.Please come, Lauren.
It’s so easy to slip into ‘rescuing mother’ mode again.
Angus nudges me. ‘Holly.’
‘I’m just texting her.’
‘Lauren!’ He swipes my phone from me. ‘Over here!’ He waves.
When I see a familiar figure walking towards us, in her Harry Potter T-shirt tucked into old black leggings, I want to dance with joy. We haven’t even begun, yet this feels like the biggest victory.
Angel, Lauren, Angus and I are at the W6 Café, attached to the garden centre at Ravenscourt Park. Jamie and I used to love this café. It was one of our rituals to come here for breakfast, whenever we needed cheering up, or the house felt too quiet, if we’d run out of milk or needed a sugar fix. Jamie called this café his oasis of calm, which it is, nestled under the railway arch. Somehow, we found it comforting, rather than distracting, hearing the Underground trains rattling above us as we ate breakfast together. ‘W6?’ was all I needed to say, and he’d be grabbing his coat and keys. I see us now, sitting at this table, as if it were yesterday. He reaches for my hand, saying tentatively, ‘Maybe we have to be realistic, Holly.’
I fought back the tears, knowing he was right. I couldn’t experience another miscarriage, the pain, the disappointment, the hope followed by the all-consuming loss. It was exhausting. ‘Maybe we should stay in London?’ he suggested. ‘Milla and Dave are here. We have good jobs. We have this park. This café on our doorstep that serves the best mushrooms on toast and chocolate brownies.’ He was talking quickly, and when he talked quickly, I knew he was feeling anxious. ‘I know we expected to move out Holly, get a house in the country, with a garden for our kids, but we can build a life here, a different one.’
‘I agree,’ I said, realising how much I wanted to stay in London too.
‘You do?’ Jamie had looked at me with surprise, as if he’d been expecting resistance. Maybe he’d expected me to say I wanted to try and get pregnant once more. But we’d been trying for seven years. I was forty-one. All our married life had been dominated by trying to have a family. We’d agonised over adoption, but in the end had decided to let fate decide. If we were meant to have children, it would happen. It was time to let go.
The idea of our future had been hanging over us for so long. I’d reached the point where I couldn’t feel sad about it anymore. I was all cried out. Fed up of waiting, hoping, anticipating… and then feeling like a colossal failure, even though Jamie told me time and time again it wasn’t my fault. I wanted to start living again. ‘We can travel,’ I suggested. ‘Fall in love with London again.’
Jamie agreed.
‘See some art, go to the theatre, spend our money on things that make us happy. We can be the best godparents to Emily and Kate. We don’t even have to do Christmas.’
He laughed in that bittersweet way. ‘Now thatisa relief. We will never have to tell our children Father Christmas doesn’t exist.’
