‘Because it’syourtime with Dad. Now, we’ve got plums for pudding.’
I watch as Isla counts the stones left in her bowl, saying, ‘Tinker, tailor, soldier…’
My grandparents taught Lucas and me this childhoodfortune game, but you can only play after eating things with stones. ‘Poor man.’ She stops, looks dismayed. ‘Beggar man,’ she says, before we both dissolve into laughter. ‘I’m going to marry a beggar man!’
‘The game had different meanings for boys and girls,’ I tell Isla, clearing out plates. ‘For Uncle Lucas it told him what he would become in later life, so he always ate five plums on purpose. For me, it was all about who I was going to marry.’ Feminists would hate the game now, I think to myself.
‘Is Dad going to marry Fiona?’
‘It’s too soon to say.’
‘I could be bridesmaid.’
‘Grab a cloth, please. Washing-up time.’
‘Will you ever marry again, Mum?’
‘I never married your father, Isla.’
‘Do you want more children? I could have a brother or sister.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll have more, and anyway, I’d need to meet someone first.’ I look at her, wondering if she ever feels lonely, like me. ‘Would you like a brother or sister?’
‘You could adopt a husband,’ Isla suggests, still thinking about my plight.
I smile at that. ‘Oh Isla, come here.’
‘Why not?’ She pulls away from me far too quickly these days. ‘You can adopt children.’
‘It’s not a bad idea.’ I shrug. ‘Adopt a husband scheme. I could pick Colin Firth, Mr Darcy.’ I ruffle her hair and she jerks her head away. ‘I think you should suggest it to the prime minister.’
Lying in bed later that night, Spud curled up in his basket beside me, thoughts crowd my head. One moment I see Spencer’s face as he boasts that he can read upside-down; then I hear Ward’s voice, ‘This is war,’ and feel a wave of unease, knowing there is going to be a battle ahead. I stretch across the bed, toss and turn in the darkness, unable to stop thinking about the weekend too. I need to keep busy; I don’t want to be alone, imagining Dan, Isla and Fiona playing happy families. I picture Fiona sliding down the swimming pool flume, Isla close behind, and hear their laughter when they reach the bottom.
When I spoke to Dan earlier tonight he was clearly relieved that I’d come round to the idea. ‘I wouldn’t suggest this unless I was sure,’ he’d said quietly.
‘I know.’
It’s serious. Dan is almost thirty-four. Let’s face it, he’s had his time playing the field, he’s now settled in a great job, a sports journalist for theGuardian,he’s climbing the career ladder, he’ll be looking to settle down soon. Maybe he wants to start another family? Isla was right to ask all those questions. Perhaps they will get married. I turn on to my other side. Isla will have a brother or sister, maybe both. I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘I miss you, Granny,’ I whisper, desperately trying to picture her face. I lie still, imagining she’s by my side, stroking my hair, telling me everything will be all right.
I see Dan and me in the early days of our relationship. I picture us on the London Eye, recall us taking hours to walk back home before he’d kissed me goodnight. He didn’t want to come inside. ‘All good things come to those who wait,’ he’d said. I see him running down the street, waving an arm in the air as if he’d just scored a goal in the World Cup. I’d leaned out of my bedroom window and wolf-whistled. He’d turned, waved, called out, ‘Until next time.’ It made me think of Grandad taking Granny to the ballet on their first date. ‘I’d skipped home, January. When you’re in love it’s like walking on air.’
Twelve years on, all I feel is a deep ache inside, an ache for what could have been, and in the darkness I can’t escape the shadow of my past and the deep fear that I will be left behind.
12
2002
It’s a warm summer’s morning in June and I’m jogging along Chiswick Mall, a road that runs alongside the Thames; the surrounding area is filled with riverside pubs, a boat club, schools, and houses with blue plaques beside their front doors, celebrating the lives of famous painters and novelists. It’s one of my favourite parts of London, almost like another part of the city, with its long line of colourful houses that overlook the river, their fronts adorned with window boxes, geraniums, bay trees or statues of lions. Handsome gates lead into gardens that lie close to the water, lawns surrounded by trees and flowerbeds. I love the smell of the river and watching the birds, boats and canoes; it makes me feel closer to home. On a hot day I feel as if I am in another country, far away from my cluttered flat in Hammersmith.
I jog past dog walkers, mothers pushing prams and fellow runners in their fluorescent tops and black leggings. A plane soars high in the sky. I’m on top of the world just anticipating meeting Dan tonight.
We’ve been together for six weeks now and the time has flown by. I’ve confided in Dan about my parents dying when I was little. I also told him about Lucas and how different we are, and that sadly our parents’ death hasn’t brought us close together. Dan is strangely private about his own family; I haven’t met any of his close circle of friends yet and he won’t let me stay in his flat; he says it’s too messy and his roommate is weird. But we’ve begun to talk about arranging a weekend so he can introduce me to his set. I sense it’s a big deal for Dan to do this. Despite his confident manner, I’m beginning to see another side to him too, a side that isn’t so sure of himself; it’s a side I find just as attractive. ‘I haven’t ever had a serious girlfriend,’ he’d confessed to me last weekend. It was Sunday morning, when we were in bed. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I had loads of flings atuni, but I was more into studying and having a good time, didn’t want to be tied down. My longest relationship’s been four months. You?’
I told him about my relationship with Christian. It had made him laugh, especially the part about the mother locking the fridge. That day I’d managed to drag Dan round the shops to help me buy a dress for one of our author’s book launches. ‘I can’t believe you’re making me give up my Sunday sport to do this,’ he’d said, before pushing me into the changing cubicle and sliding the curtain shut. ‘Come on, J, there have to be some perks,’ he’d said before we kissed.
I stop running, a tsunami of sickness hitting me as I stagger to the side of the road, towards a bin. ‘Are you all right, love?’ asks a woman with a black Staffordshire bull terrier, a chunky stick in its mouth. I recover my breath, the sickness subsiding as quickly as it came. ‘I’m fine. Must have been something I ate last night,’ I say. But I know that’s not true and I’m worried.
‘You’re back early,’ calls Lizzie as she slopes into the kitchen in her shorts and T-shirt, with messy bed hair and a purple silk eye mask pushed high against her forehead. ‘Everything all right?’ she asks. Yet I can’t stop thinking about that one weekend when I went back to Cornwall to see my grandparents, returning early on the Monday morning. I forgot to take the pill; I missed two days. I followed the directions and took two pills in one day and finished off the rest of the pack as normal, but it did warn that protection against pregnancy could be affected, and how important it was to use extra protection for the next week. I have an uneasy feeling that there was this one time when we didn’t use a condom. ‘I’ve just made a pot of coffee,’ Lizzie tells me. I pour myself a glass of water, before the smell of coffee beans makes me clutch my stomach and rush out of the kitchen. I make it to the bathroom just in time.
