I rock the buggy with my foot, make faces at the babies, adjust their hats and socks. I swig from my travel mug and tuck into my cake, break off a chunk for Murphy.
And then a sense. That he’s close by, somehow. The feeling’s so strong that I start and swivel around, scan the people on the pavement for his face.
I turn back to the twins, glance down at them.You’re crazy. Joel’s not here. Why on earth would he be?I haven’t thought about him—not properly—in weeks. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, the black magic it performs inside my mind.
During my pregnancy I experienced terrible insomnia, the nights like vast lakes of unspent minutes through which I had to wade. To stop myself staring at the ceiling, I would get out of bed and do laps of the flat in my pajamas while Finn slept, Murphy trotting after me like he knew I could do with the moral support.
Sometimes we’d sit by the living room window together, where I’d talk to Grace in my head. And sometimes—only sometimes—I’d imagine Joel was awake too, that we were looking out of different windows at the same dizzying tessellation of hot blue stars.
But for the sake of the babies cocooned in my womb, and for Finn curled up in our bed, I couldn’t let my thoughts wander too far into the future. If the past few years have taught me anything, it’s that being in the present is what counts.
Finn and I had a drink last night—our first proper one together since the twins were born. Finn wanted to make an occasion of it, so he decanted a nice bottle of red unknowingly into the carafe Joel bought me for Christmas six years ago. We drank from the matching glasses too—and just for a moment I let myself imagine Joel’s smile, the way he said,So you can always be at a pavement café, somewhere in the Med.
Finn must have sensed my thoughts were wandering, because he nudged me with his foot, asked if I was feeling okay. And I smiled and said yes because, actually, I was. We had made it. We’d got through the soupy slog of those first days of parenthood, and we were coming out the other side. This felt like a toast to that. And it seemed only right to remember Joel in that moment too, to raise a glass to him in my mind and thank him for all he’d given me.
88.
Joel—six years after
Had a dream about Warren last night,” I say to Kieran and Zoë over breakfast. They’ve come to Cornwall for the weekend, their boys (now teenagers) safely ensconced at Kieran’s parents’.
“Tell us everything,” Zoë orders. She tears into a croissant, attacks the butter. Freshly showered and fully made up, she’s one of those annoying people with a complete immunity to hangovers.
Kieran, on the other hand, looks positively malarial. “Wait,” he says. “Was it good or bad?”
“Good.” I lower my voice. “He meets someone.”
“Meetsmeets?” Zoë says.
“Yeah.” I smile. “She seemed nice. We were on the beach. She was laughing at his jokes. And they were holding—”
“Morning.” A gray-skinned Warren appears. He stayed over last night, opting to pass out on my sofa rather than attempt the short walk home.
“Joel has news,” Zoë says. She and Warren are like kindred spirits, honestly. They finish each other’s sentences, share an identical sense of humor. Though Zoë’s tolerance for late nights far outstrips his.
“Yeah?” Warren says. “You got any—”
“In the pot.” I gesture at the stove. (I’m on the green tea myself. Still trying to get a handle on my caffeine habit.)
“Go on,” he mutters grimly. He fills a mug with coffee, keeps it neat. Flops down beside me, sticks his head into his hands.
“You suffering, mate?” Kieran asks him, with a smile.
“Thisis why I don’t drink anymore.” Warren’s words come out all stuck together.
“Yeah, those Jägerbombs should really come with an upper age limit,” I say. “Or at least a ban on buying in bulk.”
Warren waves a hand at me, presumably to bat away the memory of his demise last night. “What’s your news?”
“It’s more your news, actually. I dreamed you met a girl.”
He looks up. “What.”
“Well, a woman. You’ve got six months to sort yourself out.”
Despite himself, a smile. “Jesus. What’s she like?”
“She seemed nice. Willing to laugh at your jokes, for one.”
