‘Sometimes I wonder what Emma will say about me, at my funeral.’
I frown, not wanting to dwell too hard on the fact that – road traffic accidents or gas explosions or avalanches aside – I will outlive Rachel.
‘I worry, sometimes, that she’s so independent because of me and Lawrence. Because we split up when she was so young. Maybe she’shadto be that way.’
A shot of winter breeze ruffles Rachel’s hair. She still wears it long, though she told me earlier that Emma keeps encouraging her to cut it. But she’s not quite ready. A bit of grey doesn’t bother her, she said, but not feeling like herself when she looked in the mirror would.
I picture Emma as I last encountered her, in Polly’s kitchen at Christmas. Self-assured and smart, scalpel-sharp. ‘I’m pretty sure Emma wouldn’t have become who she is today if you and Lawrence had stayed together. Let’s face it: one of you would definitely be doing time for murder by now. And all those prison visits would have put her off a legal career for life.’
She looks amused. ‘Would you have come to visit me? If I’d been locked up for throttling Lawrence.’
I laugh. ‘Well, sure. You’d have needed someone to smuggle in the Tunnock’s Teacakes.’
She smiles. ‘God. Haven’t had one of those for years. Oliver doesn’t like chocolate.’
Wow, I think churlishly,life with Oliver must be a blast. A man who dislikes chocolate, relaxing, and – she told me once– any type of pasta. I make a mental note to grab her a box of teacakes next time I’m in a supermarket.
It’s the first time I’ve thought about Oliver in a while. A few summers back, when Rachel and I spoke on the phone for her fiftieth, I remember finding our conversation weirdly hard to get over. I just couldn’t stop picturing Rachel’s party that night. The laughter, her happiness. The cake and the music. A papier-mâché donkey getting a really hard time. And, in the middle of it all, Rachel, twirling around on the end of Oliver’s hand.
‘I’m actually not coping very well with Emma being at uni.’ The words tumble out of her, and suddenly she seems tearful. ‘It’s been over a year, but I still miss her. Every day. Do you think that’s normal?’
I think of my own mum. How, after I left home, she would act as though Cliff Richard himself were standing on her doorstep, whenever I turned up to see her.
‘Yes. I think that’s completely normal.’
I wonder if part of the problem might be that Rachel has found herself at home alone with Oliver.
‘God, Josh, I’m sorry.’ Rachel looks fretful now, bites her lip. ‘You don’t need to listen to me going on about my empty-nest syndrome. We should be talking about you.’
‘Ah, no. Honestly. We’ve been doing that all day. I’m bored of me.’
‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’
Usually I can talk about this kind of stuff, even with Rachel. But tonight, for some reason, it just feels too raw. Maybe because all I want to do is go home and be comforted by her, and I know that can never happen.
I shake my head. ‘Why does it always come down to this?’
‘Sorry.’ She sounds stung. ‘I just want you to be happy.’
‘It’s a bit late for that, Rach.’ I turn my gaze away, work my jaw. My mouth still tastes unpleasantly of funeral food. Ready-salted crisps, sausage rolls.
I feel her looking at me. ‘It’s not easy for me either, Josh. I think about you...waymore than I should. I think about the life we could have had, and the things we might be doing now, like... going on holiday, and fretting about our pensions, and hanging out with the kids we ended up having, and making each other laugh about stupid things that nobody else would get, and poisoning each other with dodgy microwave meals, right up until our last bloody day on earth. Fish pie gone wrong – it takes us both out when we’re in our late nineties, but hey, at least we go together.’ She draws a long, shuddering breath. ‘You don’t think I think about that stuff? Like,all the time?’
I am silent. I am stunned.
‘And, sometimes, I wonder if I made the right choice. If I should have stayed in your flat, that time you offered me the pill, and taken it.’
My mind whirls back in time. ‘I thought you walked out that night because you were angry.’
‘No, I walked out because I wasthis closeto taking it, Josh.’ She lifts her fingers an inch apart.
Her voice is raised, breath hot in the frosted air. I see a couple staring at us as they walk past. The bridge sways slightly with their hurried footsteps. I wonder if they’re thinking,What on earth did that man say to upset his mother so much?
My heart spins violently, as if it’s been struck. ‘Is this about Oliver? Aren’t you happy?’
And then, because it feels right, because it feels like the only thing to do, I take her hand. The edge of her scarf brushes the inside of my wrist. I feel heat pool in my stomach, my pulse quickening.
She lifts her head. The pool inside me becomes a wave. Suddenly, we are a heartbeat away from leaning in.
