That bottle of brandy. The clamour of the rain. A kiss we couldn’t stop. Paint samples on a bedroom wall, those five funny flavours of vanilla.
‘I wore your T-shirt,’ I gasp, grabbing on to the final image before it wriggles forever from my mind. ‘Teenage Fanclub.’
The dark-haired man goes very still.
‘She’s a bit confused. We’ve just told her,’ Emma whispers.
The words, at last, shoot out of me. ‘We had a baby.’
‘Well, we’re having twins, Mum,’ Emma says, infuriatingly calm, almost talking over me. ‘You’re going to be a grandmother.’
Why does no one ever listen to me?
I feel frustration hammer against my ribcage like a fist. It’s not impossible that I will scream.
‘No. Wehad a baby,’ I insist, looking right at the dark-haired man, making my words into bullets, because it is the only way. ‘You and me.’
Emma’s jaw inches open, and her blue eyes seem somehow to take over her entire face. Then she snaps her head around, blonde hair swinging fiercely with the motion, and stares at the man too.
Without saying anything, she gets to her feet, and together they leave the room.
It is quite unbelievable, really.
‘How rude,’ I say with a headshake to the other man, who remains where he is. ‘Didn’t they hear me?’
But he doesn’t reply. He seems a bit shocked. And I must confess, it’s quite an unusual and pleasant feeling, to for once not be the only one who is lost for words.
88.
Josh
December 2036
Emma turns to me as soon as we enter the kitchen. Kai has stayed behind in the living room with Rachel.
She shuts the door. ‘What the hell was that?’
For a moment or two, I can’t speak.
I wore your T-shirt. Teenage Fanclub.
Wehad a baby. You and me.
In the back of my mind, old memories begin to glint and then vanish, like cobwebs in frost. I wonder if this is how it feels to be Rachel. Seeing only the faintest, most fragile outline of things, and only then when the light is tipped just right.
‘You and my mum never had a baby – did you?’ Emma’s eyes are insistent, unblinking. Momentarily, it is as though she has me in the dock.
‘No.No. Of course not.’
Her shoulders sink a little. Relief, I assume. She is wearing her Christmas jumper today, a faded Scandi-knit, crimson with white snowflakes. She gets it out every year, because it was a present once from Rachel.
She bites her lip. ‘God, but there was something—’ Breaking off, she shakes her head.
‘What is it? Tell me.’
She shrugs, slightly helplessly. ‘She seemed so desperate for us to hear what she was saying. Her voice was so urgent. Usually she’s just slightly vacant. You know?’
I do. I noticed it too. But Rachel’s mind is such a jumble these days, it’s getting harder and harder to reliably interpret her demeanour.
