I regretted them almost instantly. It wasn’t my place, I realised, to vet him for her. If he’d threatened me with a hammer, that might have been different. But in reality he had only raised his hackles slightly. And who knows – I might have behaved similarly, in his position.
Rachel smiles as if she’s still slightly baffled by them. ‘I’d love to know what he said to you.’
‘Forget it. I was being oversensitive.’ I mean, I could tell her, but to what end?
Instead, I ask her how work’s going. She’s been a professional artist for a few years now, and is already so busy she has a waiting list for commissions. I no longer see that drained expression she so often wore on a Friday night, though it always seemed more like ennui than actual exhaustion. Her cheeks are a little fuller these days. Yet somehow, to me, she appears lighter.
She tells me she’s renting a studio space in town, that it’s no longer practical for her to work from home, with a toddler running around and white spirit and wet canvases everywhere. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of elbow patches I’ve given my clothes.’
‘Bet you never look back,’ I say.
She laughs in agreement. ‘How many minutes of my life do you think I wasted in meetings talking about people analytics and employment law?’
‘Doesn’t matter. You’re doing it now. That’s what counts.’
‘Not if you ask Lawrence.’
I’ve trained myself not to comment on all the crappy things Lawrence keeps insisting on saying to Rachel. One: I’m not a parent, so I do get that there are dynamics involved between them that I will never understand. Two: it only makes me look – and feel – bitter. And I’m not so arrogant as to assume that a fewoffhand comments from me will be in any way useful to Rachel. The best thing I can do, I have learned, is just listen, and be there for her.
I summon the good grace to ask after Oliver, at which she moves her gaze to the window, towards the sunless sky. To her credit, I think she tries hard to de-giddy her smile. But some sentiments you can’t suppress. ‘He’s good. We’re good.’
‘I’m pleased for you.’ And, though she probably doesn’t believe me, it isn’t a lie. Because I’ve only ever wanted her to be happy.
We chat for a few minutes more, then I say, ‘Rach, I’ve got something to tell you. I’ve been in touch with an old colleague of Wilf’s about a possible antidote. She’s willing to meet me. But she would need the second pill, and—’
‘What?’ Rachel’s brown eyes become suddenly brittle. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because I wanted to check—’
‘I don’t want to talk about that pill with you any more.’ She swigs back the last of her coffee, the skin on her neck flushing pink, and zips her bag with a brusqueness I can tell she wants me to feel. ‘Even if you do find an antidote, or some way to reverse it, I’m telling you: I don’t want to know.’
As her voice recedes, the burning feeling in me stays. The sting of her words, left lodged beneath my skin.
‘I can’t live in limbo any more,’ she whispers. ‘It’s not fair. I don’t want to be ninety and still thinking about you, Josh.’
She’s right, I realise, remorse rolling through me. Of course she is. How can I possibly say I’m happy for her, then keep trying to pull her back to the past, whatever my motivations?
‘I’m sorry,’ I manage, eventually.
‘I feel bad saying that. But I’ve moved on now. And you should probably do the same.’
55.
Rachel
December 2010
A few days before Christmas, Emma and I head to London for some last-minute shopping. After several frantic months working on commissions, I’ve finally signed off for the festive season. This is something I am steadfast on: a fortnight of quality time at Christmas, every single year, for me and my daughter.
Josh is in London today too, seeing his agent and publisher. We agree to meet rinkside at Somerset House for hot chocolates, to watch the skating.
I haven’t spent time with him one-on-one for eighteen months or so, since that day at the café, when he told me he was still hoping to find an antidote to the pill. But I agreed to meet him today – with Oliver’s full knowledge – because there is something I need to ask him.
But, so far, I’ve found it too hard to say the words.
It is close to five o’clock. The courtyard glints gold in the dusk, shimmering with Christmas and whirling with skaters. Next to me, my six-year-old is watching it all, mesmerised. Her blonde hair is wild and haphazard, in desperate need of a trim, and her mouth is smeared with hot chocolate, which has also found its way on to the front of her pale grey coat. Lawrence occasionally gets huffy about what he sees as her scruffiness. But I am determined never to get hung up on hairbrushes and wet wipes and on only letting her eat stuff that won’t stain. Because it is moments like these – messy or not – that I cherish the most, that I use to plug the ache in me whenever we are apart.
Josh turns to look at me, the rosy glow of the rink reflected in his eyes, breath clouding in the rimy air. His skin is so flawless, it gleams. He told me once he can’t shave any more, because it won’t grow back. But I’m secretly pleased by this, because I’ve always thought stubble looks lovely on him.
