But I know, in reality, that isn’t true. A lie of omission is still a lie.
Yet I cannot quite believe it: the words leaving Oliver’s mouth, or that he would choose tonight – of all nights – to do this.
I realise now he has probably been waiting to say this to me since the day we met. I tilt the glass in my hand, watching the brandy brighten in the lamplight. ‘You don’t get to make that call, Oliver.’
He folds his arms, widens his stance. ‘No, I’m serious. I’m sick of being made to look like an idiot.’
I keep my voice low, conscious that Emma is in the room directly above us. ‘No one’s making you look like an idiot.’
His grey eyes are thunderclouds. ‘You know, Josh is nearly two decades younger than you now. And I hate to say this, but... he looks it.’
Even though I know this is bait for me to take, I flinch as if he’s pinched me. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I just can’t stand the thought of people laughing at you, Rachel.’
Maybe Oliver is right on some level – that Josh and I are approaching the point at which someone might tilt their head as they try to work out how we know each other.Work colleagues? Cousins? Age-gap siblings?
I don’t feel old, exactly, when I am side by side with Josh. But I cannot deny I feel older, at least.
Still. I am incredulous that Oliver thinks the way to bring me round to his side of the argument is by insulting me. ‘Is this seriously what you’re doing? You feel insecure, so you decide to try to make me feel that way too?’
‘Just saying what I see,’ he says, then shrugs and walks out.
On the surface, yes – his insecurity is about Josh. But I worry it is, in fact, some outdated ego-blow related to our inability to conceive. In the three years since we agreed to stop trying, he’s certainly been snippier with me: the odd remark about my clothes, impatience if I’ve forgotten something, raising eyebrows at my choice of TV, music, food on a menu. Tiny shifts in our dynamic, undetectable perhaps to anyone but us. He’s been shorter with Lawrence lately, too. I have started to wonder if he resents me for not wanting to exhaust every avenue that might have led us to get pregnant, and for not being keen to explore adoption. For seeming to recover from the disappointment quicker than he did.
Or perhaps he thinks I was never disappointed at all.
66.
Josh
August 2017
I get home late from the funeral, because I met Giles for a drink afterwards, to debrief.
It was weird, attempting to put into words how I felt about Rachel’s father dying. The man who treated me like a son from the first day we met. Who never once questioned what I’m sure he probably felt was a fanciful career choice. Who could make me laugh till I sprayed drink out of my nose. Who loved Rachel to her bones. Whose speech at our wedding brought me to tears. Especially when he said that the day Rachel met me was the first time his smile had felt true since her mother walked out.
I saw Lawrence at the service and wake, for the first time in a few years. When our eyes met, he just nodded solemnly. I appreciated this, given Lawrence has a history of trying to get me to punch him.
But that wasn’t the weird bit.
I felt Oliver staring at me the whole time I was there, tracking my every move. I studiously avoided looking at him, but, if our gazes had happened to collide, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him draw an invisible knife across his neck.
On the plus side, I had a nice chat with Emma. Well, I say nice. She cornered me next to the egg sandwiches, before firing a series of dry quips at me. Then she said, ‘I think Oliver’s just jealous, you know.’
‘Um, jealous of what?’ I said, caught off-guard.
Her bright blue eyes in that moment felt like lasers. ‘That you look about half his age.’
Somehow, I managed to laugh. But what I really wanted to do was hug her, the way I used to when she was small, because her face was still pink and puffy from crying.
I don’t hug her these days, obviously. Haven’t for a few years. She’s growing up, has morphed from excitable, expressive kid into a self-contained, considered teenager. But I am pleased we have managed to maintain a decent rapport. I’ve seen her and Rachel more often in recent years, and Emma seeks me out to chat whenever we find ourselves at the same barbecue or pub. We talk about writing and books, celebrities I’ve never heard of, people upturning buckets of water over their heads on social media.
Before she walked off, she offered up a clenched fist. Gently, we bumped knuckles, a silent show of friendship.
Back home, when I switch on the hallway light, I’m surprised to see Andrea sitting on the communal stairs. She’s wearing her jacket and trainers, red hair knotted on top of her head. At her feet is a stack of packed bags.
I frown. ‘Are you booked on another trip?’ She’s only just back from her last one, a literary festival in Edinburgh.
