‘Yes, of course,’ Lauren says. A hint of defensiveness there, unless Esther is mistaken. Although they’d got along fine while doing the shoot, she is aware of a slight formality emitting from Lauren now. Of course she’s been fantastically helpful, doingtwoshoots with her now and basicallyrescuing her relationship with Bethani. But does Lauren actually like her, Esther wonders? She can’t read her at all and wonders how things will pan out if her dad keeps on seeing her, and they move in together, and maybe he’ll even move out here to the country and she’ll hardly ever see him and – oh God, that would feel weird, if he actuallymarriedher! Would Lauren and Charlie become his primary family and she’d just be some weird little offshoot?
Curiously, Esther doesn’t feel uneasy about the possibility of her mum marrying Luc one day. Her mum had been friends with him for a couple of years before they’d got together; she hadn’t met him on holiday like some teenager on their first trip to Magaluf. The thought of her dad having a ‘holiday romance’ still makes Esther feel a little queasy. To think how worried she’d been about him in Corsica on his own – and he’d probably barely given her a second’s thought!
She realises Lauren is glancing at her as if expecting a response. ‘I was just saying,’ she reiterates, ‘Charlie’s closest friend was a boy called Remy … I meanis. I shouldn’t use the past tense. But he’s not around so much anymore …’
‘Is he at university?’ Esther asks, embarrassed at being caught not listening.
‘No, he’s a musician – a singer-songwriter – so he’s away touring a lot, plus he has a serious girlfriend so Charlie’s been a bit left behind.’ Lauren glances at her and smiles. ‘I probably shouldn’t have told you all that.’
‘Oh, I won’t say anything,’ Esther says quickly, thinking how similar that sounds to her situation with Gracie and Jess. Perhaps that’s why Charlie lingers on in her mind over the next few days, and why she experiences a little fillip of pleasure when she sees he’s followed her on Instagram. Over the next week or so he makes the oddcomment on her posts. Nothing amazing; just the odd ‘nice picture!’ – stuff like that. It makes her smile. She’s not quite sure why. Maybe because she senses he’s not entirely comfortable with social media but is making an effort to be nice?
He seems like a decent boy, Esther thinks; studious, thoughtful and kind. And while not all of the boys at Willow Vale were arseholes with no respect for girls, Esther would say that, actually,mostof them were.
And Charlie is most definitely not like that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
JAMES
I wouldn’t say I had a terrible life before I met Lauren. I had Esther, a full-on job that I cared deeply about, and good people to work with. I was content, I suppose. Okay, I’d be at abitof a loose end on the weekends sometimes when friends were busy and I’d find myself going for a run or a swim just to fill up the time. Or I’d research work stuff or even go into the practice to tackle non-essential jobs while we were closed. It did occur to me that I was in danger of turning into Lonely Cat Man. But what could I do about that? I wasn’t going to try any dating apps. That wasn’t me at all. And I wasn’t expecting to meet someone in the ‘normal’ way because, in the circles I moved in, that just never happened.
So that was that, I supposed. It was just me, an elderly cat named Walter and a daughter I’d see once a week, if I was lucky. And back in July, when I stepped on that plane bound for Corsica, I hadn’t imagined anything changing.
However, my lifehaschanged in ways I’d never imagined. It’s so much fuller now, with weekends spent hereat my place, or at Lauren’s, where we hang out together and go for walks and pub lunches. I feel her hand in mine as we follow the path that snakes alongside the river, and we catch up on what we’ve been up to since we last saw each other.
She tells me about the dishes she’s cooked, that her column has been shortlisted for an award, and we celebrate with a wintry picnic of home-made bread, cheese, brownies and mini bottles of champagne. She says she loves hearing about the goings-on at work; about how, while she was busily writing up recipes last night, I was operating on a Labrador to remove a small pebble from its gastrointestinal tract. More thrillingly still, earlier in the day a flustered woman had brought in a tortoise with an injured leg. ‘Her son had trodden on him. He hadn’t seen him on the lawn,’ I explained.
‘Oh no! What can you do?’ she asked.
‘I’m figuring out how to make a splint for him,’ I explained.
She smiled at that. ‘A splint for an injured tortoise. You make it sound as if it’s a slightly challenging DIY job in the home.’ And she kissed me on the lips. ‘How I love you, James.’
‘I love you too,’ I said. And I do love her – very much. I’m in awe of her talent and energy and love of life. She radiates sunshine even on a bitterly cold November day. More and more I treasure the time we spend together because, as the weeks go by, it becomes trickier to see each other.
Admittedly, this is due to me rather than Lauren. Being freelance, she is pretty much in charge of her own life. However, as December arrives – and with no real explanation – Esther seems to want to spend more time at my place. She and Miles are still together – unfortunately.But one Friday afternoon, when I’d been planning to head out to Lauren’s after work, she calls and asks if we can have an evening together, just me and her and a takeaway, maybe watching a movie on TV. I’m about to say, ‘Another time, Est. I’m going to Lauren’s tonight.’
But something snags at me and I hear myself saying, ‘Yes of course we can.’ And I call Lauren to explain how weird and unusual it is, for Esther to want to spend a Friday night with me, and perhaps something’s wrong and she needs to talk.
‘Oh, okay then,’ Lauren says with a tinge of disappointment.
‘I’m sorry. Shall I come over tomorrow?’
‘Maybe it’s not worth it this weekend?’ she asks.
‘Why not? We could still have most of Saturday and Sunday—’
‘But what if somethingiswrong?’ she cuts in. ‘Shouldn’t you be around for her, just in case?’
I consider this and decide she’s probably right. But it leaves a hollow feeling deep in my gut, and when Esther arrives, all chatter and uncharacteristic cheeriness, I keep wondering when the big announcement’s coming, and she’ll spill out whatever bad thing has been happening in her life.
No announcement comes. As we sit up late chatting and watching TV, I try to banish a niggle of resentment that actually, Esther could have easily come over in the week instead, and I could have been at Lauren’s tonight as planned.
I won’t let that happen again, I decide. I’ll put Lauren first and, bar a disaster, stick to what we’ve arranged. But our plan to meet up during the week falls apart when we’re overloaded with a spate of emergency appointments at work, and Fraser and I decide we’ll both have to putin some late shifts to keep on top of everything. And the following Friday evening I have just arrived home when Esther calls, asking to come over and stay at mine again.
I don’t resent this. She’s my daughter after all. But I can’t quite see why Miles having flu means that she needs to decamp to my place for a couple of nights. ‘It’s disgusting, sleeping with someone who’s sweating and snorting all night,’ she announces, which is more than I needed to know really.
Again, Lauren and I don’t see each other. I suggested she came to my place instead – but she was too busy, she said. She’s explained that newspaper and magazine work is hectic in the run-up to Christmas with editors wanting her columns in early, all done and dusted before the holidays. Plus, she’s creating content for a bakery chain and a series of Easter recipes for a print magazine. Hot cross buns and simnel cakes in mid-December! It’s normal for her to work so far ahead, I’ve discovered. So, yes, we are busy people who also happen to live a ninety-minute journey apart. But we are still very much together and we speak most days, or message. Or at least, we try to message most days.
