Walking her to her bedroom door wasn’t necessary, but I did it anyway, saying goodnight to her and heading back out knowing that she was still looking at me as I left.
Then I went to my study and let the next chapter flow out of my fingers, those words now coming easily.
Iris
Dear Iris,
I thought, for old time’s sake, we could start writing to each other again, even though we’re currently living together. Sounds strange maybe, but I’m much better with written words rather than spoken ones.
I like you living in my house. Although, it doesn’t feel just like my house anymore. In almost every room I can catch the scent of the perfume you wear – I think I can pretty much figure out now how long it’s been since you’ve been in a particular room. Half of my clothes now smell of you, and pretty much all of my hoodies – I’d really like one or two back as I’m running short.
The only room that doesn’t smell of you is my bedroom and I can’t help but think that’s a mistake. It’s also the only room that doesn’t have your things in it, which means it now reminds me of a show home. Not that I’m complaining about your things – except maybe the number of cushions. Do cushions breed? I’m thinking there should be a scientific study done into this, although I suspect that most women already know the answer to that question.
Can I interest you in dinner tonight? 6.30? Do let me know.
Yours,
Gulliver.
I re-read it twice more, charmed and thrilled as well as overwhelmingly curious. We ate dinner together every night, which was arguably a bit intense, both of us going from living alone to living with someone else in a matter of a couple of months.
I looked over at him, his back to me as he typed away at his laptop, which was on a makeshift desk looking out of the living room windows over the garden and down to the sea.
The gorgeous weather from yesterday had been replaced with rain, which was disappointing but not unexpected. I’d been for a short walk along the coastal path to the lifeboat station, leaving Gully at home to carry on writing. It seemed he’d hit a sweet point as he’d been up for a large portion of the night, which I knew because I’d been like a stalker and watched him for a good ten minutes without him realising I was there.
I woke up at two am like clockwork every morning for some bizarre and unknown reason, and I’d gone to get myself a drink from the kitchen. Gully’s bedroom door had been open, a lamp still on, so I’d peered in, seeing him working away.
I hadn’t interrupted, knowing what it was like when you were in the flow of something. He’d been already up in the morning, coming into my bedroom at vomit o’clock, like he did every day to make sure I was okay.
It was a matter of course now, for him to hold my hair back and crouch behind me, his body keeping me warm. After I’d finished, which was happening sooner, thankfully, he’d pull me close into him for an enormous hug, which took longer than thesick bit, wrapping himself around me on the bathroom floor, me ending up sat on his lap, engulfed in his arms.
It was at that moment every day when I knew I was feeling a lot more for him than I’d ever intended to.
I didn’t interrupt his writing, simply responding to his request for dinner with a post-it note, which got me a crooked grin and twinkling eyes.
I sat on the sofa with my laptop, catching up with emails from various people about commissions and purchases. I had a trip to Monaco booked in three weeks’ time, a fashion shoot that also involved a couple of racing drivers, not that I had any idea who they were. I also had a request from Zoey Carter to do a shoot for her on the island that was an easy and interesting job. She’d lived next door to Amelie and Roman at one point, when she was just becoming famous. From what I’d heard, she had a close friendship with Roman’s son, Caleb, and visited the island every so often to see him and get some normality. Anglesey had been home to the heir to the throne at one point, so the residents were pretty good at letting people just blend in.
There was also an email from my sister’s solicitors, letting me know that royalties for the last six months were on the way to the savings account I’d set up. I didn’t need the money; my career was one that provided me with a healthy income and I’d been left the total of my parents’ estate. Ivy’s earnings from her books went into an account that would be for our baby, for university or a house or a year’s travelling across the world.
The day after tomorrow was the anniversary of her death.
Five years.
Half a decade.
Five Christmases, five birthdays, five summers. The firsts had been the worst, like everyone said, and the pain was different now, less fresh, less sharp, but it was still there. Grief was a cut that never truly healed. It scabbed over at first, but waseasily knocked by a pretty sunset or a familiar scent. Gradually the skin grew closed, the scab smaller each time, but what was left was scar tissue, which felt different, looked different.
I was different.
Gully was different.
I put a hand on my stomach, feeling the very slight curve. I had my first scan in two weeks, which we were excited about. Ivy wouldn’t have been at it anyway, but she’d have been the first person I’d have sent a picture of the scan to.
Gully turned around as if he was reading my thoughts.
He stood up and strode over to me, covering the distance with a few easy paces. “You’re not okay.”
His arms gathered around me, pulling us close together.
