‘It’s Frankie!’ Kayla says, opening up.
‘Hey you. How are you doing?’
‘I’m good,’ Frankie says, looking around. ‘This is looking so nice! Can I help with the painting?’
‘I think it’s under control, but you could unpack some of those boxes.’
‘Not the most exciting job, Mum, butokay. Oh, by the way, I’m out this afternoon with a few friends before dinner. I won’t be late. What’s Sam cooking tonight anyway?’
‘I think he said tapas. I’ve been told to stay out of it and leave him to it.’
‘To be fair he is a much better cook than you,’ Frankie says.
Kayla might find this amusing, but in truth I am relieved that Frankie seems to like Sam as much as she does, even though I already know she played her own small part in us being together. Unbeknownst to me, it was she who’d told Terri that I’d struck up a friendship with a man that her Uncle Jeff had thought would be good for me. Terri’s speech, it seems, was not entirely coincidental.
When she returned from her travels, they hit it off straight away, bonding over a mutual love of music quizzes and some obscure corner of Rome that both had been to. The three of us carry on painting happily into the afternoon, before I tell both of them it’s time to leave and enjoy the rest oftheir Saturday. I stay behind to lock up, closing the paint tins and putting the boxes away, before taking one last look at the place.
The shelves aren’t even stocked yet, but I feel like I want to pinch myself. I head to the door, unable to fight the smile on my face as I close it, turn the key and look up to read the sign above my head.
‘Jules Loves’.
Nora is on the lookout for a new name for her Sunday group session. She says we’re no longer rusty enough for Rusty Racquets. I head on court, wrapped up in enough layers for a polar expedition, as it strikes me that this is the kind of day on which I’d once have been reluctant to leave the house. I would have sat at home rearranging my salad drawers or mooching through old photos. Admittedly, it’s not many people’s definition of ideal tennis weather, so chilly and dank that you can see your breath. I already suspect it will be a while before my fingers and toes fully defrost.
Somehow, though, there’s still nowhere else I’d rather be on a Sunday afternoon.
Lisa and Rose are already on court chatting to others and I find my brother at the side of the net limbering up with a few star jumps.
‘I keep meaning to ask: would you like me to do the cocktails for your big opening?’
‘Lovely idea, but I don’t want anyone getting pissed and crashing into the crockery.’
‘Fair enough,’ he says. ‘Have you decided what you’re wearing?’
‘Oh Jeff, I haven’t had a minute to think about that.’
‘Well, you need to. I’m not having you turning up in those angora socks.’
‘You are obsessed with those socks,’ I say.
‘That’s because they’re terrible.’
‘Sam thinks they’re great.’
‘He really doesn’t,’ Jeff says.
‘It’s true.’
‘No. He is tolerating them because he loves you.’
I smile, then shrug. ‘Well, that’s probably also true.’
At that, a text buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and see Sam’s name. ‘Enjoy your lesson today and I’ll see you at 8. Just checking Frankie is okay with shellfish? x’
I’m in the middle of responding when another one comes through. ‘p.s. I love you. Do I say that too often? x’
I text back. ‘No such thing. Shellfish fine. I love you too. See you at 8 x’
I have finally realised that it is fully possible for happiness and heartbreak to rub alongside each other and co-exist. That life is too long for them to be mutually exclusive. My love for Ed will never die, or even shrink or recede. But there is a different part of my heart that now belongs to Sam. Giving it to him fully is a gift not merely to him, but to myself.
