“You found it!” I exclaim brightly, jumping to my feet and taking it from him before squishing the pair of shoes into my case. “Where was it?”
“Under the bed, where all your missing shoes can be located. If you didn’t kick your shoes off and then leave them wherever they land, fewer might end up lost under there.”
“You have been extremely helpful, thank you,” I say, shutting my case and leaning forward on top of it to do up the zip. “I am officially ready to go.”
“Finally,” he says with a grin, lifting the case off the bed and making several unnecessary remarks about how heavy it is as he lugs it to the car waiting outside while I lock up.
A few months after we declared our love for each other, Ryan moved into my flat. It was quite fast, but we figured we’d known each other long enough, and the constant trekking between North and South London was getting tiresome. Although Ryan’s flat was much nicer than mine, I really didn’t want to live in North London again, so Ryan agreed that he’d relocate south of the river. It’s a bit of a squeeze with two of us, but Ryan’s so tidy, there’s not too much encroaching. We’re currently in the market for somewhere to buy—Ryan insists it has to be a two-bedroom, even if that means moving farther out, because he says that my mess ismaking him go gray early and he wants my wardrobe in a separate room to our bedroom.
I am much tidier now that I live with a cleanliness dictator. One pot out of place in the kitchen and I suffer lectures for a week. I’ve been banned altogether from attempting to load the dishwasher, which, I won’t lie, is fine by me.
On the way to the airport, I smile to myself at Ryan double-checking he’s got our passports, even though he’s checked several times since we set off.
“What?” he asks, when he catches me smirking.
“Nothing. I’m excited for Stockholm.”
“Me too,” he says happily, reaching over to squeeze my hand, his thumb brushing lightly over the top of the diamond ring sitting on my left hand.
Three weeks ago, Ryan suggested a picnic in Greenwich Park. I thought it was a random but lovely idea and didn’t think anything else about it. It seemed a bit strange that he wanted to go in the evening, but he said that way, it wouldn’t be too crowded.
Once we got there, I was happy to sit anywhere there was a space and dig into the food he’d placed very carefully in a hamper, something I gleefully took the piss out of him for (my picnic style is to buy food on the way and throw it haphazardly in a shopping bag). But Ryan insisted we keep walking to the very top of the hill, and it took me a while to realize that he was aiming for the exact spot we’d sat in many years ago, two interns at the start of their career, looking out at the view of the city.
When we’d sat down on the blanket he’d brought with him (adorable; I usually plonked myself on my jacket or put up with the grass), he pulled out a bottle of champagne and cracked it open, pouring us both a glass. It didn’t even click then. I just thought he was being a bit extra. But then he said that he’d chosen this spot specifically because it was, he considers, where we had our sort-of first date and the moment when, thanks to ouralmost first kiss, he was filled with hope that he might have a chance with me, the girl he knew with certainty he would always love.
He got a box out of his pocket, and it felt like the rest of the world disappeared as he swiftly maneuvered from sitting on the blanket to being on one knee in front of me.
It was the easiest answer I’ve ever had to give.
Mimi helped him pick the ring, he revealed, and she and Katya were the first people I called to tell the news the next day. They screamed with joy as though it was ahugesurprise, and Mimi immediately set about planning a celebratory dinner for us. Being my best friend and Ryan’s colleague—not to mention, instrumental in getting us together in Florence—she is maid of honor and is not taking those duties lightly. We’re thinking of doing a small wedding abroad and she emails me at least three or four times a week with different location ideas and beautiful venues.
Florence is the leading contender.
After telling Mimi the news, next we video-called Ryan’s parents to let them know, and they started jumping up and down. Poor Sully had no idea what was going on and burst into celebratory zoomies, bounding across the sofas and knocking over a lamp.
The Stockholm trip was their idea, as Fredrik wanted to introduce me to his side of the family. Ryan and I are going for a full week where we’ll spend the first few days just us so we have some time alone and he can show me around the city—strictly no working allowed during this period (his rule)—and then the last few days, his parents are coming to join us and we’ll meet the family. I’m nervous because I want to impress them, but if they’re anything like Fredrik, I know I won’t have to worry. I’ve never felt so welcome anywhere as I do when we go to visit them in Manchester.
I’ve finally got the family I always wanted.
Things with Juliet are going well, and she’s much more a part of my life now. It took us a while to get into a rhythm, starting with lunches and dinners here and there, getting to know each other once again. We had a lot of years to catch up on. She’s thrilled about our engagement and has met Ryan a few times, which means a lot to me. Having found a job in advertising, she’s much more at ease when we meet up. Her body language and facial expressions are noticeably warmer than ever before.
Mum and Dad are a work in progress for both of us. Juliet is intent on making it work with them, while I’m happier to let it go. But she keeps saying “family is family,” and at Christmas we all agreed to our first gathering since that summer dinner where everything fell apart. Not that it had ever really been together in the first place.
The dinner was stilted and forced and I was so grateful to have Ryan with me. Somehow it helped having someone from outside the family present, and, as I should have guessed, my parents took to him. They had obviously Googled him before the dinner, and some of his pieces had impressed them—they made a point of bringing up certain topics that he’d written about and asking him questions about them.
They even admitted that my podcast was a success, despite “not being into that sort of thing.” Ryan took great pains to tell them how the first series had topped the charts and been nominated for several awards at the time, two of which—“Best New Podcast” and “Best Arts and Culture Podcast”—I went on to win. My parents listened to Ryan’s raving about my achievements and politely wished me luck.
Their effort toward Ryan was, Juliet believes, their version of an olive branch. This was further confirmed in her mind when Dad emailed us both afterward to thank Juliet for organizing the “pleasant” evening and suggest scheduling the next date fordinner with us and Ryan. But we still haven’t spoken about what I said that night, and they still haven’t apologized for anything. I’ve accepted that they never will.
Juliet is hopeful, though, that things will improve, for herself as much as for me. They still haven’t shown much of an interest in her job and continue to make disparaging comments about her career pivot, which I know hurts her. I’m still not sure whether we’ll invite them to the wedding. But whatever happens with my parents, I’ll be okay. I have Mimi and I got my sister back. And now I have Ryan.
I have all I need.
Not to mention, work is going very well. The podcast continues to soar and I have incredible guests lined up for the third series, including Audrey Abbot, who will be speaking to me about her soon-to-be-released memoirs and promoting the new London show she’s directing—an all-female production ofMuch Ado About Nothingat the National Theatre. I’m still writing, too, on a freelance basis now. I’ve written a lot for Rakhee atSleekand have formed some excellent relationships with the editors of other leading publications—my work has been published inVogue,and I’ve just filed my first piece forTIMEmagazine. I have turned down any commissions from Cosmo Chambers-Smyth atNarrative,although word on the street is that he won’t be there much longer if the publishers have their way. I have a feeling I know who the next editor might be, although the candidate I have in mind will have to juggle his new responsibilities with meeting the demands of the book deal he recently clinched.
I have no doubt he can handle it.
The success of the podcast undoubtedly gave me a confidence boost, but I’ve also been working on another project that I’m pretty excited about. After leaving the constraints of the powers that be atNarrativeand finally shrugging off the burdensome weight of my parents’ opinion, I realized that my work couldhelp others aspiring to careers that might seem out of reach. So I set about planning and editing a book that will be a collection of stories from women in the arts—it’s a labor of love and will take a while to collate. I’m selecting and interviewing women from all walks of life working in varying cultural endeavors—film, TV, theater, music, publishing, galleries—and with all types of job titles, whether they’re stars of the show or unsung heroes behind the scenes. Once I interview them about how they got to where they are, what challenges they overcame, and what advice they’d give to others hoping to follow in their footsteps, I write up their chapter in the first-person narrative, doing my best to capture their voice. I’ve already tested the waters with publishers and several have come back to request a meeting to discuss its potential. A couple of them have already expressed their hopes that it could even be a series.
