He laughs gratefully at my bad joke and I smile supportively.
‘And that’s not all . . .’ Unlooping my rucksack from over my shoulder, I rummage inside, then pull out a half bottle and two plastic tumblers.
‘What’s that?’ he asks.
‘Champagne, of course. What else do you drink on your wedding anniversary?’
His face lights up with astonishment and delight. ‘What would I do without you, eh?’ he chuckles.
‘Well that’s the thing,’ I reply, unwrapping the foil and grabbing hold of the cork, ‘I’m afraid you’re never going to find out as you’re not getting rid of me yet.’
The cork makes a loud pop and fires across the cemetery.
‘Flaming Nora, you’ll be having us arrested,’ he jumps.
I laugh, quickly grabbing a glass as the frothing liquid spills out of the bottle.
‘Your nan loved a bit of fizz.’
‘Well here’s to Nan. To both of you,’ I say, pouring out two large glasses and passing him one. ‘Happy anniversary.’
We chink our plastic tumblers and then for a moment we’re silent as we both drink the champagne, savouring the cold bubbles as they explode on the tongue.
‘We would have been married fifty-seven years,’ he says, after a pause. ‘I know my memory isn’t what it used to be, but that’s a date I don’t forget.’
‘Wow, fifty-seven years, that’s incredible.’
‘Not really,’ he smiles. ‘Being married to your nan was easy . . . though we didn’t always see eye to eye.’ He laughs and shakes his head. ‘She could be a bloody feisty woman, that’s for sure, but that’s what made Enid Enid, and I loved her, warts and all. I wouldn’t have changed a single thing about her.’
As he talks about her, his face becomes animated and I can see the love shining in his eyes.
‘If I had my time again, I wouldn’t change a single thing about the fifty-seven years we had together. Not a single thing. Not even the arguments, and we had some right humdingers, I tell you.’ He chuckles at the memory. ‘We even had a barney the first time we met.’
I glance at him with a surprised smile. ‘You never told me that before.’
‘It was at the pictures. I’d gone with my friends Bobby Wincup and Fred Lester. I can’t remember what we saw now, but that’s probably because I was too busy staring at your nan. I saw her as soon as we walked in. Afterwards I plucked up the courage to ask if I could walk her home and tried to steal a kiss—’
‘Gramps!’ I gasp, with mock indignation.
‘I was a bit of a bugger in those days,’ he confesses, ‘but my word did she put me in my place. I was terrified.’
‘Why, what did she say?’
‘I can’t remember now,’ he says, furrowing his brow, ‘but I do remember how she smelled. She wore lily of the valley in those days and I remember thinking she smelled like a summer’s day . . .’
He trails off, smiling fondly to himself, and I can see he’s back there now, back to that moment in time when he was a cocky young man in his twenties, flirting with the pretty young girl who was to become his wife.
‘From then on I could never imagine life without Enid. We never spent a night apart once we were married, even the kids were born at home . . .’ He pauses, and I watch as his smile falls away. ‘Not until she went into hospital . . .’ Swallowing hard, he stares into the middle distance, his voice barely a whisper. ‘I’ll never forget walking into that ward and seeing her there . . . I was so scared and she was so brave . . . losing her was the worst day of my life.’ He turns to me, his eyes red and glistening with tears. ‘I thought I’d die of a broken heart, you know.’
My chest tightens: seeing him so upset breaks my own heart. ‘Don’t you ever wish you could make that bit go away?’ I say, feeling angry at the past. ‘That you could erase those painful memories, forget they ever happened, just remember the happy times you had together?’
‘You must never say that,’ he reprimands sternly.
‘But why not?’ I look at him in surprise.
‘Because it’s the bad memories that makes you appreciate the good ones. Don’t ever wish them away. It’s like your nan always used to say, “You need both the sun and the rain to make a rainbow”.’
He looks at me, his face determined. ‘I don’t want to forget anything. All I’ve got left of your nan are memories. Good or bad, I don’t want anything to take those away.
‘And nothing will,’ I say quickly. ‘We’ll never forget Nan, none of us will.’
‘But that’s just it . . .’ His eyes meet mine. ‘I know what everyone’s saying.’
‘What?’ I frown.
‘About me going doolally . . . what do they call it these days? Alzheimer’s.’
‘No, we don’t think that at all,’ I protest, but inside guilt kicks in, as I think about the meeting that’s taken place between my parents and the nurses, the talk about him seeing a doctor, my own recent admission to Fergus. I don’t ever want to lie to Gramps, but how can I tell him? How can I tell him the truth?
‘I’ve seen the leaflets, I know Cyril down the hall has it, he can’t remember where he is any more . . .’ He shakes his head in dismay. ‘And it does scare me, Tess – it terrifies the life out of me.’
For the first time in my life I see the fear in Gramps’s face, see how distressed he is, and I desperately want to comfort him.
‘You’ll be fine, Gramps,’ I try to reassure him.
‘Will I?’ he asks. ‘Every day I remember less and less. My memories are being stolen from me and I’m trying bloody hard to hang on to them’ – he clenches his bony fist as if they’re in the palm of his hand – ‘but they’re slipping away and I can’t do a damn thing about it. I forget names, times, places . . .’ He sighs with exasperation. ‘We’re the sum total of our memories, Tess. Memories are the most precious things we have. Good or bad. That’s what make us who we are. What would we be like without them?’
He looks at me, and I can see the anger and frustration in his eyes. And the panic. ‘I worry that I’m going to forget her. I’m not going to remember what she looks like, her voice, the moments we shared—’ His voice trembles and he breaks off.
I put my arm around his shoulders and draw him close. I can almost feel his fear and I rail against it. Gramps has looked after me since I was a little girl: comforted me, reassured me, made everything safe. Now it’s my turn.
‘You’ll never forget her,’ I say resolutely. ‘Never in a million years. If you love someone your heart will always remember them. Even if the mind doesn’t, the heart never forgets.’
I can almost feel him draw strength from my words. ‘Never in a million years,’ he repeats quietly, determinedly.
The sun dips behind a tree and, as we fall into shadow, I feel the temperature drop. I notice our glasses are empty.
‘It’s getting cold, let’s go back,’ I say.
‘Yes, let’s,’ he nods.
And, clearing everything into my rucksack, we link arms and walk slowly back to the car.
Chapter 36
Arriving back at the flat I fumble for my door key. Fiona’s home, I can hear her inside talking to someone, she must have company . . . I dig around in my bag. Hang on a minute, was that a moan I just heard? I pause to listen. And is that . . . heavy breathing? Finding my key, I put it in the lock with trepidation. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve walked in on something I shouldn’t.
Closing the door loudly behind me, I walk into the kitchen to find Fiona sitting at the table. As usual she’s hidden, apart from the top of her head, behind the screen of her laptop. I feel a stab of relief.
Unlike Fiona.
On looking up and seeing me she lets out a shriek. ‘Oh my god, you gave me the fright of my life!’ She lunges frantically for her mouse and there’s lots of hasty clicking.
‘Sorry,’ I apologise quickly, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ I’ve taken off my sunglasses and, despite lashings o
f concealer, my eyes are still puffy with dark circles from crying last night. Gramps was just being kind when he said I looked nice. I look a complete fright.
‘No, it’s not that, I just wasn’t expecting you back so early . . .’ She breaks off as if she’s said too much.
‘Is someone here? I thought I heard you talking to someone.’
‘Really?’ She fidgets uncomfortably. ‘No, there’s no one here, I was just Skyping with my editor about my column.’
‘But isn’t your editor a woman? I’m sure I could hear a man’s voice—’
The shrill ring of her BlackBerry interrupts me and she snatches it up. ‘We got cut off, I’ll call you straight back,’ she hisses into the mouthpiece. ‘Anyway, I was just going out,’ she says in a loud voice, turning back to me.
I peer at her dubiously. ‘Where are you going?’ .
‘Oh, I’m just going to take Tallulah for her usual evening trot around the block,’ she replies, avoiding my gaze and closing the lid of her laptop.
‘In your underwear?’ I gape as her body is revealed. Minus its clothes.
Two spots of colour appear high on her cheeks. ‘Ah yes, of course, silly me, I forgot . . . um . . . it was so hot in here I had to take my clothes off!’ she exclaims, and starts fanning herself.
‘Whilst talking to your editor?’ I raise my eyebrows.
‘Well . . . um it’s all very liberal at Saturday Speaks . . .’ She gives a tinkly little laugh as she grabs her discarded clothes, lying in a pile on the floor next to her chair, and starts hastily pulling on her woolly tights and sweater dress. ‘Well, see you later.’ Hurrying past me into the hallway, she grabs her coat from the rack.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something else?’
With her hand already on the latch, she turns.
‘Tallulah?’ I prompt.
‘Oh, yes, of course, silly me,’ she gabbles, rushing back into the kitchen and returning with Tallulah scooped up in her arms. ‘Bye,’ she cries. Then she’s gone, the door slamming behind her.
I stare at it for a moment, my mind ticking over. Skyping with her editor? Feeling so hot she took her clothes off?? Having to take Tallulah for a walk? Yeh, right. What does she take me for? She was obviously Skyping with a man and it was all getting a bit hot and heavy. Why else would she be sitting there in her bra and knickers? And now she’s rushing off to call him back. I wonder who it is? And why is she being so secretive? Maybe she’s seeing Henry VIII again and she doesn’t want me to know. Or perhaps she’s changed her mind about Quasimodo and it’s the bell-ringer from Sassy Soul Mates.
Mulling it over, I go into the kitchen and have just flicked on the kettle when I hear a knock on the door. That’ll be Fiona. No doubt she’s forgotten something else, including her keys, I muse, padding back into the hallway.
‘So come on, what’s the big secret?’ I demand teasingly, pulling open the door.
Only it’s not Fiona, it’s Seb.
‘I haven’t got any secrets,’ he replies, looking confused.
‘Oh god, sorry . . . I thought you were my flatmate Fiona,’ I start hastily trying to explain. ‘She just left.’
‘I know, we met outside,’ he smiles, relaxing. ‘She let me in.’
‘Right, yes, of course . . .’ I nod, feeling flustered. Seb’s visit is totally unexpected. We haven’t seen each other since we got back from our mini-break, and him just turning up like this has thrown me.
‘So are you going to invite me in?’ he prompts.
I realise he’s still standing there in the doorway. ‘Er yes, of course . . . come in. I’m just making a cup of tea . . .’ Hurriedly I step back so he can enter.
‘I’ve been trying to call you all day but your phone was turned off,’ he says, closing the door behind him and following me into the kitchen.
‘I was with my granddad, we went to visit Nan’s grave.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he says, throwing me a look of sympathy.
‘Don’t be.’ I find myself smiling as my mind flicks back. It was a happy afternoon, not a sad one. ‘We went there to celebrate.’
‘Celebrate?’ Seb looks confused.
‘Today was their wedding anniversary,’ I explain. ‘They would have been married for fifty-seven years.’
‘Wow, that’s longer than most life sentences, hey?’ he quips, expecting me to laugh at his joke about marriage.
But whereas before I would have joined in his laughter, this time I ignore him and instead turn my attentions to the kettle.
‘Do you want tea or coffee?’ I ask, changing the subject.
‘How about a lychee martini instead?’
Unhooking two cups off the mug tree, I look at him blankly.
‘Come on, let’s go for dinner at Mala.’ Taking the cups from me, he puts them back on the mug tree. ‘I could kill their spicy Szechuan noodles, couldn’t you?’
Oh, god, no. Those noodles will kill me, not the other way around.
‘Actually I’m not hungry, I already ate with Granddad.’ I go to grab the mugs again.
‘Oh OK.’ He looks slightly surprised by my lack of enthusiasm. ‘What about a movie instead? There’s that new 3-D sci-fi film with Will Smith . . .’
‘Um, no thanks,’ I shake my head, ‘I don’t really feel like going out.’
‘Well, in that case why don’t we stay in . . . ?’ Moving closer, he slips his hand around my waist and starts nuzzling his face into my neck. ‘I actually bought you a little gift . . .’ He pulls a small pink-and-black Agent Provocateur bag from his pocket and waggles it at me. ‘Seeing as we’ve got the place to ourselves, maybe you could put this on . . .’ he whispers flirtily into my ear.
‘Um, you know, I’m not really in the mood,’ I hear myself saying.
‘C’mon, it’ll be fun . . .’
‘I’m actually a bit tired . . .’
‘You could do that amazing thing with your tongue . . .’
‘Seb, stop it! I don’t want to!’ I burst out. All at once something snaps inside me and I pull sharply away, pent-up emotion exploding out of me like the cork out of a bottle. ‘I don’t want to do any of those things.’
Shock flashes across his face. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’
Stunned by own outburst, I take a moment to recover. Me and my big mouth. Why did I blurt it out like that? I look at Seb and feel a sudden anguish. He looks so bewildered. ‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to snap . . .’ Wracked with guilt, I try explaining. ‘You see it’s just—’
‘Is this about the snowboarding weekend?’ he interrupts.
‘What? No! ’ I exclaim.
‘Because you don’t have to worry about cutting short our trip. I got us both season passes!’
Oh god. I stare at him, frozen with horror. I don’t know what to say. But at the same time I know I have to say something. And not just about the snowboarding, but about everything, I suddenly realise. Gathering up my courage, I try to think of a way to tell him, to try to explain. He looks so pleased with himself that there’s no easy way to say this.
So I just come out with it.
‘Seb, I hate snowboarding.’
‘What?’ He furrows his brow, as if he’s misheard.
‘And spicy food. I can’t eat it. In fact, I think I’m allergic to chillies.’
‘But I don’t understand. You said you loved it – you told me you loved both those things.’ Seb is shaking his head as if he’s got water in his ears.
‘And I don’t like science-fiction films either.’
‘You don’t?’
I shake my head. ‘No, to tell the truth I find them a bit boring. No, that’s not even the truth; the truth is I find them really, really boring. All those silly costumes and spaceships that look like something you’ve made from a Fairy Liquid bottle on Blue Peter . . .’
Now I’ve started I can’t stop. It’s as if there’s a tiny, cramped room inside of me where I’ve been hiding the real me, where for the last few weeks I’ve been s
tuffing my true feelings in an attempt to make them disappear. Piling my opinions and thoughts so high until there’s no more space left. And now someone’s unlocked the door and they’re all coming tumbling out in a torrent.
‘And as for all that sexy lingerie,’ I roll my eyes, ‘I don’t really wear underwear like that the whole time, it’s too uncomfortable.’
‘Uncomfortable?’ He looks perplexed, as if he’d never considered such a thing.
I nod. ‘G-strings cut right up my you-know-what and I only wore that nipple-less bra once and talk about chafing . . .’
‘But I thought you enjoyed wearing it,’ he says, glancing in confusion at the Agent Provocateur bag sitting redundantly on the kitchen counter.
‘Because that’s what I wanted you to believe,’ I confess. ‘I mean, would you enjoy wearing bum floss?’
If I’m hoping to lighten the atmosphere by making a joke, I’m unsuccessful. Raking his fingers through his hair, Seb looks at me wildly. ‘This isn’t making any sense – you’re not making any sense.’ He turns away from me and sits down on the sofa, looking dazed.
‘Look, I’m sorry, it’s all my fault, everything’s my fault . . .’ I break off and stare hard at the kitchen lino. I feel awful, but at the same time I also know this is the first sense I’ve spoken for a long time. Swallowing hard I look up at him. ‘I think we should break up.’
‘Break up?’ cries Seb, aghast, swivelling his gaze across me like a strobe light. ‘But why? We get along so well, we like all the same things—’
‘No, don’t you see? That’s what I’m trying to explain. We don’t like the same things, Seb. I just pretended to like them so you’d like me.’
He stares at me in confusion, not computing what’s going on. How can he? How can he begin to understand we dated once before and he broke up with me and I’ve been dating him all over again, doing things differently, hoping that this time he’d fall in love with me.
‘But this is crazy! I’m in love with you!’
His words ring out loud and I freeze. He’s never said that before, and for a moment my heart skips a beat. It’s what I’ve always wanted him to say. What I’ve waited so long to hear. Last time when we dated he’d tell me I was beautiful, or he thought I was adorable, or that he loved being with me. But he never told me he loved me. He never said those three little words.