‘Oh, OK. What are you doing for the rest of the day?’ I ask, suddenly desperate for him to stay on the phone for longer. Knowing that as soon as the line goes dead I’ll have to think through some pretty big decisions.
‘Learning lines. I might even go through some scenes with Johnny after our workout.’
‘Great …’
‘Miss you,’ he says softly.
‘You too,’ I sigh, feeling deflated, which is far from how I was feeling half an hour ago in the restaurant.
‘I’m always here, you know. I know that’s tough to remember with the distance and everything, but I’m only a phone call away.’
‘Me too.’
‘Will you think about what I’ve said?’ he asks me. ‘About the house.’
‘I will,’ I agree, but I’m already feeling a heavy weight bearing down on me at the thought. ‘Will you text me?’
It’s a feeble request. One that might make me seem needy and pathetic, but I feel a bit pathetic and I need him. I have a sudden pang for him to feel a little more present in my life right now.
‘There’ll be hundreds of messages from me when you wake up,’ he promises, not sounding at all put out by what I’ve asked.
‘Good,’ I whisper, already feeling comforted.
25
Billy does as he promises. I wake up to an absurd amount of texts literally detailing everything that he’s got up to during my sleeping hours. Luckily, I always put my phone on silent before bed, so I wasn’t woken up every fifteen minutes or so. There are even a few silly selfies of him and a beardless Johnny messing around: one in the gym, one at dinner with their scripts, one of them just driving down the freeway in an open-top car with the sun beaming down on them, and finally one of Billy in bed – again with his script, although this time it’s resting on his bare chest.
It’s a lovely sight to wake up to.
I know it’s ridiculous, but it means so much to know I’m being thought of. Not in the sense that I worry he’s off living the single life if I’m not glued to his side, which I’m guessing might be a concern for some people in our situation. But I’ve not found myself feeling paranoid or insecure – I just like knowing he’s thinking of me.
As well as all the messages from Billy, there’s one from Mum telling me Charlotte got her up super early and they will be over earlier than expected; one from Rachel saying that the boys kept her up all night with tummy bugs and that she was looking forward to being back in the shop tomorrow and regaining a bit of sanity; and then one from Peter telling me he got back home safely and that he thoroughly enjoyed our meal.
I don’t think I’ve ever woken up to such a busy phone or felt so popular.
I thought I wasn’t going to sleep very well last night thanks to a few things hanging over me. However, once I got off the phone to Billy I decided I really wasn’t in the mood to watch anything – yes, I skipped on the opportunity of catching up with my favourite Jude. I didn’t even get out from underneath my warm duvet to pick up the chocolate bar I’d left across the room – surely I must be coming down with something – or even brush my teeth – disgustingly lazy and means I still taste of onions. Instead, I just lay there cocooned, thoughts drifting about while I tried to keep my anxiety at bay.
Miraculously, I suppressed it and managed to keep calm. I lay there like that for a little while but ended up slipping off into a deep sleep fairly quickly with none of the thoughts managing to formulate into anything huge and uncontrollable.
In fairness, I was probably suffering from a serious case of food coma, unable to move or think coherently. That’s probably why I was able to nod off and get a good night’s sleep, despite there being so much to focus on.
I think back to the worries that niggled away at me the previous evening to see whether they carry the same weight now that it’s daytime. I’ve always felt problems can appear bigger and more overwhelming in the darker hours – and it’s good for me to take a step back every now and then to reassess.
This house is a big issue. I have a connection to it, a desire to never leave its safe walls nor walk away from all the memories that have been built here.
Yet. Yes, there’s a yet.
A lot of bad things happened here too.
When Mum first talked about moving I was terrified of losing sight of those happier times. Worried that not actually living here would cause me to forget, or that I’d be moving further away from Dad, the man whose face and voice are shamefully becoming dimmer and dimmer in my memory. I wanted to anchor my heels into the floorboards and protest that I wasn’t going anywhere, that this is my home and where I want to live for ever more. But now that Billy has suggested an alternative, a solution, a way of staying within the space that holds the past memories of the May family, I want to run. I want to escape. I want to flee from the torturous nightmares that have haunted me in this house. The bedroom I’ve never repainted because it held memories of the last precious moments shared between our little family; the front door the policewoman knocked at to take me to the hospital the night my dad died in a hit-and-run accident; the spot outside their bedroom where I used to sit in the darkest hours, listening to my mum howl in despair over her lost love …
It’s all here.
I remember the love and laughter, but I’m also trapped by the constricting despair, loneliness and heartache.
I want to be here. It’s my home. But at the same time, I’d love to be somewhere new. To be the bird. To be set free.
It’s a sad realization, but one that becomes all the clearer when thinking about what Peter said last night about Molly and Albert, and the way they made sure he followed his own path and lived his own life, rather than purely living the life they had planned or hoped for him. They didn’t want him to be too dependent on them. Likewise, they didn’t want him to have the pressure of them depending on him so that he might feel like leaving wasn’t possible. Instead, they gave him options. And through those options, they gave him the world.
I think I might want a bit of that.
I don’t think of this house as a cage, it offers more kindness and love than that, but it’s trapped me on an emotional level. Now, with Mum talking of moving out, is it possible that I can finally think of what I want without feeling an immeasurable amount of guilt?
Is it my turn to have the world?
Do I even want that now?
And if I do, where do I go?
Anywhere Billy is would be the obvious answer, but who knows where Billy will be from one year to the next. And that’s the other reason why buying this house wouldn’t work. Only in the last year have I started spending nights alone here. Before that there was Mum and Dad, then just Mum, then Billy. If Billy and me were to own this place, what would happen when he was gone? Would I spend months here in this house on my own? Would I want that? Could I cope?
And that leads me to another thing Peter said about wanting to be with the person he’s in a relationship with …
Maybe I am tied down.
Maybe I am trapped.
Or maybe, as I said yesterday at dinner, life isn’t that simple and you just have to do the best with what you’ve got. Last time I dropped everything to follow Billy it made me see just how important it is to keep hold of something for myself. Not only for my own piece of identity, but for my own sense of purpose and ambition. That’s what Rachel mentioned, too, in her first few days of being in the shop – her newfound sense of self-worth beyond existing for Shane and her boys … And then there was Rhonda’s talk of expanding the business. Now, I wouldn’t want to have dozens of versions of my unique little shop sprouting up in different locations around the world (you can’t replicate the heart contained inside those walls), but I’m definitely not ready to leave it all behind or stop wanting to help the shop organically evolve …
‘Soph!’ Mum shouts from the front door, interrupting me before I can dwell any longer on what I’m feeling or can really formulate a solid conclusion. ‘You up?’ she
yells again.
‘Yes,’ I call back down, prompting the sound of little feet running up the stairs and a rather excited Charlotte to fly breathlessly through my bedroom door while still clinging on tightly to her Minnie Mouse soft toy.
‘This is going to be the best day ever!’ she declares, diving on to my bed and jumping on top of me.
‘Ooof,’ I wheeze as her knee lands on my ribs. ‘Come here you,’ I say, pulling her round and wrestling with her, making her laugh.
‘Someone decided it was time for the day to start,’ says Mum, having made her way up the stairs to join us.
‘So I see,’ I laugh, as Charlotte flings her arms around me for a cuddle, breathing heavily as she starts to calm down, appearing exhausted from our playful scuffle.
‘You had breakfast?’ Mum asks.
‘Nope.’
‘Neither have we … there’s some bacon, sausages and eggs in the fridge, though, if you fancy it? Give us energy for the day ahead? Plus the shops don’t all open until eleven. We’ve got plenty of time,’ she suggests, waiting for us both to answer.
Even though I ate an obscene amount of food last night, the thought of a fried breakfast makes my mouth water and causes my tummy to suddenly feel like I’ve been starved for a week. ‘That would be great,’ I grin, already feeling naughty for agreeing to the idea.
‘Can I have a dippy egg?’ asks Charlotte in the sweet voice she uses when she really wants something.
‘Of course,’ Mum laughs. ‘Now come on. You can come help while Sophie gets out of bed and has a shower.’
‘Thought I could smell something,’ Charlotte giggles, with a cheeky expression on her face.
‘Oi, you!’ I laugh, tickling her under her armpits and making her squeal.
Sometimes children and family really are the best remedy for any worries and woes … especially my little rabble.
Half an hour later I’m dressed and seated at the breakfast table, with a clean head of hair and newly applied make-up, tucking into a lovely salty breakfast.
‘So how was last night?’ Mum asks, chopping up Charlotte’s buttered toast into dippable slices while her huge brown eyes look on hungrily, ready to tuck into her morning treat.
‘Really nice,’ I nod, sticking sausage and bacon into my mouth and enjoying the juiciness as I munch. ‘He’s already agreed to come over next Sunday. Was delighted to be asked.’
‘Great,’ Mum says, though her mouth wriggles in concern as she puts down Charlotte’s knife and turns to her own plate, loading a forkful of beans. ‘Wasn’t it weird at all, last night?’
‘In what way?’ I ask.
Mum looks at Charlotte before turning back to me and continuing. ‘Well, you’re a girl, he’s a guy …’
‘Oh gosh! No, Mum. No. There was nothing like that.’
‘Thank goodness,’ she says, expelling a lungful of air before bringing her fork to her mouth.
‘Is that what you’ve been worried about?’
‘Well, Billy’s away, you’re probably a bit lonely …’ she says, a slight frown on her face, probably hearing how ridiculous the scenario sounds now that it’s been voiced.
‘Mum, there was no one for years before Billy and that didn’t turn me into a man-hunting vixen, did it? I think I can cope with being on my own for a few months,’ I say, failing to admit how great it was to have some company for a change.
‘Oh, I know, but it’s a long time to be apart when you’re in love,’ she reasons. A fact I can’t argue with. ‘Plus, you always hear that it’s hard for men and women just to be friends – that their relationships get complicated by all sorts of chemistry and confusing business.’
Now it’s my turn to look at Charlotte. When she looks back at me, I roll my eyes to the skies.
‘Charlotte, please tell my mum … can boys and girls be friends?’
‘No, they can’t,’ Charlotte says adamantly, with a firm shake of her head.
‘What?’ I squeak, expecting her to say the opposite.
‘Have you met the boys in my class?’ she asks, screwing up her nose in utter disgust.
I can’t help but laugh at her response. I forgot she was still in the hating boys stage of life.
‘OK, the boys in Charlotte’s class excluded. Platonic relationships between boys and girls exist and work,’ I protest, hoping my words will eradicate Mum’s suspicions. I’d have thought she would just be pleased I’d been out socializing for once. ‘I’m not about to become a mechanical cog in an old cliché – next thing we know Billy will be running off with his Swedish PA.’
‘Does he have one?’ Mum gasps, concern etching its way back on to her face.
‘No!’
‘Oh!’ she chuckles, covering her eyes with her hands and shaking her head at being so slow on the uptake. ‘Sorry.’
We immediately dissolve into a fit of childish giggles. Even Charlotte joins in, although I imagine that’s down to the sight of two of the adults in her life being uncharacteristically silly.
‘Honestly, Mum,’ I say, wiping tears from my eyes once the laughter has subsided and I can talk again. ‘Peter’s a lovely guy and I enjoy spending time with him, but there’s nothing more than friendship there.’
Funny thing is, as the words make their way out of my mouth, a tiny part of me questions whether they are entirely truthful. Was there chemistry? Did he flirt? Were there heated moments? Or has it all been as innocent as I’ve been protesting? Am I only querying it all because Mum has? And how has Billy’s silence over the non-date made me feel? Would I have preferred him to give me the Spanish Inquisition? Did he realize it was just the two of us?
‘Oh, I knew there wouldn’t be,’ Mum sighs, tutting at herself. ‘I was just being silly. It’s a mum’s job to worry. Not that I’m worried about you, I know you’d never act in such a way.’
‘Can I have some more dippy toast, please?’ asks Charlotte, even though she still has two other pieces left on her plate. I love the fact that she’s so forward thinking with her food and would rather ask in advance of an empty plate than sit and wait for a few minutes once it’s gone.
‘Want me to open your other egg now, too?’ asks Mum.
‘Yes, please,’ Charlotte grins, clapping her hands together.
I watch the exchange while having a gulp of my tea, which I continue to slurp on even though it’s too hot. In a gorgeous way, Mum is being given a second opportunity to mother. It’s strange for me to witness it, but I love seeing how natural she is at it all despite being fretful that she might somehow let them down. I know she won’t. She wouldn’t. She’s a different woman to the one she was back then.
We both are.
Although, in some ways I’m exactly the same.
Mum’s right, I wouldn’t do anything foolish when it comes to Billy and me. It’s not me to act recklessly like that. Plus, I highly doubt Peter is reading any more into this than me being the young girl who walked into his mum’s shop a decade ago and struck up an unlikely friendship. And that’s what I am, a huge link to his mum. The only one he can really share his personal memories with while knowing that the person listening loved her just as much as he did.
It’s simply stupid social politics implying what we’re doing has to be more than that. It’s innocent. Meaningful, but totally innocent.
‘Is that the time already?’ I gasp, looking at the clock hanging on the wall and noticing that the morning has started to slip away from us already. ‘We’d better get a move on.’
26
We wolf down the rest of our breakfast at lightning speed, throw the empty plates in the sink, chuck on our coats and shoes and head out. Even though we’ll be spending the day in dressing rooms, we’ve clearly all made an extra effort for the special day. I’ve taken the time to blowdry my hair so that it’s smooth and shiny and am wearing the posh boots that Mum got me for Christmas with leggings and a knitted dress. Mum still has her hair whipped back in her signature bun (with no wispy bits out on display) b
ut has managed to make it look softer and more elegant by wearing it looser. She’s dressed smartly in black trousers, brown Chelsea boots and a cream blouse, while Charlotte is wearing one of her prettiest polka-dot dresses (which apparently she insisted on this morning) and looks almost identical to her Minnie Mouse (who is, obviously, coming along for some girlie fun).
Mum drives us all into town and we head straight to the department store Magpies which sells everything imaginable, and also has a well-stocked bridal wear section. Even though Mum has said she doesn’t want to go down the traditional wedding dress route, we decided there might be some simpler designs that could be worth looking at before trying anything less conventional.
Hitting the dedicated bridal part of the shop floor, we’re greeted by dozens of ivory and white dresses, all containing miles of lace, beading, sequins, chiffon, organza and tulle. Every bride’s dream.
Usually.
‘I suddenly feel a bit queasy,’ says Mum, placing her hand on her chest and taking a deep breath, holding on to a nearby rack of silky numbers to steady herself.
‘I love this one,’ sings Charlotte, typically tugging on the skirt of the biggest dress on display – an off the shoulder, sweetheart-neckline, princess-shaped gown. ‘It’s just like the one I drew,’ she beams, totally in awe of the dress in front of her and completely oblivious to anything being wrong.
‘Looks beautiful,’ I smile at her, before looking back at Mum. ‘You OK?’
‘Just having a moment,’ she sighs.
‘It’s only a dress … I know people say differently, but really, in the grand scheme of things it’s one day, one dress,’ I say, hoping the confidence in my voice will appease her anxiety.
‘Think it’s excitement, actually,’ she blushes, still concentrating on slowing down her breathing.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, I can’t wait to play dress up.’
‘Now that we can work with,’ I laugh, leaning over and giving her a kiss on the cheek before giving her a hug. I’m so used to my mum worrying, being fretful and fragile that I forget she is more than capable of experiencing ups too. Plus, she should be happy and excited. She’s preparing to marry a wonderful man who we both adore.