by Beth O'Leary
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a man like Tod. I want to spend it with somebody who understands the things that matter to me, who’s had a life with dark patches, like mine. I can’t imagine Tod gardening with me or reading by my log-burning stove at Clearwater Cottage or helping out with Neighborhood Watch business. He’s part of my London adventure, and London is where he belongs.
“I have to go back to the theater,” Tod says, his voice so low I can barely catch the words. “But I could come back tonight. One last night. For old times’ sake.”
That warm, butterfly feeling grows, and the rhythmic brush of his thumb on the skin of my wrist becomes more distracting than ever.
Well. Is it really an adventure if you don’t make at least one rather ill-advised decision?
29
Leena
I do love a good bit of crisis management, but when I get back from Nicola’s, I am a little bit apprehensive at how much has been left unattended in my absence. I mean, the fete is already officially open, now, and I’m not sure anyone’s checked whether there are toilets yet.
But when I pull up in Peewit Street, I can hear the charity auction underway, I can smell hog roasting, and I can see the falconer setting up with his birds. It looks amazing. Someone’s got the maypole up in my absence—it’s nearly straight and everything. We got lucky with the weather too: it’s that lemony pale sunshine you get when spring is just warming up, and the sound of chatter and children laughing carries on the light breeze.
I head straight for the Portaloo zone and am delighted to discover there are indeed toilets. Otherwise I was going to have to tell everyone to leave their doors unlocked and let visitors in if they needed a wee, and I had a feeling that was going to be a hard sell with the villagers.
“Oh, good, there are toilets,” says my mother from behind me.
I turn, surprised. She looks well—she’s dressed in a long flowing skirt and a bell-sleeved blouse, and as she leans in to kiss me hello I feel a little peculiar. It takes me a moment to clock: there’s no wave of emotion, no follow-up panic, no fight-or-flight. I’m pleased to see her. That’s all.
She pulls a list out of her skirt pocket—my list. I pat my own pockets, as if I might find it there even though I can literally see she’s holding it.
“Basil picked it up after the scuffle with Cliff,” Mum says. “I’ve been working my way through it as best I can. Sorry the maypole is wonky, I couldn’t convince Roland it wasn’t straight, and then I lost the will.”
“You … Oh, Mum, thank you,” I say.
She smiles at me. She’s pulled her hair back in a loose bun, and her eyes look brighter. I’m so very grateful not to be angry with her, so glad to look at her and feel nothing but love, that I pull her in for a spontaneous hug. She laughs.
“Oh, this is lovely,” she says.
I kiss her on the cheek. Behind us, someone knocks on a Portaloo door from the inside, and a voice that I’m pretty sure is Basil’s shouts,
“Hello? I’m stuck!”
I make a face at Mum. “Back to work, eh,” I tell her. “Will you be joining the parade?”
“I hear they’ve still not found a May Queen yet,” she says, lifting an eyebrow.
“Oh, God, I’m going to have to do it, aren’t I?” I look hopeful. “Unless you fancy it?”
Mum gives me a very motherly look at that, one that says, Nice try, Leena. “Saving the day like you did this morning … that May Queen’s crown belongs to you,” she says. “Now. Are you going to let Basil out of the toilet, or shall I?”
* * *
Now that I’m actually in it, this May Day outfit looks less Queen Guinevere and more … bridal.
I adjust the bodice nervously, loitering in the doorway of Clearwater Cottage. The dress is high-waisted, falling in soft white chiffon from just below the bust, and Penelope has helped pin flowers in my hair, around the May Queen crown. I feel a bit ethereal. This is very new for me. I’m not usually the ethereal type.
I reach into my bag for Grandma’s phone and send Betsy a quick text to tell her everything is going well. Arnold has taken Cliff home for now, on stern orders not to return to the fete, so I thought we might be able to bring Betsy back for the procession. But when she called to say she’d settled in at Nicola’s, she sounded so wobbly I didn’t even suggest it. It’s easy to forget that Betsy’s not Grandma: she’s six years older, for starters, and though she’s full of steely determination, she doesn’t have Grandma’s energy.
I’m not sure anyone else has that, actually. These last two months have reminded me of quite how remarkable my grandmother really is.
I smooth my dress with clammy palms. Out on Middling Lane, the procession awaits me. There was no selection process for joining the May Day procession—it pretty much includes anybody who wasn’t busy doing something else, plus anyone Betsy would openly ostracize if she found out they didn’t take part. My mum’s there, laughing at something Kathleen says, and I can see the Neighborhood Watch: Dr. Piotr’s bald head bowed as he speaks to Roland, Penelope winding a string of flowers around her neck and down her arms like a feather boa.
Then there’s the kids. All thirty-eight of the children who attend the Hamleigh-in-Harksdale primary school are here, and they’re gathered around Jackson in a circle, their faces turned up to his. They’re holding bags of confetti, ready to throw rose petals out into the crowds, and they’re dressed in white, like me, though most of their outfits are definitely made from bedsheets.
Well, all but one of them are dressed in bedsheets. One very special little girl is dressed as a satsuma.
“Easter bunny lady!” Samantha calls, breaking ranks to dash over and hug me around the legs. She bashes into me with an oof, bouncing off; Jackson steadies her. He looks up at me then, and I watch him double take as he sees my white dress, my bare shoulders. His mouth opens a little, and then he’s staring, really staring, can’t-help-himself staring. I bite my lip, trying not to smile.
“You look like a queen!” Samantha says.
“Oh, thank you!”
“Or a ghost!” she says.
Hmm. Less good.
Jackson clears his throat. “Ready to travel in style, as promised?” he asks, nodding behind me.
I turn. Parked up in front of Arnold’s house is Jackson’s pickup truck, so heavily garlanded in ribbons and flowers that you can hardly see Arnold in the driver’s seat. He winds down the window, beheading a carnation in the process.
“Your carriage awaits!” he calls.
“Taking part in the May Day procession?” I call back. “But Arnold, what about your reputation as the grumpy village recluse?”
“Go on with you, up in the back before I change my mind,” says Arnold.
Jackson kisses Samantha and sends her to join the other kids before helping me climb up into the back of the truck. We stand side by side and look at one another, the wind in our hair. I feel gladness, mostly—glad to be here, glad that I made this mad choice and stepped into my grandmother’s life for a little while, glad that Jackson’s smiling so broadly both his dimples are showing. There’s excited chatter from behind us as everyone gets settled into position, then Jackson taps twice on the truck’s roof and we’re off, trundling along the glittering path ahead at three miles an hour, with a motley, merry May Day procession behind us.
* * *
I haven’t been drunk in … I can’t remember the last time I was drunk. Goodbye drinks for Mateo when he left to go to McKinsey? And even then, I was too tired to really do the drunk thing properly; I just necked two Long Island iced teas then fell asleep on the tube, and nothing sobers you up like a long and expensive journey home from High Barnet.
But I am drunk on mango daiquiris and dizzy from very inexpertly dancing around the maypole, and I am happy. Happy happy happy. We reckon we’ve raised over a thousand pounds for charity today, and that money will go to help people like Carla, their families, their carers. Right now that feels like
the most wonderful thing in the world.
I weave my way down to the big bonfire in the field where I first walked Hank. Most of the stalls are still up and running around me, lit with lanterns and the dappled light of the central bonfire; the tropical cocktail stands are the most popular, with queues snaking away from each one. The hills of the Dales stand dark and beautiful behind it all and I will miss this place, God, I’ll really miss it. I don’t want tonight to end.
“Someone’s cheerful,” Arnold says, raising his glass to me as I approach the bonfire.
The fire spatters and crackles behind him; I walk forward and feel its warmth with a whoomph, stretching my hands out toward the heat. Jackson wanders over and passes Arnold a cup of something with a slice of melon floating in it. They stand together, comfortable, like father and son. I like that they’ve stayed that way even after Jackson’s mum left Arnold. Family can be so complicated, but if you just pick your own way of doing it you can end up with something pretty perfect all the same.
Jackson squints up at the sky. “Going to rain tomorrow,” he says.
“My stepson,” Arnold announces, “here to rain on your May Day parade. The lady was feeling cheerful, Jackson! Don’t ruin her good mood.”
Jackson coughs. “Sorry.” He leans to put his empty cup down and staggers slightly as he straightens back up.
“Are you drunk?” I ask. “Ooh, this is fun. What’s drunk Jackson like?”
“Actually,” Jackson says, pulling loose flowers from his wreath, “drunk Jackson tends to overshare.”
Arnold makes his excuses, waving vaguely at the treeline. Jackson and I move toward one of the makeshift benches set up beside the bonfire. It’s dark; his face is starkly masculine in the firelight, shadows collecting beneath his browbone, below his jaw. As my heart starts to thunder, I know I shouldn’t be sitting down with him alone—I’m thinking about this man too much, I’m too aware of him.
“Samantha loves you,” he says, pulling off his wreath and setting it down beside him. “Though she definitely still thinks you’re the Easter bunny. She explained to me that you’re off duty until next year now.”
I relax a little—if we’re talking about his kid, it doesn’t feel so dangerous. “That outfit. She’s such a great kid.”
He looks sidelong at me. “You know she got icing in your hair when you let her sit on your shoulders?”
I lift a hand to my hair and groan. “God, that’s going to be a nightmare to get out,” I say, picking at it. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“I think everyone’s too tipsy to notice. Except me.”
“Except you?” I raise my eyebrows. “I thought you were at oversharing levels of drunk.”
“I am.” He turns to face me, his eyes bright and intense in the firelight. “I just tend to notice you more than average.”
I go still. My heartbeat’s in my ears now, in my throat, everywhere.
“Leena…”
“I should get back to—”
His hand covers mine on the bench between us. A flush of hot–cold energy goes through me as he touches me, like the moment when someone pulls you in for a deep kiss, but all he’s done is place his fingers over mine.
“I think you’re amazing, Leena Cotton. You are kind, and beautiful, and absolutely unstoppable, and God, that thing that you do, running your hand through your hair like that, it…” He rubs his mouth with his spare hand, jaw clenching and unclenching.
I lower my arm—I hadn’t realized I’d even reached to touch my hair.
“I think you should know,” he says. “I like you. Like I shouldn’t. That sort of like.”
My breath is coming fast and shaky. I want to reach for him. I want to lace my fingers through his and pull myself toward him and kiss him hard on the mouth in the firelight, and he’s so close, closer than he should be, so close I can see the pale freckles under his eyes, the dusting of stubble across his jaw—
“I’ve not known what to do,” he says, his voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper. His lips are inches from mine. “For weeks I’ve thought about it. I don’t want to break up a relationship, that’s wrong. But I also don’t want you to leave without knowing.”
My brain kicks in the moment he mentions Ethan. I pull my hand away and back up, swallowing hard. My body’s slower—I’m hot with wanting.
“I shouldn’t—I’m sorry, Jackson, I should have stopped you the moment you started speaking. I don’t see you that way. I have a boyfriend. You know that.” It comes out wobblier than I’d like; I try to sound firm and decisive, but my mind is foggy with tropical cocktails and my pulse is still pounding.
“And he makes you happy?” Jackson asks. He winces slightly as he says it. “I’m sorry. I’m only going to ask you that once.”
I take a deep breath. It’s Ethan we’re talking about. Of course I know the answer to this question.
“Yes. He does.”
Jackson looks down at his feet. “Well. Good. I’m glad. I’m glad he makes you happy.”
He seems to mean it, which makes my heart hurt.
“I’ll be gone next week,” I say, swallowing. “You’ll … forget all about me. Life will go back to normal.”
We both look toward the fire, its flames torn by the breeze.
“I might just say goodbye now,” Jackson says.
I’m having a little gathering tomorrow in the village hall with the Neighborhood Watch crew, maybe even Nicola and Betsy if they feel up to it. But I guess no Jackson.
“That’s fine,” I say. “Of course. I should…” I stand. One side of my body’s hot from the bonfire, the other’s cool from the breeze.
“I’m sorry,” Jackson says, standing too. “I should have … Obviously, now, I can see I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No,” I say. “I get it.”
It’s better he said it. Now it’s clear where the line is.
“Well. Goodbye,” he says.
I hesitate, and then,
“Come here,” I say, and pull him in for a hug. He closes his arms around me, my cheek against his chest, his hand almost spanning the width of my waist. He smells of open fires and wildflowers, the scent of his wreath still caught in the soft fabric of his shirt. I pull away as my pulse begins to pound again.
“Live a good life, Leena Cotton,” he says, in the moment we step apart. “And … make sure it’s the right one.”
30
Eileen
I leave Tod in bed with the sheets ruffled, his arm thrown wide as if reaching for me again. I like the idea of this as my last memory of him, and his last memory of me as the way I was last night: giddy, a little silly, and wearing perfect makeup because Martha did it for me.
My bags are all packed and waiting in Rupert and Aurora’s hallway downstairs. Fitz carried them down for me before he left for work. I gave Aurora and Rupert a cactus as their goodbye present; Aurora was ecstatic. Really, that woman thinks anything shaped even vaguely like a penis is a work of art.
They’ve promised to keep the Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club going and to send me photos of each month’s event. It’s Fitz who’s most excited about it, though: he has grand plans to expand the club already. It’s been a joy, seeing him throwing his heart into it all—he reminds me a little of myself at that age. Though I had a good sight more common sense. The man just can’t seem to learn how to look after himself—anything domestic goes in one ear and comes out the other. I’ve done what I can, though, while I’ve been here, and he’s coming along. The other day I saw him pairing his socks after doing a wash.
I hail down a black cab to take me to the Selmount offices for my goodbye coffee with Bee. As we crawl through the streets, I remember how frightening this place felt when I first arrived. Now it’s a second home. I’ll miss the man in the market who gives me a discount on crêpes because he’s from Yorkshire too, and the Big Issue seller with the Alsatian who wears a pink bow.
We pull up outside the Selmount offices; it takes me a
while to get out of the car, and I’m just getting my legs around to climb out of the door when I look up and freeze.
“Are you OK there, ma’am?” says the taxi driver.
“Shh!” I say, eyes fixed. I start swiveling, pulling my legs back inside the car again. “Close your door! Follow that car!”
“Sorry?” he says, nonplussed.
“That cab there! The one two in front, with the lingerie lady on the side!”
“The one with the gent and the blonde girl getting in?” he asks, looking at me rather warily in the mirror.
“That is my granddaughter’s boyfriend, and I’ll bet you any money that’s his bit-on-the-side,” I say. “She fits the description down pat.”
The driver turns the key in the ignition. “Right you are, ma’am. I’ll stick to them like glue.” He cuts into the traffic smoothly enough that nobody honks. “Can’t stand cheaters,” he says.
“Nor me,” I say with fervor, as we pull in behind them. With difficulty—I don’t want to take my eyes off that cab—I send Bee a quick message.
On to Ethan. So sorry to miss you. Lots of love, Eileen xx
She replies instantly.
I AM INTRIGUED.
I don’t have time to fill Bee in. She’ll have to wait. Ethan’s cab is pulling in; my taxi driver stops behind them at a bus stop, looking rather nervously over his shoulder.
“I’ll hop out,” I say, though it’s more of a clamber than a hop, really. “You’ve been wonderful. As soon as I’ve worked out how, I’ll give you five stars.”
He looks nonplussed, but helps me climb out and gives me a friendly enough wave as I set off after Ethan, dragging my suitcase behind me.
I’m convinced that’s Ceci. She’s got straight blonde hair and long legs, which ticks off two of the things I know about the woman, and besides, there’s just something about her that says, I might steal your granddaughter’s boyfriend.
But I do lose my nerve a tad when they pause outside an office building. It occurs to me now that Ethan and Ceci could just be off to a meeting, in which case I have wasted a lot of money on a cab fare to … where exactly am I?