I glance upwards searching for a sign but there’s nothing but cloud above.
‘I met someone, in Boston. It wasn’t Ryan Gosling.’ I let out a small, humourless laugh. ‘It’s over now but leaving him behind reminded me how happy love can make you, and I suppose it’s opened me up to the idea that maybe I could love again.’
I look at Kev’s grave, shining. One day that will be me. Do I really want to live my life alone only to become nothing more than a gravestone myself one day? Or do I want to take a risk and love someone again? Because falling in love is special and to deny myself that for fear of losing someone again is a ridiculous argument.
‘I can love again. I should love again.’ I stand up and pack everything away in my carrier bag before leaning over Kev’s grave and kissing the cold stone. ‘I’ll never forget you though. My first love, you’ll always be in my heart.’
***
I go and take a seat in the Teacup Café, which was a butcher’s shop last time I was here. I’m pleased to see it’s quiet, and an unfamiliar lady is serving behind the counter. I order a coffee and add a Florentine to the order as an afterthought.
I sit down and take the dolphin card out of my bag.
Dear Ethan,
There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t seem to get the words to assemble in my head. In the end, I decide to just write whatever comes first.
I should never have lied to you. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you. I just knew that I couldn’t take that job, so it seemed pointless discussing it. I didn’t want to get your hopes up and it seemed best to bury the idea. The truth is, coming home has helped me re-evaluate a few things. I’ve come to realise that I can move on from Kev, and it’s you who helped me to see that.
I’m running out of space, despite my squashed-up writing, so I have to go over onto the left-hand page. I draw a little arrow to show how the letter carries on.
You are a beautiful man, and leaving you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Perhaps I should have taken the job and given us a try, but I still would have been in Boston, and I don’t think it could have worked. Not whilst I still had issues to deal with.
I just wanted to apologise. What I did cost me a proper goodbye with you and Lexi, and that’s hurt me every day since I left Provincetown. I’ve written my address on the back of this card, but I’ll understand if you don’t reply.
Live happy.
Always.
Sam xxx
I read it through, but the words don’t seem to convey the emotion that I want them to. I could throw the card away and buy a new one tomorrow, but there’s no saying that I’ll have better words then either, and I’ll only keep putting it off. I just need to post this card and have done with it.
Chapter 39
I hadn’t realised how lonely London could be. I’d always loved being part of the city set, walking purposefully at ten miles per hour and jumping on the tube with a flat white in hand. But just because there are people everywhere doesn’t mean you connect with them. In fact, it seems that the more people there are around, the more people go out of their way to not connect. In the village, for instance, someone would spot a stranger from twenty metres and say hello and ask where they’re from, just like they would in Provincetown. That small connection helps you to feel something for others, and that chips away at loneliness. It drove me away once, but now I see it as something wonderful.
I guess I’m feeling it more now because Bridget has got into a new routine and I don’t have anyone to have fun with. The job in Boston seems so appealing, but had I taken it, I’d just be transferring my problems to another city.
My parents have invited me round for Sunday lunch. I agreed almost instinctively, but when I turn up, I’m nervous. My mum greets me kindly with a hug, and my dad looks up from his paper when I walk into the lounge and says, ‘Hi, love.’ It’s almost as though nothing has changed in eight years. My mum refuses my offer of help, shooing me out of the kitchen to go and relax, because, ‘There won’t be much time for that in London.’ I don’t protest and tell her we have TVs and sofas there too. Instead, I sit uncomfortably in the lounge with my dad. Sky Sports is on. I want to change the channel, but I remember how he’d say ‘Oi, I was watching that,’ when I was a kid, despite being fully engrossed in the back pages of the paper. I pretend to be interested in whichever football teams are playing and try to ignore the noise of the crowd which is akin to tinnitus.
‘Bill, can you set the table?’ my mum calls.
‘I’ll do it,’ I say, almost too quickly.
‘Don’t be silly, love, you’re our guest,’ my dad says, folding his paper up.
When he goes through the double doors into the dining room, I pick up the remote control and start to flick through the channels. The familiar smell of my mum’s roast with all the trimmings fills my nostrils. A bouquet of nostalgia.
‘Oi, I was watching that,’ my dad calls, his back turned to the TV. I smile and put Sky Sports back on. Nothing has changed. I’m fifteen again.
‘So, what are your plans, love?’ my mum says once dinner has been served. She shovels a large piece of broccoli into her mouth.
‘There’s a teatime train I can catch from Oxford which will get me back to London at a reasonable hour,’ I say, enjoying a bite of Yorkshire pudding soaked in gravy.
‘I mean in life. Do you think you’ll stay in London?’
‘Perhaps. I’m not sure.’ I hack at Mum’s signature beef which she prides herself on cooking ‘right the way through’. I never knew beef could be juicy and tender until I moved to London and discovered medium-rare.
‘Are you happy there?’
She isn’t prying, and I don’t sense an ulterior motive in her tone, so I decide to be open. ‘I have been, but since I got back from Boston, it doesn’t feel the same.’
‘Oh?’
‘My friends have moved on a bit. It’s nothing really. I think I just made some really good friends in Boston who I grew really close to and coming home made me realise how I don’t really have the same thing here. Obviously, I miss the sun and beaches and stuff too.’
Concern is etched into the features of both my mum and dad.
‘There’s always room for you here, love,’ my dad says, and my eyes prickle. I have to blink several times to keep the tears at bay. It’s touching that he’s said that, but I can’t move back here. I’m glad to have a relationship with my parents again, but the thought of coming back to the village seems like a step backwards.
‘Bill, it sounds like her heart isn’t in the Cotswolds. It sounds like her heart is in Provincetown.’ My mum gives me the smallest of smiles.
‘I turned down a job there,’ I blurt. Jeez, what’s in these Yorkshires, truth serum?
‘Why ever did you do that?’ my mum asks. ‘You’ve just said there’s nothing for you in London anymore.’
‘There was a guy. It’s a bit complicated.’
My mum puts her hand on her heart and gasps. ‘So you have moved on.’
‘I don’t think so. She’s back here, isn’t she?’ my dad says.
‘Rekindling my relationship with my parents, I think you’ll find.’
‘Hiding from reality more like,’ my mum says. ‘It sounds like you’ve made a huge sacrifice coming home just because your relationship got a bit “complicated”, love.’
I open my mouth to protest, but for some reason, I can’t seem to form a sentence that validates my actions. I’d never thought of my mum as insightful before. I don’t think I ever listened to her.
‘There’s a chance the job would still be available, but I’ve only just found you guys again. I can’t leave now. I have a lot of lost time to make up for.’ I realise how much I mean those words.
‘Honey, this time you’ll keep in touch. This time we can visit you; you can visit us. This time we won’t have lost you.’ She reaches out and clenches my hand in hers.
My eyes sting again, and no amount of blinkin
g can hold back the next torrent of prickly, salty tears. ‘Thank you. I love you both,’ I sob. ‘I’m going to get in touch with Patrick and ask about the job.’
‘Good for you, love,’ my mum says.
‘Why are you being so kind to me?’ I can’t help but ask. The last eight years must have been hell for them.
‘You’re our only child. We don’t agree with what you did, but we understand. Sort of. We’re not going to pretend that we weren’t hurt by it though.’ My mum shuffles slightly in her chair, and when she looks up at me next, her eyes are full of sorrow.
‘I know. I’m so sorry for what I did.’ The shame I feel is physically painful.
She shakes her head and waves her hand about in front of her face. ‘You’re here now. I just hope you’ve healed.’
I hadn’t considered that. Am I healed? I got close to Ethan, so that must mean I’m heading in the right direction, and, recently, I’ve found myself thinking of Ethan even more than Kev. A wave of guilt hits me.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I went to Kev’s grave last week. I’ve not been able to do that since the funeral.’
‘So now maybe it’s time to be happy again,’ Mum says.
Chapter 40
It’s been three days since I emailed Patrick, and a week and a half since I posted the letter to Ethan. Both should have been received by now, but neither have replied. It’s put me on a floor of eggshells, smack-bang in the middle of limbo. The more thought I’ve given to moving, the more I believe it’s the right thing to do.
‘Sam, I’ve got a call for you,’ our receptionist shouts across the open-plan office. For some reason, she’d rather yell than use the telephone system, and since I don’t want to enter into a loud conversation about who it could be, I shout for her to put it through.
‘Hello?’ I say cautiously, hoping it isn’t the CEO of that organic milkshake start-up chasing me for free logo designs again. I swear crowdfunding has a lot to answer for. Nobody wants to pay for anything anymore.
‘Sam, hi, it’s Patrick.’
‘Oh, Patrick. Hello.’ I sit up straighter in my chair.
‘I got your email. Why didn’t you just call?’
‘I wasn’t sure if the offer still stood and I didn’t want to put you on the spot.’
‘Don’t be silly. We want you here. I thought I’d made that pretty clear. When do you want to start? I assume you have a lot to sort out.’
I think about it. My lease is just rolling monthly now. I have to sort things out with work, and the project I’m working on will take another month to see through. Then it will be close to Christmas, which isn’t a great time to uproot. I should probably stay until after then, for my parents’ sake.
‘How about January? New year, new start,’ I say, although I can’t help but get a niggling feeling that Ethan will slip further away the longer I put off the move.
‘January works for me. I’ll make the necessary arrangements at my end, and HR will be in touch to sort out all the details. We’ll also sort your accommodation, insurance and contracts.’
‘Excellent.’ Oh my god, I’m really doing this.
‘We’re excited to have you. I’m glad you changed your mind.’
Chapter 41
The streets are cold and still. Lined with cars parked bumper-to-bumper, which are unlikely to be driven until tomorrow. Almost every house is sporting a wreath, and twinkly Christmas tree lights are visible through most of the front windows. I dumped my easyCar about five minutes away, where I managed to squeeze the thankfully compact Fiat 500 into a tiny spot.
Struggling with my giant gift bag, I ring the doorbell and stand there patiently, as the aroma of cooked turkey somehow spills out.
‘Hello, love,’ my mum says, pulling me into a hug. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas, Mum.’
‘Ho, ho, ho.’ My dad appears wearing a fuzzy-felt Santa hat.
‘Merry Christmas, Dad,’ I say, kissing him on the cheek.
‘Dinner is almost ready,’ my mum says. ‘Shall we eat first and do presents after?’
I’m shepherded to the table as ‘Last Christmas’ belts out from my dad’s CD player. Three prawn cocktails, complete with Thousand Island Dressing, sit waiting on the same gold charger-plates I remember my mum buying from Wilko sometime in the early noughties.
‘Let’s eat.’ My mum comes in from the kitchen with a bottle of prosecco and three champagne flutes. My dad sits down and holds out his cracker for me to pull.
‘When is it you fly to Boston, love?’ he asks, replacing his Santa hat with the purple paper one that has just fallen out of his cracker.
‘The sixth of January,’ I say. ‘This prawn cocktail is good.’
‘Thanks, darling.’ My mum holds out her own cracker, and I pull the end weakly, ensuring that she wins. ‘Come on, pull yours too.’
I oblige, even putting on my orange paper hat. ‘Ooh, some golf tees,’ I say sarcastically.
‘I’ll have them,’ my dad pipes up.
‘What do you call a line of men waiting for a haircut?’ my mum says. It takes me a minute to realise she’s reading the joke from her Christmas cracker.
‘Oh, erm, I don’t know.’
‘A Barber-queue.’ She chuckles whilst Dad and I groan.
‘So, has it just been you and Dad for Christmas these past few years?’
‘Yes. Pretty much,’ she says.
‘We went to the pub one year, but it was so overpriced we decided we weren’t doing that again. Eighty-five quid a head, plus drinks.’ My dad shakes his head so hard the underneath of his chin wobbles.
‘What have you usually done for Christmas?’
‘I didn’t celebrate it for the first couple of years. I couldn’t face it. Then, my friend Bridget forced me round to her house once she found out I spent Christmas alone and I’ve gone there ever since.’
‘That was nice of your friend to make sure you weren’t alone.’ She smiles and stands up. ‘I’ll clear these plates and get the turkey out.’
‘Have you got much to sort out for the big move?’ my dad asks as he tops up my glass.
‘My flat here is furnished and so is the one in Boston, so I don’t need to worry about shipping sofas and things. I just have to pack up the rest of my stuff. Most of it I’m going to send over to Boston. The rest I can donate to charity.’
My mum starts bringing through steaming hot dishes of sprouts, carrots, roast potatoes, stuffing and turkey, whilst my dad unscrews the lid on the cranberry sauce. It all smells delicious.
‘What about your house here?’ my mum asks, catching the tail end of the conversation.
I wring my hands under the table. ‘Actually, I think it’s time I sold it. I can’t see myself ever moving back there, and I could do with the money to help get me set up in the States.’
Mum nods, but an air of sadness surrounds her.
‘It just wasn’t meant to be,’ I add. ‘Me in that house, building a family.’
‘You still have time to build a family, love. You’re not that old.’
‘I know, and plenty of people do. I just don’t feel like I could do the whole baby thing now. And let’s not forget, I’d need a partner first.’ My mum looks crestfallen but being an only child of parents desperate for grandchildren is a lot of pressure. Perhaps they should have given me a brother or sister and increased their odds a little. Of course, I don’t actually say any of that.
Once we’ve eaten our Christmas pudding with brandy butter, we collapse in three stuffed heaps in the lounge, just in time for the Queen’s speech. Which we listen to, in a fashion, as my mum makes her commentary about what the Queen really means by her comments on community and coming together.
‘Shall we do presents?’ I say ten minutes later.
‘Good idea.’ My mum gets up and walks over to the tree, where she picks up one of the gift bags.
‘We had no idea what you were into, so I’ve put gift receipts in.’
�
�I’m sure I’ll love whatever is in here.’ I smile, taking out the first item, which is wrapped in red tissue paper. ‘Slippers! I love them, thank you.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ my dad says.
I laugh. ‘You mean you didn’t choose them?’
‘I was at work earning the money to bloody pay for them,’ he says.
‘Fair point.’
‘Open the next one.’ My mum is on the edge of her seat, leaning forward in my direction.
I tear open the next package. ‘Pyjamas! These look so comfortable. Thank you.’
‘I just bought things you could easily take to Boston,’ Mum says.
‘I appreciate it. Thank you.’ I hug her, and then my dad.
‘Now, I’ve got you guys some presents too.’ I start unloading my bag. ‘I figured I missed eight Christmases, so I’ve bought you a present for each year I was gone.’ Pangs of guilt bolt through me. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop feeling those. ‘Plus one for this year. I know it doesn’t make up for what I did, but I’m hoping it shows you how sorry I am.’ I take the first two gifts, labelled ‘2010’, and hand them out.
‘I was feeling pretty low on the Christmas of 2010, so I figured I’d have bought you something sentimental. Open them.’
My mum tears hers open. It’s a photo frame with a picture of me and Kev in. It had been taken by my mum during a meal about six months before Kev’s accident. Mum had asked for a copy to put in a frame at the time, but I’d forgotten all about it. On the back, I’ve written a message, thanking her and my dad for trying to offer their support after I lost Kev.
My mum regards me with watery eyes. ‘Thanks, love.’
My dad is inspecting his gift curiously.
‘It’s a spirit level. It was Kev’s. I know he used to love helping you with DIY, and he’d have wanted you to have this. He’d have found it funny in his own dry way since he’s now a spirit and all.’ I shrug.
A Summer to Remember Page 23