‘Hey! How’s the birthday girl?’
It’s Johnny. Looking better than he did the last time – but then he’d probably consider this early compared to some of the twenty-four-hour binges Marianne has told me about.
‘Um . . . hi, Johnny. Didn’t you get my Facebook message?’ I ask.
‘Hardly use it, Em. Had a good birthday?’
‘Johnny, I know about you and Cally. And Zachary. Your son.’
He pauses, taking in the information. ‘I see.’ He takes a deep breath and looks me in the eyes. ‘I suppose you think I’m an arse, do you?’
I hesitate. ‘Something like that, Johnny.’
His jaw tenses with anger. ‘When I become a father, Emma, it’s not going to be the result of a one-night stand with some slut.’
‘Johnny, you already are a father,’ I find myself saying. ‘That’s the case whether you like it or not. Cally is no slut. And, by the way, your son is amazing.’
He shakes his head furiously. ‘Emma, I’m in love with your sister and I always will be. She’s the one I should’ve had kids with. I’m paying for one mistake . . . one stupid bloody mistake that never should’ve happened – and I’ll be paying for the rest of my life.’
‘Johnny, Marianne fell out of love with you long before you fathered a child with Cally. The way you’ve acted over that has sealed the deal. You have a beautiful, healthy, funny little boy. He’s yours. Your flesh and blood, Johnny. Look.’
I grab him by the hand and pull him to the window, where I wipe clean a section and peer in. ‘Look,’ I repeat.
He glances at me reluctantly then leans his face towards the window, focusing on the corner of the room. Zachary is on Giles’s knee, giggling as he’s being tickled.
‘That’s your boy, Johnny. Isn’t he lovely?’
I stand up straight, wondering if it’s possible for him to alter his position on Zachary now he’s seen him. I have my answer sooner than I imagined.
He looks at me briefly, then turns his back and walks away. From his son. From his past. And from his son’s future.
I am about to turn my attention to the phone again, when it rings. I recognise the number immediately and answer so fast I almost drop it.
‘Emma.’
‘Matt,’ I reply. ‘What is it? I missed a load of calls.’
He doesn’t answer at first. I can hear nothing through my handset except footsteps. They’re faint to begin with, but then get louder and louder until I become woozily aware that they’re in surround sound.
‘Matt?’
I head to the side of the building, following the sound that’s identical to what I’m hearing in my phone, and I have my answer. His eyes say everything and nothing as he stands before me, looking almost as disbelieving as I am.
‘I’m here,’ he laughs.
And we fall into each other’s arms, hysterically kissing each other so urgently it’s as if we’re afraid one of us will disappear in a cloud of smoke.
Chapter 97
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask incredulously, pulling away as he strokes the hair from my face.
‘I hate to miss a good party.’
The emotion in his expression is hard to describe or comprehend. He looks like a man who’s had the best and the worst days of his life all in one.
‘You postponed your trip for twenty-four-hours?’
He hesitates. ‘I postponed my trip indefinitely.’
He squeezes me into him and when he finally releases me, he suppresses a smile, shaking his head. ‘Sorry. I just never thought I was going to get to do that again.’
‘Matt, what’s going on?’
‘I owe you a favour, Emma. I owe you the biggest favour of my life. You phoned me from the supermarket last week, when Guillaume was shouting at Joshua. And you left a message. One I only picked up today when I got my phone back.’
I frown. ‘But it didn’t say anything more than I’d already told you.’
‘Not initially. Only . . . you forgot to end the call. The message recorded everything. Every last horrible bit of it.’
My jaw drops. ‘So you heard what Guillaume said, what he did?’
‘Everything.’
‘That must’ve been horrific.’
‘Horrific for me – and horrific for Allison. She could do nothing but believe you about Guillaume, about what happened. She heard it for herself. She was devastated. And furious.’
‘So what did she do?’
‘I’ve been looking after the kids tonight – at their house – while she and Guillaume thrashed things out.’
‘And are things . . . thrashed?’
He swallows, emotion washing over his face as he speaks. ‘They’re not going to France with Guillaume any more. They’re staying right here.’
I suddenly feel as though I’ve lost my voice, but I find it from somewhere. ‘Does that mean you’re staying too?’
He holds my face in his hands and leans in to kiss me. His warm lips melt into mine and the world falls silent.
He pulls back and nods. ‘I am.’
Chapter 98
As I open the door to Leaf I’m hit by a wave of music, heat and laughter. It’s clear that I hadn’t been missed.
I weave through the throng, clutching Matt’s hand, pausing briefly to say hello and introduce him to friends and family in various stages of inebriation.
‘Are you going to dance with me on my birthday?’ I ask, as we find refuge by the bar.
‘Was it ever in any doubt?’
With elation running through me, we hit the dance floor – just in time for me to spot Dad next to the window with Deb. At first glance, I think nothing of the ambiguous look in their eyes. Only, when I glance down, I see something that redefines their relationship in a way I should’ve recognised a long time ago: they’re holding hands.
Exactly when Deb and Dad got together I have no idea. It could’ve been months ago – it could’ve been minutes.
‘Is everything all right?’ Matt asks.
I smile, reach up to his face and kiss him firmly on the lips. ‘Everything’s brilliant.’
The rhythm of the music changes and I feel a tap on my back.
‘This one’s for you, Em,’ Cally grins as she slips her arm round me, drags me from Matt – and Marianne and Asha appear.
My sister, my friends and I swing our hips to ‘Groove is in the Heart’, just like we did as teenagers – only, this time I manage not to break my ankle.
Today I’m thirty years old.
And this is my time.
Epilogue
24 January, 10.43 a.m.:
one month and two days later.
I wonder if I should worry about the fact my darling boyfriend bought me a birthday present that has the potential to cause instant death, hideous mutilation or – if I’m lucky – just bring me out in the sort of sweat that rots armpits.
I told him I’d try not to hold it against him. That was before I got into the plane.
Now that I’m in it, making my twelve-thousand-foot ascent into the heavens, I’m hyperventilating like I’m trying to break the world record in carbon dioxide production.
There are a million questions firing through my brain – everything from ‘What happens if the parachute doesn’t work?’ (I know the answer to that one) to ‘What if I wet myself?’ (I know the answer to that too – and the six-foot-tall Scottish instructor I’ll be strapped to doesn’t come out well).
There is so much adrenalin in my body I feel drunk with it. I don’t need to look in a mirror to know that my complexion is the colour of the Jolly Green Giant.
‘How are you feeling, Emma?’ grins Ricky. He’s the Scot.
‘Like I’m about to die.’
He laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. ‘Ah . . . you’ll love it. I guarantee.’
‘Why do I not believe you?’
The truth is, it’s only now I’m up here that I realise how much I want to do this. How much I need to do this, even though my deadli
ne for the list has well and truly passed.
Yet I also know Matt’s right about what he’s been telling me since yesterday: I shouldn’t beat myself up if I don’t make this leap. I should only do it if I want to. I’m not a failure if I don’t. And I certainly shouldn’t let it alter my perspective on everything else in my life.
My life. Which is unbelievably show-stoppingly great. If the rest of my thirties are like the first month, then bring ’em on.
Work has been fantastic since we won the pitch – and, as well as Perry’s mad/genius (I still can’t decide which) idea about garden implements, I’ve been asked as creative director to put together firmer plans for one idea Giles and I came up with – about an ice-skating princess – a year ago. Perry Snr is so excited that we’re making a pilot for Channel 6 – and have a meeting with them in six weeks’ time. I can’t pretend Perry is any less mad, but since his father insisted on the appointment of a deputy CEO – and persuaded Sarah McIntyre back from Australia – we’re not at the mercy of his lunacy to anything like the same extent.
Not that it’d bother Giles if we were. Well, not much. The point is, Giles is happy. Very, very happy. Something that can largely be attributed to the shift in Cally’s attitude since my party; it’s as if that night she saw a new dimension to him. The fact that Zachary adores Giles is an added bonus – and the feeling’s mutual. Giles talks about his new little friend so much there are times when I almost wish he’d start moaning again.
Asha told me last week that Rob has asked her on a date. Ridiculously, she seemed nervous about it, concerned I had lingering feelings about him. I reassured her that I’m over the moon – and suggested she never, ever takes him camping.
I’ve been waiting for weeks for Dad to mention what’s going on with Deb – and had started to think I’ll still be waiting when the Queen begins to compose her hundredth-birthday telegram to him. So I came out asked him. There was so much stuttering you’d think Paul van Dyk had remixed his vocal chords. Eventually, when I pointed out I’d seen them holding hands at my party, he was forced to confess that she’d sent him an email via Match.com.
‘She was the best of the bunch by a long, long way,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Don’t you mind?’
He’d been worried Marianne and I wouldn’t like the idea of him dating Deb, given that Mum knew her. But Mum would’ve approved, I know it. Just as I’m sure she’d have approved of Matt.
Reading her letters – and the ones she sent to Marianne – has given me a unique insight, one that makes an element of my life finally feel complete. She was so wise, funny, clever, brave. Everything I want to be.
Not that I’m feeling overly brave right now. I’m so paralysed with fear I’m not sure I can actually move towards the door. Despite that, I feel different these days. Maybe it’s being in love with someone who loves me back. Maybe it’s being in my thirties. Maybe it’s all just coincidence.
All I know is this.
As I perch next to the open door with a deafening heartbeat, I am delirious with fear. I have lost the ability to speak. My stomach is turning over at the rate of approximately four hundred revolutions a minute.
Ricky checks if I’m okay. At least, I think that’s what he does. I can’t hear him properly and I hesitate and close my eyes, wondering if I can really go through with this.
He repeats his question, more clearly: ‘Emma, are you ready?’
The sound in my brain fades to nothing but I can hear two words, words that have somehow left my mouth, despite the fact that I haven’t taken a breath in at least a minute. ‘I am.’
Then I breathe. I smile. And I leap.
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