by Lucy Diamond
Until we met again, I had wasted so many years thinking myself hard done by, feeling bitter and angry, making wrong assumptions about you and what had happened. Without wanting to sound melodramatic, it coloured the way I treated my ex-wife and my kids, too, for which I feel ashamed. I’m going to sort it out, put things right with them, try again. So thanks for setting me straight. For the first time in ages, I feel optimistic. That things might be okay.
I’m glad everything worked out well for you anyway. You were always this golden, shining light of a girl, India. The sort of person everyone wanted to be with, who everyone loved. I wish you all the best, the happiest of lives. You deserve it. I’m sorry I let you down back in the day.
Do an old friend a favour, though, and give the violin another go, yeah? For me, but also for you.
All the best
Robin
She blinked and handed the letter wordlessly to Dan, because she knew he was dying to know what it said. And then she bent down to where Esme had unzipped the case to reveal a glossy, amber-coloured violin and pulled it out, the wood cool and smooth to the touch.
‘Mum, can you play it?’ George asked, fascinated. ‘Can you play the violin?’
‘I’ve probably forgotten everything,’ she said, plucking the strings gently. ‘And it’s horrendously out of tune.’ But then she lifted it to her shoulder and, without even having to think, her fingers were forming note positions on the instrument’s slender neck, the muscle memory guiding them effortlessly into place as if they’d never been away. For a moment it was as if she was back in the small dusty practice room of her old school, just her and the music, hours lost amidst soaring, spiralling melodies. She’d have to get some decent rosin, she found herself thinking, see if she could download some kind of tuning app, order a load of sheet music . . .
George was still looking at her in astonishment. ‘Yes,’ she told him, feeling an unexpected little frisson of pleasure. Pride, too, that she might actually be able to confound her eldest son’s low expectations of her, just this once. ‘I can play the violin, George. And do you know what? I used to be pretty good at it, too.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
When her phone buzzed with an incoming text on Saturday morning, waking her up, Jo wasn’t sure where she was at first. The filmy pink light was unfamiliar; not the usual dense darkness of Rick’s bedroom with its thick blackout curtains, and the pillow smelled different. Blinking, her mind foggy, she peered short-sightedly at the looming shadowy shape over on the far wall, before the penny dropped. Of course – they were boxes of her possessions, yet to be unpacked, and she was in her new flat, having spent her very first night there. Home, as she had to start thinking of it.
‘Hello,’ she whispered into the room, hoping Rick wouldn’t wake up and tease her for being sentimental about bricks and mortar. In truth, she had never been so happy to pick up a set of new keys in her life. Much as she’d enjoyed staying with him for so many weeks, it was only as she’d stepped across the threshold yesterday afternoon, with the ‘Essentials’ box in her arms (kettle, mugs, tea, coffee, biscuits), that she breathed in the scent of independence once more and realized how much she’d missed it. It had all been too much, too soon, the two of them, and now they could take a small step back, still dating and together, but each with their own precious space again.
Her eyes adjusted to the half-darkness and she smiled to herself as she gazed around at the tiny cast-iron fireplace, the beautiful old ceiling rose from which hung a bare light bulb (she’d get round to sorting out a lampshade soon), the vase of flowers on the mantelpiece, courtesy of India, who’d popped round with them, plus a bottle of Prosecco and a sheaf of leaflets for all the best takeaways in the area (‘You’ll thank me for this tonight – don’t say I’m not good to you,’ she’d said). The flat was on the second floor of a gorgeous old Victorian house just off Cross Street: handy for work, near all her friends, and only half an hour into the city to see Rick. She’d taken on a twelve-month rental and the landlord was the brother of her colleague, Alison, ‘And he’s totally not dodgy,’ she had vowed. It was shaping up to be a pretty good move, in all.
Later that weekend she would pick up some paint samples and daub possible shades on these walls, she thought happily. Perhaps a nice soft blue or a sea green. She’d unpack all her kitchen bits and bobs, hang her clothes up in the wardrobe, rearrange the furniture in the living room, tune in the TV . . . oh, and just as soon as she got her Internet up and running, she would be downloading all her favourite cheesy TV programmes to watch in blissful peace, too. Face-pack on. Naffest pyjamas. Definitely ice cream.
Then she remembered her buzzing phone and groped around on the floor for it. Ah! A message from Laura: Well, it’s a beautiful morning here in Newcastle . . . ;-)
‘Oh my God,’ said Jo, sitting bolt upright in bed as the implications of this filtered through. ‘Yes. YES!’
Rick rolled over sleepily, opening one eye a crack. He’d helped her cart all her boxes in the day before, then they’d ordered in pizza (thanks, India) and he’d produced a bottle of champagne, which they’d had to drink out of mugs, because she hadn’t been able to find the box with her wine glasses. Then they’d christened her new bath together, along with the Prosecco; a happy time, in short. ‘Are you practising some weird Harry Met Sally thing there?’ he murmured now, draping a hand over her thigh. ‘Or are you just pleased to see me?’
‘It’s Laura,’ Jo replied, glued to her phone as she opened the picture her sister had sent, which showed blue skies above a glittering river – the Tyne, presumably. ‘She must have stayed over with Matt. Oh, this is the best news. I’m so happy!’
Ignoring her boyfriend’s wandering hands, she typed a quick reply: YESSSS! I knew it! Are you two back together?
She beamed across at Rick, whose eyes were shut again, although by the way his fingers were stealthily inching their way up her body, she guessed that he wasn’t completely asleep. ‘That is so brilliant,’ she sighed, snuggling further back into bed with him. ‘Don’t you just love a happy ending?’
‘I’ll tell you what would be the best kind of happy ending right now,’ he mumbled, rolling on top of her.
Jo gave a muffled laugh from beneath the hot weight of him and then her phone buzzed again with a new text. She just had time to read the words It’s complicated . . . onscreen, along with a load of seemingly random emojis – a baby, a house, a red lipstick? – before Rick had grabbed the phone from her hand and thrown it across the room.
‘Hey!’ she cried indignantly, but then his mouth was on hers and they were exchanging disgusting morning-breath tastes and laughing at how gross the other one was, and what complete and utter perverts they must be to find this remotely horny . . . and by then it somehow didn’t seem to matter any more.
‘That is the second time we’ve had sex in my flat,’ she said breathlessly a while later, ‘and I haven’t even been in here a full day.’
‘I know,’ he said, lying flat on his back with his eyes shut once more. ‘Good, isn’t it? I think I might move in with you, if this is the standard rate around here.’
She laughed at the smirk on his face. They had reached a good place, the two of them, in the last week or so. Following her breakthrough with Maisie, Jo had given Rick and his daughter more space, choosing to absent herself tactfully by spending nights and weekend time with her sister and friends, so that nobody was cramping anybody else’s style. Meanwhile, true to her promise, Maisie had confessed to Rick how difficult things had become living at home with Polly, telling him that the two of them had been arguing a lot, that Polly had maybe been drinking too much, and that there’d been ‘a bit of trouble’ when the police came out, following complaints from the neighbours about loud music and shouting. As a result, emergency talks had been held between Rick and Polly, involving heated words and recriminations apparently, before they’d calmed down, remembering that they both loved their daughter. After that, relations had become slig
htly more conciliatory.
A new arrangement had been drawn up so that everyone knew where Maisie was supposed to be on any given day; Rick would do more to help, Polly was going to ease up on the drinking and get herself organized. That was the plan, anyway, and who knew how things would pan out in reality – but at least they both cared enough to give it a try.
As for Jo and Maisie . . . the two of them were still a work in progress. Jo had kept to her side of the deal, conveniently ‘forgetting’ that the Primark incident had ever taken place, and, on the few occasions they’d seen each other since, they had been polite and civil to one another. No more name-calling. No more rudeness or answering back. No more resentment towards the other for merely existing, at least not outwardly anyway. A small step forward, in other words.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ she asked, standing up and then remembering her phone, tossed away onto the carpet, and that last mysterious text that had come in.
‘Please,’ Rick said, and Jo padded through to the kitchen, glancing down at the screen. In truth, she wasn’t really au fait with emojis – smiley face, sad face, that was about her limit – but apparently her sister was more clued up, judging by the string of mini-pictures she’d included in her message.
A man, a woman, a cocktail glass – well, that seemed straightforward; Laura and Matt having a drink together, Jo supposed. Next was a suitcase, a baby, a red lipstick, a confused face, question marks . . .
Jo’s own face twisted in confusion. Were they going away together? A holiday with the baby? You’d have thought there would be at least one smiling face if so, not to mention love-hearts galore. It’s complicated, Laura had written gnomically and although Jo typed back Complicated how?, no further explanation came. Hmm. Ring me if you want to chat, she typed, just as Rick appeared in the kitchen doorway, fully dressed.
‘While you’re making coffee, I’ll nip out and scavenge the streets for breakfast ingredients,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Bread, eggs, beans, bacon, butter . . . anything else beginning with “b” while I’m there?’
‘Um . . . beers? Joking. How about sausages? Sausages with a silent “b”, that is?’
He grinned. ‘Sausages with a silent “b” coming up,’ he said, then vanished, only for his head to reappear around the door a second later. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘just so you know, this is totally me buttering you up, getting in your good books, because I forgot to tell you: I’ve promised to take Maisie out tonight. To some God-awful teen band or other, where I’m going to be the oldest person there by, like, several decades.’ He looked so glum that she couldn’t help laughing.
‘Sounds fun.’
‘Are you saying you want to go, too?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Because it can be arranged. You can totally come, too.’
‘What, and spoil your dad-and-daughter evening? I wouldn’t dream of it!’ she cried, thinking happily of trashy catch-up TV and Häagen-Dazs. Come to Mama . . .
His face fell. ‘I thought you might say that. Ah well. Tomorrow we’ll do something, yeah? Just me and you. We could go to Blackpool or somewhere, be cheesy day-trippers.’
‘Cool,’ she said, spooning coffee granules into the mugs and smiling at the way his hair was cowlicking up from his head where he’d slept on it funny. God, he was adorable, he really was. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was about to go and buy all sorts of lovely things for breakfast, she would totally be pouncing on him now and snogging that gorgeous face of his again.
Then an idea struck her. ‘You know . . . you could ask Maisie if she fancies a cheesy day-trip, too, if you want. Maybe with a friend, so they can go off together on the scary rides while we try on Kiss Me Quick hats and buy lollipops shaped like penises.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ he told her, mock-indignantly, but then hesitated. ‘Are you sure? About Maisie?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ she replied, feeling magnanimous. ‘If she wants to, that is. Just a thought.’ Then she bustled over to the stack of unopened boxes marked ‘Kitchen Stuff’ so that he couldn’t see the goofy smile on her face, the pleasure she was experiencing from holding out that olive branch. It felt surprisingly great. ‘Right, now to see if I can track down a frying pan before you come back with the provisions,’ she said, changing the subject.
He was still there, head hanging around the door, watching her rip through the packing tape. ‘I love you,’ he said, and she looked up and beamed at him.
‘I love you, too,’ she said. ‘And I’ll love you even more when you bring home the bacon.’
And then he was gone, laughing, and she stood there, peering into her box of saucepans and mixing bowls and utensils, feeling as if this weekend was going to be very enjoyable indeed.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A week after her surgery, Eve and Neil were called back to the hospital in order for her to be given the pathologist’s report. To say that she was a mess of nerves was a huge understatement. She’d barely slept the night before, dreading being told the worst. Without fail, the news had been bad each time so far. Would her luck have changed at last?
But this time the doctor had smiled as they sat down in his office. And this time it was good news: the pathologist was confident that the cancer was non-invasive, and that all the DCIS had been safely removed. ‘The prognosis is positive,’ the doctor told them, as Eve and Neil sat there holding hands in shocked, happy relief. Was that the old Grim Reaper melting away into the background, defeated this time? It did feel as if she’d been given a stay of execution, a second chance. ‘Thank you,’ whispered Eve gratefully, vowing there and then that she would appreciate and celebrate every hour, every day, from here on in.
Now there was the radiotherapy to get through and although it wasn’t exactly something to look forward to, it didn’t hurt at least, she discovered, and was over quickly each time, the nursing staff being as kind and competent as you could wish for. It sounded churlish to complain that the biggest inconvenience was the getting to and from hospital every weekday. Her wounds were healing without infection, there was still some pain and discomfort, but really, in the grand scheme of things, these all seemed like small prices to pay. She was one of the lucky ones, after all.
Of course, nobody was given a free pass forever. Eve knew full well there was no guarantee she wouldn’t get full-blown cancer eventually, especially as she’d learned that there was a 10 per cent chance of recurrence in the treated breast in years to come. If the last few months had taught her anything, though, it was that sometimes life was simply beyond your control. Sometimes you just had to roll with the punches. It had also shown her that she had people around her who would support her through anything – her own personal team of cheerleaders. And this had turned out to be immensely comforting.
Back she went to the office and, because she was still fundamentally Eve and was never going to stop loving having a good system in place, she drew up a comprehensive chart on which she factored in all her hospital appointments and engineered her workload accordingly.
‘Listen, don’t worry about organizing the team-building away-day by the way, somebody else can sort that out,’ Frances told her, but Eve shook her head and smiled.
‘It’s all right, I’ve actually had a bit of a brainwave about that,’ she replied. ‘Leave it to me.’
The next day at work Eve had just finished wrangling with a set of VAT returns, when the receptionist rang to tell her that a certain Lewis Mulligan had arrived for his appointment and was waiting downstairs. On time and everything, Eve noted, raising an eyebrow as she grabbed her notes and went to meet him.
She felt quite emotional as she saw him sitting there in one of his obscure-band T-shirts and jeans, a trainer-clad foot keeping time to whatever music he was listening to through his earbuds. He unhooked them when he saw her, got up and grinned. ‘Hey. How are you?’
Her throat was tight suddenly as she smiled back, because it was the first time she’d seen him since that crazy dream-like day when she’d been given her shatteri
ng diagnosis; the day he’d practically scooped her up off the floor after his boot-camp session and sorted her life out for her, pretty much. ‘I’m doing okay,’ she said, and then, before she could start stressing out about the etiquette of public displays of affection with clients, she hugged him, albeit in a careful, still-sore-breast kind of way. ‘So far, so good. How about you?’
‘All the better for seeing you,’ he said. ‘I’m really glad you’re all right.’ They smiled at one another, then he cleared his throat. Down to business. ‘So I got your message . . . ?’
‘Yes. Thanks for coming in. Shall we go upstairs? I’ve booked one of our meeting rooms so that we can chat in private.’
He stuffed his music player in his back pocket, raising an eyebrow. ‘Sounds posh.’
‘Only the best for you, Lewis,’ she told him. ‘I’ve ordered us some coffee as well. There might even be biscuits, if we’re lucky.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ he said, following her up the stairs.
It felt slightly odd, meeting him on her turf like this again, as Eve the professional, when the last few times they’d seen each other the dynamics had been completely different. Understandably, she found it impossible to start off without acknowledging that fact. ‘First of all,’ she said, when they were both seated with their posh coffees and – yes! – very nice shortbread biscuits, ‘I just want to say thank you. For everything. Honestly, Lewis, that day I’d found out the news and you were just so brilliant and capable and kind . . . I can’t thank you enough.’
He was busy brushing crumbs off his T-shirt, but paused to shrug. ‘You can,’ he told her. ‘You just did. It’s fine, Eve. Really.’
‘Well, anyway. You were a real friend when I needed one. I appreciate it.’ She smiled self-consciously. ‘You know, I don’t want to sound like a cliché, but this whole experience has been one life-lesson after another. I’ve had to change my mind about quite a few things, namely that we’re all good at different aspects of life. Me – I’m great at organizing. Less great on the old emotional-intelligence front.’ She felt shy all of a sudden, to be getting so personal. ‘You – you’re the other way round.’