by Rosie Walsh
When Jenni and Javier announced their plans to fly over for the month of June, Eddie and I decided to hold a welcome party for Alex. With two atheists for parents he was unlikely ever to get a christening, so we planned a little ceremony for him. Just a couple of friends saying a couple of things, then on to the serious business of eating and drinking.
Jenni’s found the last ten months very difficult. We’ve spoken at least twice a week, and there have been some heartbreaking lows, but I sense she’s emerging from the worst of it. She’s been on good form since they arrived yesterday morning. She told me earlier that she and Javier now feel ready to figure out what their life is going to look like without children (maybe some travel? she said) – she’s even considering a postgraduate degree in ‘something cool’. Poor Reuben will be distraught if he loses her, too.
It was Eddie’s idea to do it here, on Broad Ride, on 2 June. Right where Alex and Hannah had their den. I thought that was perfect.
But, of course, as with every other part of our relationship, it has not been a polished affair. Smelly, my sister’s dog, ate almost all the food during our ceremony – including a large chocolate cake – so Hamish is now with him at the emergency vet, and Hannah’s children keep crying because they’re scared he has finally eaten himself to death. Alan, Eddie’s best friend, was very nervous about making his speech and drank so many beers that he’d fallen asleep by the time we were ready for him to stand up. His wife isn’t talking to him. And then Rudi was discovered kissing the elder daughter of one of my mother-and-baby yoga friends in a secret cow-parsley cave, even though he is eight years old and should be finding girls annoying for at least another four years, and even though the yoga friend was telling me just last week how happy she was that her daughter isn’t inappropriately sexualized like most children these days .
Jo couldn’t stop laughing, which did little to defuse the situation.
Still, everyone is here, except Hamish and, of course, Eddie’s mum. Jenni, Javier, my sister and her family, Alan and Gia, who have been so warm and welcoming to me – and Tommy and Jo, who are all wrapped up in a love story of their own. They are both the happiest I’ve ever seen them, although things with Shawn have been messy since Jo told him about Tommy. But she’s got something she never had before: a real partnership. She’ll deal with it.
And, of course, my parents are here, watching with great delight every last interaction between their two daughters. They still can’t quite believe that I’m back, that Hannah and I have managed to become friends again, that we can be together as a family. And of course they’re obsessed with Alex. Dad wrote a cello piece for him. I have a bad feeling he’s going to play it later.
I take another piece of quiche, while I still can – Alex is going to wake any minute – and look for Eddie.
There. He’s on his way over to us, hands in pockets, smiling. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this smile.
‘Hello,’ he says. He kisses me once; then he kisses me again. He peers down at our tiny little son. ‘Hello, Bruiser,’ he whispers. Sure enough, Alex is beginning to wake. He half opens an eye, screws up his face, then headbutts me in the chest, fast asleep again. His father kisses him on the top of his head, which smells like the most perfect smell in the world, and takes a crafty bite of my quiche.
Alex wakes again, only this time it looks like he’s going to stay with us. He stares blearily at his father, whose face is like a ridiculous, beaming pumpkin looming into view, and – after a few moments’ consideration – smiles. And Eddie falls to pieces, just like he always does .
He begins to extract his son from the sling, and I see us suddenly, the two people who watched each other over an escaped sheep last year. The gusts of hope and expectation, the unstoppable unravelling of a past of which we weren’t even aware. A lot has changed since then; more is yet to come. But there is nothing to hold me back anymore. No dark corners, no pending avalanche. Just life.
And who would have thought that Eddie Wallace would have been the solution? That Eddie, of all people, would be the one to stop me running? Who made it possible for me to sit still, to breathe, to like myself? Who would have thought that it would be Eddie Wallace, from whom I’d hidden so many years, who would make me want so desperately to come home? Who would allow me to spread my roots and belong somewhere at last?
When I look up, I see Carole Wallace.
She’s standing at the edge of our gathering, her arm tucked into that of a man whose other sleeve hangs empty by his side. It must be Felix. My body goes still, and my heart goes fast. I’m not sure I’m prepared for this. Selfishly, I’m not sure I even want it. I can’t cope with a scene, not on Alex’s day.
But here she is, and she’s already picking her way across the gathering, making straight for me.
She’s heading for Eddie , I tell myself. She won’t even look at me. Eddie’s lifting Alex above his head, laughing at his son’s expressions of wonder and confusion. I watch as Carole and my mother see each other at the same time. My mother stops her, puts a brief hand on her arm, says something, smiles. Carole just looks really shocked. She blinks at Mum, stands awkwardly still and then manages to reply. There might be a smile, although if there is, it’s brief. Mum says something else, points towards the picnic, and Felix smiles warmly at her, nods and thanks her. He looks at Carole, but she’s turned back towards me and Eddie, and she’s walking again.
‘Eddie,’ I say quietly. He’s still talking to his son. ‘Eddie. Your mum’s here.’
He swings round and I feel his body switch to high alert. There’s a febrile pause as he works out what to do. For a second he starts to move away, to intercept her before she gets to me, but then he stops. He stops, stands firm and takes hold of my hand. With his other, he holds Alex close to his side, a thumb moving across the soft cotton of Alex’s miniature dungarees.
I look up at him. His temple is pulsing. His neck is strained, and I know he wants very much to bolt, to waylay her. But he stays. He holds my hand more tightly than ever. We are a couple , he’s telling her, and I love him for it. I’m not just me anymore. I’m us.
Carole is looking only at her son. As she approaches, the man, Felix, drops back. He smiles warmly at me, but it’s not enough to make me believe that this will be OK. Over his shoulder, my parents are watching. Jo is watching. Alan is watching. In fact, everyone is watching, although most of them are pretending not to be watching.
‘Hello, Eddie darling,’ she says, arriving in front of us. She seems only at this moment to realize that Felix isn’t with her. She glances back nervously, but he doesn’t move, and she seems to decide to stay put. ‘I thought I’d come and see Alex on his special day.’
Eddie holds my hand yet tighter. It’s beginning to hurt.
‘Hey, Mum,’ he says. Cheerful and relaxed, as if everything’s OK. And I think, You are so kind. You’ve done this for years. Made her feel safe, no matter what’s happening inside you. You are an extraordinary man.
‘Alex!’ he whispers. ‘Alex, your grandma’s here! ’
Alex is getting hungry: he keeps diving towards Eddie’s chest, even though he’s not going to find much milk there. ‘Would you like a cuddle?’ Eddie asks his mother. ‘I think he’s going to want feeding soon, but you may get a few minutes of peace.’
Carole doesn’t look at me, but she smiles and opens her arms. Carefully, gently, Eddie hands her our baby. He waits until she’s got him; then he kisses his son on the top of his head.
He steps back and takes my hand again. Carole breaks into a smile I never imagined seeing on her face, the face that sat at the edge of my mind for so many years. ‘Hello, my darling,’ she whispers. Her eyes fill with tears, and I realize that Eddie’s lovely ocean eyes are hers. ‘Hello, my lovely boy. Oh, Granny loves you, Alex. Oh, she does!’
Eddie reaches out to squash one of Alex’s chubby little feet. Then he glances sideways at me and squeezes my hand.
‘Mum,’ he says levelly. ‘Mum, I want you
to meet Sarah. The mother of my son.’
There’s a long pause, during which Carole Wallace murmurs at Alex, as he begins to wriggle down her chest. Eddie drops my hand and puts his arm around me. Carole doesn’t look up. ‘Aren’t you a good boy,’ she murmurs at Alex. ‘Aren’t you such a good little boy.’
‘Mum.’
Then slowly, uncertainly, Carole Wallace looks at me. She looks at me, across my son’s head, across two decades of pain that I can only now, as a mother, begin truly to comprehend. And for a second – a lightning crack of a second – she smiles. ‘Thank you for my grandson,’ she says. Her voice trembles. ‘Thank you, Sarah, for this little boy.’
She kisses Alex and then moves away from us, back to the safety of Felix, and conversation resumes. The wind has slowed; the sun is warmer. People are taking off jackets and jumpers. The cow parsley sways violently as a child burrows through its stems, and a tiny shower of butterflies flickers over the wild grass that surrounds us all, screening us off from the past, from the stories that we told ourselves for so many years.
I slide my arm around Eddie’s waist, and I feel him smile.
Acknowledgements
Thanks first and foremost to George Pagliero and Emma Stonex, for that strange hot day when we all agreed that I was to write this book without further delay. For the tremendous support and enthusiasm that followed.
To my wonderful editor, Sam Humphreys, for believing completely in this book, and for turning it into something that editors around the world would want to publish. I learned so much during our edit and couldn’t be more proud to be a Mantle author.
To the team at Mantle for their hard work and enthusiasm.
To Lizzy Kremer, an extraordinary woman and agent, without whom I would be quite lost. Thank you for all you have done for me, Lizzy. You surpassed yourself this time! To Allison Hunter, my tireless US agent, who nearly killed me in an exercise class but then turned it round and secured me the book deal of dreams in the States. Thanks to Harriet Moore and Olivia Barber.
Warmest thanks to Pam Dorman, my US editor, for brilliant editorial wisdom and such strong vision for the book. To the team at Pamela Dorman Books/Viking. It is an honour to be a part of such a list.
Thanks also to the other editors around the world who acquired this book. I still can’t believe it! My gratitude to Alice Howe of David Higham Associates, and her mighty translation rights department: Emma Jamison, Emily Randle, Camilla Dubini and Margaux Vialleron.
Sincere thanks to Old Robsonians, a real football team of whom I am inordinately fond. They donated a very generous sum of money to the children’s charity CLIC Sargent for a mention in this book.
To Gemma Kicks and the wonderful charity Hearts and Minds, for their generous help when I was researching Clowndoctor charities. I was amazed and inspired by the real difference their Clowndoctors make to childrens’ lives, each and every day. Thanks also to Lynne Barlow of Bristol Children’s hospital.
Thank you to Emma Williams, community psychiatric nurse, James Gallagher, cabinet maker, and Victoria Bodey, parent of young boys. Thanks to the many friends who answered a never-ending stream of (often very personal) questions on Facebook.
To Emma Stonex, Sue Mongredien, Katy Regan, Kirsty Greenwood and Emma Holland for valuable feedback on the manuscript in its various stages. And most of all to my dear writing partner, Deborah O’Donoghue, without whom I’m not sure I could have written this book. So many great ideas in this book came from you, Deb – thank you. I can’t wait to see your own novel on the shelves.
Thank you to my SWANS – South West Authors and Novelists – for support, great lunches, and laughter. To the ladies of CAN for the same. Thank you to Lindsey Kelk for my LA research trip and mostly very un-writerly discussions. Thank you to Rosie Mason and family for the many memorable days playing in that beautiful valley, and Ellie Tinto, for keeping the spirit of Margery Kempe alive and very impious.
Thank you to my dear family – Lyn, Brian and Caroline Walsh, who have always encouraged me in everything I do, and who’ve been so proud of me as I’ve forged ahead as a writer under my own name.
And thank you, above all, to my darling George and our tiny, funny, perfect little man, who has changed forever my understanding of love.
Reading Group Guide
WARNING – the questions below contain spoilers!
1) Assuming you have been in Sarah’s situation – and, let’s face it, who hasn’t – how desperate did you feel? What sort of weird and wonderful excuses did you invent for them not having called? Or were you able to exercise extreme self-control and never contact them again?
2) If you were Sarah’s friend, what advice would you have given her?
3) In Eddie’s shoes, could you have forgiven Sarah? Could you have just ‘let it go’, because you were deeply in love?
4) Sarah is determined to not let her personal life affect her business. But can working with your ex ever lead to success? And would you be able to do it?
5) The ability – or inability – to forgive defines many of the characters in the book – from Eddie’s mother’s resistance to moving on, to Sarah’s inability to forgive herself, to Eddie’s crucial final decision. Is it important to be able to forgive? Or are there some things that can never be excused?
6) Did you feel that Eddie and Sarah were ‘meant to be’ after their seven days together? Or was it the potential of the relationship that left Sarah at a loss?
7) Both Sarah and Eddie had to deal with the loss of someone dear to them, and whilst Eddie stayed put, Sarah left as soon as she could. Discuss the different forms of grief represented in the book, and whether there can ever be a ‘best’ way to grieve.
8) Why do you think Jo and Tommy kept their relationship secret? Would you have done the same in their position?
9) Could you understand Eddie’s choice at the end of the book, or did you feel that he should have put his mother’s needs first?
Rosie Walsh lives in Bristol with her partner and their son. Under the pseudonym Lucy Robinson, Rosie blogged for Marie Claire about love and dating, and published four novels in the UK. The Man Who Didn’t Call is her first novel under her own name.
First published 2018 by Mantle
This electronic edition published 2018 by Mantle
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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Associated companies throughout the world
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ISBN 978-1-5098-2829-6
Copyright © Rosie Walsh 2018
Published in the USA and Canada as Ghosted
The right of Rosie Walsh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover illustration by Mel Four, Pan Macmillan Art Department
Extract from Essays in Love by Alain de Botton, copyright © Alain de Botton, 1993, 2006
Reproduced with permission of Picador, London
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