Little Big Love

by Katy Regan

  What else have I discovered in the past two and a half weeks since Liam came back into Zac’s life? Into ours? I know that I didn’t know stuff before, I just guessed and presumed. But Zac, he knew; he seemed to know the truth from the outset, or at least that everything would be okay. Or perhaps he just had faith—which is different to knowing; it’s trusting. And even though sometimes in this mission to find his dad, it’s felt like he’s had faith in the Second bloody Coming, he’s still had it in bucketloads, and when he’s felt it slipping, he’s hunted it down—like he has his dad—and brought it to me, to this family. I’m so proud of him for that. I am watching him now, dancing at the same time as chatting to Connor and Teagan, like an ordinary eleven-year-old, thinking how he is anything but ordinary to me—my extraordinary son.

  Something catches my eye at the other side of the Casablanca Club—a door opens, there’s a glimpse of pink evening sky, and I realize it’s my dad leaving. He doesn’t say good-bye, he just slips out, an hour before the end of the party. I watch him go, then five minutes later I watch Mum follow, but they won’t be going to the same house tonight, not for a long while, perhaps not ever again. But at least they’re talking, and I’ve got a feeling this is where the real recovery starts for both of them, for our family; after all, how can you begin to heal when you don’t know the truth? When you don’t even know what sort of wounds you’re dealing with?

  It was Zac who still wanted his grandad to come to his party despite everything, but that’s not to say he hasn’t battled with his emotions.

  “But I’d be grounded forever if I told a lie for ten years,” he said the other day. “Even if it was a lie of omission.” After Dad confessed everything about what really happened that night, Zac and I had a chat about lies and, Zac being Zac, he Googled “types of lies.” It was there that he found this term “lie of omission” and he’s been throwing it around ever since. I don’t mind. I think it makes him feel better. He finds it easier to forgive his grandad a lie of omission than the truly deceitful sort. He knows my dad had his reasons, and many of those were about him. Dad’s fear of losing him.

  Forgiveness—as a concept—has been a new thing for Zac, though, and I can tell he’s thinking about it all the time. This morning when we were in Poundstretcher of all places, buying decorations for this party, party bags and balloons, he suddenly said, “How come Grandad doesn’t get punished?”

  And I put whatever I was holding down and looked at him. “Oh, he is being punished; he has been punished,” I said. “He’s let you and all of us down, for one thing, and I’m sure he feels guilty. That’s his punishment.”

  Zac was quiet for a while, then as we were walking home, laden with bags, he said, “But I’m confused, Mum. Because I’m really mad at Grandad, but I still love him too.”

  And I said, “Me too, Zac. Me too,” because it was true. Love, I’ve learned, has a mind of its own, and just because someone does something bad, something unthinkable, you don’t stop loving them. You can’t just turn it off. I tried to. I tried to turn off my love for Liam for ten years, but now when I look at him dancing with our son, I realize that all that time I thought I was angry and full of blame, I never was; when it was easier to believe Mum that Liam was just like his dad, I never did. All I ever was was heartbroken. All I ever felt was abandoned. I yearned, longed, crawled the walls for him—and he never came.

  I decide to go outside for a breather, while everyone’s still busy dancing, before I have to begin the cleanup effort in earnest, the going round with a bin liner to collect paper plates and leftover pizza. The air is cool and refreshing outside the Casablanca Club and I lean against the wall—also cool after I’ve been inside with the heat of the disco lights and several sweaty eleven-year-olds—and I sip my Tango from a plastic cup. The sky’s been Tangoed too, I think—that’s how Zac might describe it; it’s streaked with orange and pink and even purple, and the sun, an ever-decreasing fiery smudge, is about to lose its battle any moment.

  Zac decided he wanted his party here instead of at the Toby Carvery because he believes this place to have good karma, to be a place where only good times happen. And he’s right, I think. Good things do, and have, happened here—and they happen to this family as much as any other. That’s the thing about unhappiness, I’ve discovered—and by that I don’t mean depression as such but deep, chronic unhappiness. It stops you thinking that good things can happen, but that doesn’t mean that good things don’t.

  There’s the squeak of the club door as it opens, the crunch of footsteps on gravel. Jason appears.

  “’Ello, ’ello. Mum thought she’d have a crafty minute to herself, did she?”

  “Is that allowed?”

  He comes to stand next to me. “I think so,” he says, folding his arms and leaning against the wall too. “Although to be fair, Zac and I did make all the sandwiches and Liam moved the tables, did the music—what did you do anyway?”

  “Piss off,” I say, elbowing him, even though I know he’s teasing. “Only eleven years’ worth of parenting on my own!”

  There’s a long silence, broken only by the cry of seagulls—so ever-present I hardly notice them anymore—and “Dancing on the Ceiling,” just audible from inside the Casablanca Club.

  “What do you think of him, then?” I say, turning to Jason.

  “Who? Zac?”

  “No, Liam, you daft thing—now you’ve met him.”

  Jason looks away, then at the floor, and smiles to himself and I smile too. I don’t really know why.

  “He seems like a lovely bloke, but I don’t think it matters what I think of him. It’s what you think that matters.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, and Jason gives a big—I can’t help but think—deliberately dramatic sigh.

  “Well, it’s always been him, let’s face it,” he says, crossing one foot over the other, looking at me, even more cheekiness in his smile than normal. “Hasn’t it? Let’s be honest, Jules. It’s always only ever been him that you wanted, that you loved, that I think … no, I know—and Zac knows too, by the way”—he lifts a finger, so bloody smug that he has this on me—“that you still love.”

  I don’t know what I’m meant to say to that, what he thinks my reaction will be, what he’s thinking or feeling, and I search his face, looking for clues, but he doesn’t give anything away.

  “Look, I’m sorry about … when we went for a run in the park, you know.”

  “It’s all right. I am pretty irresistible after all.”

  I tut and roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m just sorry in general,” I say and Jason shrugs.

  “Don’t be. I’ve still got you in my life, haven’t I? And anyway, it was Zac I really missed.”

  “Ha!” I say. “Charming.”

  “It was—I’m just being honest. We laugh at the same things, we really get on. I love hanging out with him.”

  “And him with you,” I say.

  Just then, “Happy” by Pharrell Williams comes on—Zac’s favorite—and Liam appears. I can only just make him out in silhouette, the sun having dipped now behind the Casablanca Club. “I’ll leave you two to it,” says Jason and he pats Liam on the shoulder. “Loving the playlist, mate,” he says and he goes back inside.

  Liam leans against the wall next to me too, so close I can almost feel the warmth of his arm, feel the fine black hairs on them, that I seemed to know and love individually once, and I focus on them, inwardly pinching myself to check it’s true: he’s here, right now, this is real; his arm millimeters from mine, our hands almost touching.

  “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” he says.

  “No, no, I was just getting some fresh air.”

  “I brought you this—still your favorite?” He hands me a bottle of ice-cold Bud.

  “You beauty. Where have you been all my life?” I say, and there’s awkward laughter when we realize what I’ve said. I sit on the ground then and Liam joins me. The words hang between the seagulls’
cries.

  “Seriously, though, where have you been?” I say when I can’t bear it any longer. “Where were you, the past eleven years? ’Cause it’s been awful”—I just come out with it (what have I got to lose now?)—“bloody awful without you.”

  “I wrote letters to you, Juliet.” His voice is gravelly, tired; it strikes me as … full of regret.

  “I know, but I didn’t get them.”

  “I called even, but by the time I did, you must have already changed your number.”

  We’ve been over this already in the past three weeks. I’ve read the letters now (seen the checks he sent—of course he did, that’s Liam all over). Some of the ink is smudged with my tears. Of all the secrets this family has kept over the past ten years, those letters are the one that hurts the most and I’m not sure if I can ever forgive Dad for that. Only time will tell.

  This is all so bittersweet, I think. Hardly a centimeter between Liam and me right now, and yet oceans and oceans of wasted time. And if it weren’t for Zac, we wouldn’t be sitting here at all.

  It’s as if Liam has read my mind. “You know, it’s not just me who wrote letters,” he says suddenly and I look across at him questioningly. Those startling blue eyes look back at me, and I think I’ve missed them, you, so much; and my God, it’s like looking at my son. Our son. “Zac wrote me one too. He gave it to Kelly and she sent it to me. It was asking me to come to his eleventh birthday party,” he says, when my surprised silence indicates he should go on. “It said that everyone was mad with me for leaving, but that he thought I’d change my mind if I met him.”

  I smile. My boy!

  “He’s got confidence, self-belief, our son, you know,” says Liam. Maybe that’s true, I dare to think, maybe that’s true.

  “And I think that’s going to grow now,” I say.

  And then it’s just us and the music and the gulls and, without saying anything, we both stand up and look inside the club’s window—disco lights shifting across it—so we can watch our son at his birthday party. He’s dancing, his head bobbing up and down, a great grin plastered on his face and his hair stuck to his head with sweat.

  “He’s an amazing kid, he really is. You’ve done a totally brilliant job,” says Liam.

  “I know,” I say, meaning the bit about Zac. “I’m so proud of him. He’s so loving and funny and bright and giving, Liam, you’ll see—I think so, anyway.”

  Silence before Liam, still watching Zac, moves his hand slowly along the windowsill and puts it gently on mine. “Of course he is,” he says, eyes still on Zac. “Because so are you.”

  Epilogue

  Zac

  Definition of fact: “something which can be proved as true.”

  August 2016

  “I can’t believe you’ve still got those sweets from October,” I said, looking at the Halloween bucket in the middle of Teagan’s bedroom floor. It was the only thing left—everything else was in boxes, being carried by my mum, dad, or Jason down the stairs to the removal van, or in the removal van already.

  “There’s only licorice laces in there,” said Teagan. “They’re disgusting.” She stuck her tongue right out and made a stupid face. I was going to miss knowing that face was just on the other side of the estate from me. “You can have them, though, if you want. They can be my leaving present to you.”

  “Nah,” I said. “I think I’ll give them a miss.”

  We just stood looking around Teagan’s empty room. It looked so depressing with no furniture, just boxes and the lonely Halloween bucket in there. You couldn’t believe how bad the damp was when you could see it properly: like black clouds all over the ceiling. Most of all, you couldn’t believe what a good time we’d had in such a disgusting room. How many funny times I’m going to remember for the rest of my life.

  Teagan’s new house on Orchard Avenue is proper nice. It’s on a brand-new street with baby trees planted and has even got a shiny black front door. But I’m still going to miss this bedroom. Even though Teagan’s not moving far, and we can still hang out together, it won’t be the same as knowing that, when I look out of my window, across to hers, she’s asleep in her bed, probably with her red flower in her hair.

  Teagan did a big sigh. “It’s such a dump, isn’t it?” she said, looking around. “You got me out of here, Zac. It was your letter that did it.”

  “I don’t think it was just my letter. But maybe it helped.”

  “Yeah, your mum was right, grown-ups do listen to kids in the end.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “In the end.”

  Suddenly someone screeched—me and Teagan looked at each other, then ran to the window. I knew it was probably the last time we would. It felt like the last time we’d do loads of things. You couldn’t believe it, because the scream was coming from my mum!

  “Oh God,” said Teagan.

  “Oh no,” I joined in. “Not again.”

  Mum and Dad were meant to be carrying Teagan’s boxes to the removal van, but instead it looked like they were having a scrap in the sun!

  But then I realized that Mum’s scream was actually a laugh, and that they weren’t scrapping—Dad was just trying to put her over his shoulder and carry her across the estate! She was kicking her legs and screeching and Dad was laughing too. But then Dad put her down, straightened down her dress (’cause you could nearly see her knickers), and kissed her instead. It was a proper snog. It went on for ages and ages! And Dad was holding Mum’s face and Mum had her arms wrapped tightly around him and even though their mouths were pressed together, they were smiling, you could tell.

  We watched them.

  “Now that,” said Teagan, after what felt like ages, “is what you call true love.”

  I thought about what Grandad said to me that day we caught a trout—about how the truth is different for different people. But this truth, I decided, it was the same for all of us.

  Acknowledgments

  This book has been a long time in the writing. So long, in fact, that my own little big man—my son, Fergus—was nine when I started and is now nearly a teenager. I want to thank him for reminding me of the wonderful faith and optimism that children possess and for being my first port of call when it came to making Zac’s voice authentic. (Nobody really says “sick” when they mean “good” anymore, Mum …)

  This is my first book for Berkley and my first outing as an author in America, and I can honestly say this has been the most exciting and fulfilling few months of my working life. You would think that bagging one incredible agent in the UK would be luck enough, but Grainne Fox, my agent in America, has proved herself to be equally genius. Grainne (and Lizzy), I can’t thank you enough for believing in and “getting” Little Big Love and for doing such a smart and passionate pitch. It’s no overestimation to say that your agenting has changed my life.

  None of this would have happened, however, if Amanda Bergeron at Berkley had not loved it enough to buy it! Amanda—it’s every writer’s dream to be shown the enthusiasm and sheer love you and all the team at Berkley have shown for this book from the start. You’re such a sensitive and intelligent editor, and it has been a total joy to work with you.

  I also want to express my heartfelt gratitude to all the team behind this book at Berkley, including in no particular order (and I really hope I haven’t left anyone out!) Jen Monroe, Claire Zion, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Jin Yu, Craig Burke, Lauren Burnstein, and Roxanne Jones. Receiving an e-mail containing all your quotes about how much you enjoyed Little Big Love was a career highlight and I’m so grateful.

  There are certain specific people outside of publishing who helped me with the research and writing of this book, and I want to thank them for their time and generosity: number one has to be Paul le Shone—or “Shonney”—without whom this book would definitely not be the book it became. In 2014, all I knew when I set off on a research trip to Grimsby in Lincolnshire, England, was that I wanted to write about an ex-fisherman character. I was hoping to find inspiration in Grimsby—it
is the “fishing capital of Europe,” after all—but thanks to Shonney, an ex-fisherman himself, I went home with a lot more than that: countless remarkable stories, almost all of which found their way into these pages, and a packet of the finest Grimsby haddock to boot!

  I’m very lucky to have so many supportive friends (author and nonauthor), but I want to particularly thank Rosie Walsh, who has so generously championed this book from the start. (The way you’ve made me feel about it, Rosie, has been like a special, writerly gift—thank you.) Also, for research help, appreciation goes to Clare Mackintosh, Dorothy Maudson and Weelsby Academy, Jimmy Rice, Alistair Scott, Jason Murgatroyd, and Dr. Nonni Reed. Love and thanks as always to Louis, who is my first reader and general champion. And to my family—thank you!

  Readers Guide for

  Little Big Love

  Katy Regan

  Questions for Discussion

  Was Juliet right to have shielded Zac from the truth about his father? Would you have done the same in her shoes?

  How does Zac’s understanding of love change throughout the novel, and how does it differ from Juliet’s?

  How does the author explore fatherhood and what it is to be a man?

  What do the multiple viewpoints add to the novel? Are there any other characters you would have liked to have seen the perspectives of?

  Are any of the characters reliable narrators?

  Discuss the difference between how children and adults see the world. How do you think this is represented within Little Big Love?

  What can Zac teach us about hope and optimism?

  Liam is not actually present in the story until the last few chapters. How does the author help us get to know him and understand his relationship with Juliet before then?