Happy Endings

by Jon Rance

  ‘I promise I’ll never hurt you,’ said Ed, flickering sunshine dappling his gorgeous face, and I believed him. I honestly did.

  When I left to go travelling, what I hadn’t considered or even thought about was that it was me who was leaving. I was running away from our relationship. I was the one who’d hurt Ed. Me. The one who left a perfectly good relationship because they wanted to follow their dreams. I’d told myself over and over again that what I was doing was different. I was trying to save our relationship, make us both happy, but lying in that bed with Bryan, it had hit me. I’d run away. I’d done the one thing I promised myself I’d never do. The nightmare my father had left behind: the broken family, the distraught wife and bewildered child, I knew it wasn’t the same, I had managed to save us from that, but I had hurt Ed and made what we had something a bit less.

  After the tears had subsided, I walked down the corridor to the bathroom and threw some cold water on my face. I needed to call someone. Someone who’d understand and be able to help and the only person I could think of was Emma. I walked back to my room and dialled her number.

  Emma

  The first thing I heard was tears.

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Sorry . . .’ whimpered Kate down the line.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  She obviously wasn’t OK, but I needed to know if it was just tears, tears and something bad, or tears and something life-changing.

  ‘I’m . . .’ she sniffed. ‘It’s just. Oh God, Em, I’m so lost.’

  ‘Just calm down,’ I said, trying to sound as composed and resolute as I could.

  It was early afternoon. Jack was at work and I was having a lie down in front of the telly. I’d been feeling tired all week and luckily I had nothing to do and so I just sat, watched daytime television, read magazines and waited for Jack to come home. It was boring, but honestly, I didn’t feel like doing much else. So when the phone rang and I saw it was Kate, I was deliriously happy, until I heard her voice. I was expecting a girlie chin-wag, not a girlie mess.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Kate, taking a deep breath and then starting again. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, but let’s talk about you. What’s going on?’

  ‘I really fucked up, Em. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I just almost slept with some bloke I don’t even fancy. I don’t know what’s happening with Ed and I keep thinking about Jez in Thailand. I’m just . . .’ she stopped for a moment. In the background I heard giggling girls. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore.’

  ‘You’re a bit drunk by the sound of it. I thought you were having a great time. I know it’s been hard with Ed, but I thought you were having the time of your life.’

  ‘I was. I am. It’s just . . .’ She stopped again.

  ‘Just what, Kate?’

  She started crying.

  ‘I don’t want to be like Dad, Em. I don’t want to do what he did to me to Ed. He deserves better.’

  ‘Is that what you think? You think that what you’re doing is somehow similar to what he did to you?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. God, no. It’s completely different in every possible way. What he did was awful and horrible on every level. He abandoned a family. A wife and his little girl. Not only that but he stopped coming to see you. What you’re doing is nothing like that. You’re living your dream.’

  ‘But at what expense, Em?’

  ‘At none, hopefully. Listen, you gave Ed the chance to come with you and he said no, so you’re doing it on your own. You needed to do this before you could settle down. Before you could be what Ed needed you to be. You’re trying to save your relationship, not tear it apart.’

  ‘And that’s what I thought too.’

  ‘So what’s suddenly changed? Why’s it different now?’

  ‘Because I’m not doing what I thought I’d be doing. Coming away was supposed to be this great cathartic experience. I was meant to be seeing the sights, doing things I’d only dreamt about, and I have in bits, but now I feel like I’m just getting drunk and almost having one-night stands with blokes I don’t even fancy and I don’t know why.’

  ‘If you aren’t happy then change,’ I said, using the same words she’d thrown at me more than once.

  One thing I’d always admired and loved about Kate was her positive attitude. Despite her setbacks in life and awful father, she had always been the first one to step outside of the box. When she first told me about going travelling we were at sixth form. I suppose, like most teenagers, I’d thought about it too, but it wasn’t something I simply had to do. If the truth be told, I was too scared. Even the idea of going with Kate scared me to death, but she couldn’t wait to get away. I was happier at home with my creature comforts. Kate’s motto had always been: if you aren’t happy then change, which is why when she left to travel the world alone, I was more proud of her than ever. This Kate on the phone wasn’t the same Kate. She sounded scared.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s that easy though.’

  ‘What do you mean, not easy? You’re travelling the world on your own. The only person you have to think about is you. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want. You have complete freedom.’

  ‘But maybe that’s the problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have so much freedom, I don’t know what to do with it and I’ve lost all perspective about what I’m supposed to be doing.’

  ‘Then let me remind you,’ I said. ‘Hold on a minute.’

  I put the phone down and got up. I walked into our bedroom, got down on my knees and pulled out a box from under the bed. It was an old shoebox containing emails Kate had written me over the years. I only printed off the really meaningful ones so I wouldn’t forget to read them from time to time. I quickly flicked through the now slightly tatty pieces of paper until I found the one I was looking for.

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Still here.’

  ‘You’ve probably forgotten this, but this is an email you wrote to me when I was at uni in Bristol. I was thinking of dropping out because I was homesick and, anyway, let me read it to you.’

  Dearest Em,

  You’ll never guess who called me the other day. Go on, guess. OK fine, your mum. I know, crazy. I don’t think she’s ever called me, but she said she’s worried about you. She said you’re thinking of leaving uni and going home. I told her it was nonsense because Emma would never give up acting. I said that to her.

  Anyway, if you are thinking about it – even though I know you never would – but if you are, I want to tell you something. People only ever get scared when they’re doing something amazing. Fear is just excitement caused by adrenalin, so if you’re scared then you’re just excited and that means you’re doing the right thing. I get scared all the time, about so many things. Being in London without my best friend. The thought of finishing university. The thought of not finishing university. What I’m going to do after and with whom. Life is scary, Emma, but that’s good. I think the only thing you should really be scared about is the day you stop being scared.

  Call me when you get this and we can have a chat. I was going to call and tell you this, but I always think things seem more powerful when they’re written down, don’t you? I love you and miss you.

  Your best friend forever, Kate.

  PS I snogged a bloke last night who looked just like Damon Albarn!

  I stopped reading and let it sink in. I heard sobs down the line, but eventually, after a few moments, Kate spoke.

  ‘It’s not fair, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Using my own words against me,’ said Kate with a giggle. She sniffed up more tears.

  ‘But they’re true, aren’t they? You’re just scared. Just like me at uni. You’re having a bad day. So, you either pack your bags and come home, and I know you aren’t going to do that, or you wake up tomorrow and have the trip you always planned.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate.

  ‘What f
or?’

  ‘For being you, and for keeping really old and cheesy emails,’ she said and we both laughed.

  ‘You’re welcome, and, oh, Kate?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m terrified about getting married to Jack. Absolutely shitting myself.’

  ‘Then he must be the one.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

  May

  Jack

  The day Dad died I was told to wait in the car. We’d just got home from shopping. Mum and I went inside the house and that’s when we found him slumped on the sofa. I didn’t see much. Barely a second elapsed before Mum’s hand grabbed me on the shoulder and pulled me away. She shouted at me to wait in the car and so I did. I was too afraid to get out and so I sat there, not knowing if my father was alive or dead. I sat and cried as time seemed to stand still until eventually I heard the distant sound of sirens.

  The ambulance screeched into our gravel driveway and two medics got out and ran towards the house. I sat frozen, barely able to look at them, praying over and over again in the hope that God would hear me. I begged, pleaded and made countless deals. I would do anything to keep Dad alive. I’d go to church every weekend. I’d give more to charity. I’d become a priest, anything, just don’t let him die. Eventually Mum came out, her expression still and unyielding, the answer to my prayers drawn across her face. Dad was gone and all the deals in the world wouldn’t bring him back.

  We pulled up outside Mum’s house in Guildford and I took a deep lungful of air. I reached across and held Emma’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ replied Emma with an excited smile.

  We were going to tell Mum about the baby. Butterflies had been circling my stomach all morning in excitement. This would mean the world to her. She was going to be a grandmother and there was nothing in the world that would make her happier. I’d been thinking about Dad a lot since we’d found out; this new life had a small bit of his DNA. It almost felt like he was coming back.

  We stood waiting on the doorstep before a Mum-shaped object became visible through the small coloured window in the door. She moved a lot slower than she used to, but eventually the door opened and there she was with a huge smile on her face.

  ‘Emma, Jack, what are you doing here? Quick, come in, come in,’ she said, standing to one side and gesturing furiously. She always seemed to be in a rush to usher us in, as if it was either freezing cold or she was terrified the neighbours might get a peek inside. She had a furtive glance outside before she closed the door and then relaxed. She gave us a both a quick peck on the cheek before she moved us swiftly into the living room. ‘Good timing, the kettle just boiled. I’ll make us some tea.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Emma.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said and we sat down on the sofa.

  A few minutes later, Mum returned with three cups of tea and a small plate of biscuits.

  ‘What brings you two over on a Saturday? Shouldn’t you be at work, Jack?’

  ‘We have some news. Good news.’

  ‘Great news,’ said Emma.

  Mum’s face lit up and I could already see the thoughts starting to explode like fireworks behind her eyes. I was sure she already knew what it might be, but she didn’t want to say it. She probably didn’t even want to think it, just in case it wasn’t. However, just before I said the actual words, I placed my hand onto Emma’s belly and then she knew. She let all the fireworks off at once.

  ‘You’re pregnant?!’

  ‘We are,’ I said and Mum immediately started crying.

  ‘We?’ said Emma with a smile. ‘The last time I checked, Jack, it was only me who had to carry the baby for nine months.’

  The next few minutes were a blur of tears, hugs and squeals, before we settled down and starting drinking our tea.

  ‘I can’t tell you how excited I am,’ Mum said.

  ‘Us too.’

  ‘But what about the film, dear?’ said Mum, suddenly looking at Emma. I looked at her too, trying to see any small fragments of doubt or regret reflected in her eyes. I didn’t see any, but Emma was a good actress. I was starting to worry that perhaps she was in denial and would wake up one day full of regret. How could she not feel a small amount of bitterness?

  ‘Done, for now at least. I couldn’t exactly play the leading role in a romantic comedy with a huge pregnant belly. It would’ve been a bit unbelievable. Still, it was one film, there’ll be others.’

  ‘Of course there will,’ said Mum, with that look of hers. She put her hand on Emma’s knee and smiled. It was the same smile she always gave me when I was growing up, warm and comforting.

  Mum’s house had a certain smell: sweet like soft gooey fudge with floral high notes and an undercurrent of something savoury and old-fashioned. Her house smelt like a proper grandma’s house. She even had a bowl of sweets on the coffee table and only the proper grandma ones like humbugs and Liquorice Allsorts.

  Emma and Mum were in the kitchen, nattering about all things baby related, while I was in my old room lying on the bed and staring up at the Artex ceiling. I could hear them downstairs laughing and going on and it made me smile. I was so happy. The idea of a little baby crawling, running and playing in this house was a little odd to say the least, it seemed impossible, but it made me feel something I’d never felt before. I felt a connection to something bigger and more meaningful. It was as if before Emma and I were just floating around aimlessly, but with a baby we had roots and we were tied to something. I realised on my bed, in my old room, that what we were tied to was our families. Having a child meant we were extending the family cord and suddenly we weren’t the last ones, flailing about without a care in the world, we had added to it. The family line had grown and it gave me incredible pleasure and a humbling feeling of responsibility.

  ‘Ready?’ said Emma, poking her head around the door.

  We’d done the easy part telling Mum, but now we had to do the not-so-easy bit and tell Emma’s parents. Emma’s mum and dad have never liked me. I think they saw me as Emma’s walk on the wild side, a youthful experiment like smoking marijuana. I was her brief dalliance with the dark side, before she’d jolly well grow up and settle down with someone who had a proper job. Only now we were going to have a baby. I’d impregnated their family tree, with its nod to aristocracy and a wink to centuries of upper-class lineage, and tainted it with my Australian blood, the blood of criminals. I’d gatecrashed their party and used the wrong cutlery, eaten all of the hors d’oeuvre and got pissed on the expensive wine. Now I had to tell them I’d also knocked up their only child.

  We said goodbye to a still-beaming Mum and got back in the car. I looked across at Emma and rested a hand on her belly.

  ‘I love you so much, Em.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Just promise me one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Emma, starting the engine.

  ‘That whatever happens at your parents’ house, you’ll still marry me.’

  Emma laughed, leaned across and kissed me.

  ‘Silly Jack,’ she said. ‘Of course I’ll still marry you.’

  What she didn’t see was the emotional tumour growing inside of me. The worry that her Mum was right and I wasn’t good enough for her daughter made me want to run away and hide. My biggest fear though was that it was just a matter of time before Emma realised the same thing.

  Emma

  I was terrified to tell Mum and Dad we were pregnant. Not so much Dad because he wouldn’t be that bothered. Nothing seemed to bother him much these days. I think I could become a burlesque dancer and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid. He was too busy with his garden, playing golf and pretending he wasn’t drunk at ten o’clock in the morning. Mum, on the other hand, seemed to be getting infinitely more resentful, snobbish and pompous every time I saw her. With age comes wisdom, at least it should, but in my parents’ small Oxfordshire parish age seemed to bring an ever-increasing degree of snootiness and
small-mindedness. The streets near the village green were lined with fierce-faced women in wax jackets ready to run you over in their large 4 × 4’s should you pronounce anything with an Estuary accent. My mother, unfortunately, was the head girl in that school of self-proclaimed prefects of little England.

  I’d been dealing with her my whole life. From ballet and gymkhanas to my choice of secondary school and university, I was used to going to battle with her. It was as much a part of my childhood as worrying about the size of my breasts and whether Paul Clayton fancied me or not. My fights with her became something of a daily chore, from which neither of us emerged any the better. She wasn’t a very motherly mother and even when I got my first period she didn’t explain anything or give me a hug. Instead she gave me a box of tampons and told me to read the instructions carefully. I loved her, of course, and her constant pushing and cajoling had given me an inner strength that had come in handy in the acting world. Jack, on the other hand, had been brought up in a soft, nurturing environment. He couldn’t deal with the harsh, cold wind that swept constantly around our house and I was worried that today it might blow him away.

  ‘Ready?’ I said in the car.

  ‘Not really.’

  We were sitting in my Mini Cooper on the large gravel driveway of my parents’ home that set it back a good thirty feet from the road. The house, a four-bedroom character cottage with creeping ivy and rustic charm, was worth well over a million now and had been passed down from Dad’s family to ours. Around the back was a large garden that led to a small meadow and a crop of trees. It really was idyllic; the perfect place to grow up. If only I’d had the perfect family to go along with it.

  ‘It will be fine. Mum will rant and rave for a bit. Dad will disappear down the garden with a bottle of whisky and then we’ll go home.’

  ‘Sounds fun,’ said Jack with a gorgeous little smile. I squeezed his hand and we got out.