The Second Love of My Life

by Victoria Walters

  ‘Are you okay?’ Robert’s voice asks, close to my ear.

  I touch my cheek, surprised to feel the wetness of a tear there. Robert hands me a tissue. ‘Just the music, you know,’ I say, wiping my cheek with it, wishing I wasn’t such a slave to these crazy emotions. I have so many highs and lows in one day it’s draining.

  ‘Do you want me . . . do you want to go home? I can walk you.’

  I nod gratefully and tap Emma on the shoulder. ‘I’m tired, Robert’s going to walk me home.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Concern immediately flashes across her face.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I give her a hug and she tells me to text her when I get home. John kisses me on the cheek and shakes hands with Robert and then we set off, stepping around everyone sitting on the grass, the sounds of the band fading as we walk away.

  Dusk has fallen and I shiver a little, wishing I had brought a cardigan with me. The sky above us has darkened and clouds have appeared. I wonder if everyone will make it home before it rains.

  ‘I had a great time today; you guys really know how to put on an event,’ Robert says when we reach the main road together.

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘It’s really a great place to live. I can see why you’ve stayed here.’

  ‘We have a few events like that through the year. It livens things up, especially when the tourists leave.’

  ‘Is it weird having all these people around just for a couple of months?’

  ‘I’m used to it, I guess. It’s part of living here. We need the visitors to survive.’

  ‘You’ve never thought of going somewhere else to sell your art?’

  ‘I make good money from the tourists,’ I say, nudging his shoulder.

  ‘That’s true. I actually pass by a gallery in Plymouth every day on my way to work; they’re always looking for new artists.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m good enough for a gallery. Besides,’ I say, looking at my feet, ‘I haven’t been able to paint for a while, remember.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s something you can just give up; you just need to be inspired again.’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll see. You seem to know a lot about it.’

  ‘When you have no talent yourself, you tend to notice when others do, that’s all.’

  ‘Being a lawyer doesn’t require any talent?’

  ‘Maybe for arguing,’ he replies with a grin. We walk into my road and I point out my cottage to him. He stops to look at it. ‘It’s exactly where I pictured you. You know, when you said you lived in a cottage. It’s a real artist’s home,’ he says, babbling a little as if he’s nervous.

  ‘What’s your place like?’

  ‘It’s a modern flat, very open-plan, lots of white walls, which is why I wanted your paintings.’

  ‘I hope they brighten the place up.’

  He turns to me. ‘They will.’

  ‘Thank you for today. For buying my paintings, obviously, but also for being with me at the Fair. It was the first one that I didn’t go to with . . . someone,’ I tell him quietly, hoping he knows how much I appreciate the day we’ve had.

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he says with a small smile. He steps closer to me, closing the small distance between us. My breath hitches at his closeness and the serious look on his face. I’m acutely aware of how alone we are and how much time we’ve spent together today.

  ‘Actually, Rose, there is something I wanted to say to you,’ he says, running a hand through his hair.

  There is a rumble of thunder in the distance. I jump a little at the sound.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, my voice coming out as barely a whisper. I glance back at my cottage, wondering if I can flee there. What if he tells me he likes me? What if he doesn’t? I don’t know what I want him to say.

  ‘It’s not easy . . . but, Rose, I . . .’ he says haltingly, looking across at me biting my lip. He pauses. I hold my breath for what he’s going to say. And then there’s a flash of lightning, followed by a louder clap of thunder. This time we both jump.

  He steps back from me and I let out my breath. ‘I think I better go,’ he says, looking away from me with a pained expression.

  I guess my hesitation has made him change his mind. ‘Robert . . .’ I begin, wanting to make things okay between us but not sure how to when I don’t know that I want to hear what he was going to say.

  The rain begins in earnest then.

  ‘Go inside, Rose,’ he says, speaking loudly over another rumble of thunder. He turns away from me.

  ‘Wait . . .’

  He shakes his head, ending the conversation. ‘You should get inside. I’ll see you soon. Goodnight, Rose.’ He’s walking away from me then.

  Confused, I wait for a moment until the rain thickens into sheets that make it impossible to see him anymore. I realise that I’m getting soaked so I hurry inside. The rain pounds on the roof of the cottage. I shut the door and go upstairs to take off my wet clothes. My hair has plastered itself to my face.

  I look out of my window and I think I see a figure at the top of the road. I strain to see him through the rain but then he fades into the darkness. I lean back.

  What did he want to say to me?

  I wonder if I should have let him tell me. I think back to that moment before the thunder started and remember how close we were standing, the look in his eyes as he spoke to me. It was a charged moment and I can’t believe that it happened.

  My phone rings, making me jump. ‘Emma?’

  ‘We’re soaked. We all had to run into the church. Did you get home in time?’

  ‘Just. It was a bit weird really, Robert just kind of ran off.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He said he had to tell me something but then the storm started and he changed his mind . . . then he just left.’

  ‘He likes you,’ she says instantly, speaking the words I was worried about.

  ‘I thought that too, maybe, but . . . then why did he leave?’

  ‘He was nervous. He didn’t know what you would say.’

  I nod, even though she can’t see me, knowing that he saw my nerves. ‘I don’t know what I would have said.’

  There’s a few seconds of silence. ‘It’s okay, you know, Rose. He seems really nice and he’s pretty hot. Sorry, John. Oh, John says to tell you he likes him too, and you know how picky he is. What we mean is, don’t freak out about this, okay? It was a lovely day, and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘So, don’t overanalyse it?’

  ‘Exactly. Which I know is easier said than done, but it’s late. Go to bed and have sweet dreams.’

  I smile into the phone. ‘I’ll try. And get home safe, okay?’

  ‘Bloody English weather. Goodnight.’

  ‘Night.’ I hang up and slip into my pyjamas and dressing gown, shivering still from the sudden downpour. The rain is still thrashing against the windows and I wonder if Robert has got back to the Inn yet. He will be drenched by the time he gets there.

  I climb into bed, my body warming up instantly under the covers. I wonder if he was going to tell me that he likes me. Maybe it’s better that he didn’t say anything. We hardly know each other. It feels like it’s been a very long day and I’m exhausted. I can’t decipher anything right now, especially my own feelings.

  I run my fingers through my damp hair and curl my legs up. My eyelids start to droop and I yawn, burying my head into my pillow. I have no time to worry that I might not sleep tonight, because I drift off instantly.

  And I sleep through until morning.

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday morning dawns and I wake up feeling better than I have in a long time. I take a long, relaxing soak in a bubble bath and then head into the kitchen wearing leggings and a long shirt, my hair pul
led into a messy bun. I am due to go to Gloria and Graham’s house today for lunch.

  Lucas and I used to go to his parents every Sunday for lunch and after he died, they continued to invite me there. Sometimes it’s a comfort to do something that we always did; after all, they are practically my parents too. Sometimes the absence of him at the table hits the three of us hard and silence descends whilst we sink into our memories of him. Sometimes Emma and John come with me and keep up a lively conversation, or Emma’s parents will pop by on their way to the pub and drop off a bottle of wine. When you have no family, Sundays feel like the worst day. Things are closed around here and you sit inside thinking about everyone else eating their roast dinners and the loneliness builds to an impossible crescendo. I tried it a couple of times, thinking it would be preferable to going to their house without Lucas, but it wasn’t.

  Also, I think he’d like the fact that the three of us carry on the tradition. Maybe it won’t – maybe it can’t – last forever, but for right now, I want to do it.

  I decide to bake a dessert to take with me. It’s been a long time since I baked anything. Baking has always relaxed me. I don’t need to think about anything apart from the recipe. Painting always required concentration, my whole being in the moment of painting, whereas baking is just fun.

  Turning on some music, I roll up my sleeves and start to make an apple pie. Tapping my feet to The Band Perry, I lose myself in making the pie, and wonder why I waited so long to do this again. My mum taught me to bake when I was little and we used to make fancy cupcakes on rainy Saturdays, eating cake mix out of the bowl and making a mess of our kitchen.

  Whilst the pie is baking, I slip on my ballet pumps and have a cup of coffee in my garden. The weather is slowly getting warmer and my small patch of grass is a suntrap. Lucas would have probably already been surfing by now, but the sea is still a bit too cold for most people. I think back to my first surfing lesson when we were teenagers. I swooned at the sight of him in his wetsuit and made a poor attempt at standing up on the board, but I got better with his help and we used to surf together some mornings in the summer, although he was always ten times better than I ever could be. It was as if he was one with the board. He was so at home in the sea. I think sometimes it’s what I miss most – walking to the beach and watching him out there riding the waves and having the time of his life.

  I haven’t been in the sea since his death.

  I wipe away a stray tear. Going to his parents’ house always makes me think about him. How we should be walking there together, my hand resting on his waist, his arm slung over my shoulders. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for them to open the door just to me. I check the time and realise I’ll be late if I don’t leave now. I take the pie out of the oven and put it in my cake tin so I can carry it there. I grab my bag and keys and head to their house.

  Gloria and Graham live on a pretty, tree-lined road right in the centre of town in the house they bought after they got married almost thirty years ago. I push open their front door, knocking as I do, the smell of roast beef hitting my nostrils instantly and making my mouth salivate. Gloria is an amazing cook.

  ‘Rose, you look lovely,’ Gloria says, peeking around the kitchen door at me. I think that’s a bit of a stretch, especially as I probably pinched this shirt from Lucas at some point, but I thank her anyway. Gloria is always immaculately turned out with a dyed-blond bob and today is wearing a pretty green dress. I lean in to kiss her cheek, getting the same jolt as I always do when I look into her blue eyes. Lucas has her eyes.

  Had her eyes.

  ‘I brought this for us,’ I say, quickly moving past those eyes to put the tin down on the counter.

  ‘You’re going to make me fat, Rose,’ Graham says, lifting the lid to sniff the apple pie appreciatively. ‘And I really don’t care.’ He puts an arm around me. ‘Now, we have been reliably informed that we need to crack open that bottle of wine as there’s something to celebrate.’

  ‘We heard about you selling your paintings at the Fair,’ Gloria says, bending down to look through the oven door.

  Graham nods. ‘We’re really proud of you,’ he says, giving me a squeeze. ‘Who’s the man that bought them?’

  ‘He’s a lawyer in Plymouth who’s staying here for the summer. He bought the paintings for his flat, and he paid much more than they’re worth.’

  ‘Nah. He just has very good taste.’

  I watch Gloria’s back, wondering why she’s being so quiet. ‘It certainly was a surprise. Can I do anything to help, Gloria?’ I ask her.

  ‘No, I’m fine, you both go through.’

  Graham grabs a bottle of wine and steers me out into their small dining room. My eyes automatically go to the two pictures on the sideboard. One is of Lucas and me at our school prom. His sandy coloured hair is too long and flops over his eyes. His arm is around me, his tuxedo complementing my long black silk dress. We’re both smiling at the camera but we look a bit awkward as only teenagers can. The next one is of us at their wedding anniversary party at Joe’s. Lucas is wearing jeans and a black shirt and I’m in a long skirt, my hair is shorter and layered and we’re looking at one another, laughing about something. I look at my eyes so lit up and happy. I wonder when, or if, I’ll feel that happy again. And whether it’s okay to want to feel that way again one day.

  ‘We went to the service this morning,’ Graham says, drawing my attention from the photograph. He pours us both a glass of wine as I sit down next to him at the mahogany table. Gloria and Graham have always been regular churchgoers and I admire their faith, even though sometimes it’s difficult to understand it in the face of what happened to Lucas. ‘We put some daffodils on his grave.’ His voice wobbles slightly on the word ‘grave’.

  ‘If I had to pick a flower to describe Lucas it would be those – sunny, happy and smiley.’ I feel my voice wobble too, this time on his name. He always feels so present when I’m here.

  Graham squeezes my hand briefly. ‘I completely agree.’

  Gloria bustles in then. I wonder if she heard us. ‘Here we are,’ she says, placing the roast beef down on the table. Her eyes meet her husband’s as he starts to carve and he gives her a reassuring smile. I feel a pang that I will never know what it’s like to be with the same person for as long as they have been together. She leaves again and comes back with more dishes. ‘I can’t remember if you like carrots?’ she asks, her voice sounding unusually bright.

  ‘I do,’ I say, aware she knows this full well. She seems to be acting strangely and I can’t think why. I know they wish I would visit the grave with them, but they said they understood why I don’t want to. I never know if I’m right or wrong with the way I handle things sometimes. Maybe it’s because there is no right or wrong way to handle it. There’s no manual for grieving after all. Sometimes I wish there were.

  She sits down and has some wine then seems to draw in a big breath. ‘It really is good news about your art. Lucas would have been so proud of you.’

  I smile at her, pleased that she thinks so. It’s always somehow comforting to be with people who know what Lucas would think or say or do, what he was like, who he was. It means I will never lose that knowledge myself.

  ‘So, what is the man like who bought them all?’ Graham asks, cutting into his meat.

  ‘Mrs Morris already gave us a detailed account,’ Gloria snaps at him.

  I look over at her, seeing her frown at her husband. I’m confused. ‘I’m sure you’ll both meet him soon. Maybe at the café opening?’ I suggest. There’s a small silence and then Graham starts talking about his golf club and Gloria and I fall quiet. I’m a bit lost as to why there’s an atmosphere in the room. Lunch is a quiet affair as we all seem to be frequently wallowing in our own thoughts.

  They have always felt like my own family but it’s as if we’re still trying to find our rhythm without Lucas. We nev
er used to struggle for things to say when he was here, and I felt as if I could talk to them about anything. But today it seems as though the three of us are treading on eggshells.

  I’m relieved when dessert is over and I get up to leave. I refuse Gloria’s half-hearted offer of coffee and let Graham lead me to the front door.

  He leans towards me and speaks softly so his wife won’t hear. ‘We heard about those boys at the bar. Mrs Morris told us Robert helped you stop them. I think it just brought it all back . . . how no one stopped . . . well, you know. And Mrs Morris was very gushing about him, so Gloria . . . well, it was a bit difficult for her to hear about him buying all your work like that too, that’s all.’

  It all clicks into place as he shifts uneasily. Gloria is worried about this good-looking, wealthy newcomer with a passion for my art. And when I think about him standing in front of me last night, my cheeks turn pink because I don’t know if she’s right to be worried or not. I say goodbye to Graham quickly and walk away, breathing in the early evening air, hoping it will cool my flushed cheeks down.

  I walk home feeling as though I’ve done something wrong.

  Lucas and I never had a ‘what if’ conversation about our mortality. We were too young, I suppose. Maybe if we had, though, I’d have some clue about how he would want me to navigate all of this. Although all the words I can guess that he would have said to me – ‘I’d want you to be happy, I’d want you to live for the both of us, I’d want you be loved’ – which I would have said right back to him, wouldn’t actually help me now.

  You can’t make someone grieve the way you wish they would. You don’t have a choice in how you handle it. You just feel the way you feel.

  Chapter Ten