‘I’m sorry, there’s just too much going on. I’ve got this big pitch coming up, I’m still playing catch-up.’ I let out a sigh. ‘I just can’t. Thank you though.’
Clearly, I’m in no position to go running off to Mykonos with Roisin. But having to say ‘no’ makes me realise how tethered I am. I can’t go anywhere at a moment’s notice now. I can’t spontaneously jump in a car and head off on a road trip. There were weekends in my twenties where I would wander the London parks for hours, listening to music, just watching life go by. I didn’t have to tell anyone where I was going or when I’d be back. Afternoons in the pub could merge into an evening, and entire Sundays could be spent simply ‘hanging out’. I don’t think I understood the meaning of the word independence until I had dependants.
‘I’d love to do something another time, Rosh, but I might need a little more notice.’ I pause outside the shop that used to be a Super Way. It’s now a florist. How many times did I stop in here to pick up Monster Munch after a night out, or run down in pyjamas to get milk? ‘Do you know why Sam doesn’t write songs any more?’ I change the subject and ask Roisin while I have her on the phone.
‘I think his last song got panned for being cheesy and generic. You told me it was complicated; you didn’t go into detail. Listen, I’ve got to go, my assistant’s messed up and triple-booked my diary. Look at flights, if you change your mind, let me know.’
As I hang up, I can’t help feeling disappointed. Is that what life is – missing out in your twenties because you have no money, then missing out in your forties because you have no time?
Ringing Mr Finkley’s doorbell, I call into the intercom, ‘Hello, it’s Lucy Young, um, I mean Rutherford.’ He buzzes me in and I walk up the stairs to the top landing where I find him dressed in a bathrobe, holding his rusty metal watering can.
‘Morning, Mr Finkley. My son, Felix, wanted to invite you to his birthday party on Saturday,’ I tell him, handing over the invitation. ‘It’s in Surrey, and it’s not really a party, just the four of us, grandparents, and a couple of school friends. I know you only met him once, so you don’t need to feel obligated—’
‘Yes,’ he says, and he looks genuinely thrilled as he opens the hand-drawn envelope. Felix has covered the invitation in drawings of monstrous plants all wearing party hats.
‘Oh, okay, great,’ I say, trying to hide my surprise. ‘Felix mentioned you don’t like the train, so I can drive you if you like?’
He nods, his eyes brimming with emotion as he reads the invitation.
‘So, I’ll pick you up around midday, shall I?’ He doesn’t answer, and I wonder if he’s heard me. ‘Mr Finkley?’
‘Leonard. My name is Leonard.’ He looks up at me and I feel ashamed; ashamed of my first reaction to Felix wanting to invite this man to tea, ashamed that I lived below him for two and a half years, and I never even knew his name.
Walking back towards the tube, I try to console myself that a kids’ party in the garden with my eccentric old neighbour, will be just as much fun as a girls’ weekend in Mykonos. Okay, so it won’t, who am I kidding, but Felix will be thrilled that Mr Finkley can come, that’s the important thing. Looking up at two birds circling each other in the clear blue sky, I find myself wondering what the opposite of bird might be.
That evening, as I sit in bed with a book, glancing up at my perfectly plastered ceiling, I reflect how quickly it is possible to adapt to the strangest situations. How can I now be okay with being forty-two, when two weeks ago I could barely catch my breath? Is it because I’m a tiny bit obsessed with my new husband and I’m allowing the experience of falling for him to distract me from the horror of missing all those years? Or am I simply too busy to invest time in the existential crisis I should be having?
‘What are you thinking about?’ Sam asks, his voice heavy with sleep. He reaches across and presses a thumb to my forehead. ‘You get a line right here when you’re deep in contemplation.’
‘Nothing,’ I say softly. It’s too much to explain.
Of all the things I have had to adapt to, being loved by this man has been the easiest to accept. I like being his wife, I like sharing a bed with him, knotting hands after sex and knowing I don’t have to worry about whether he’ll still be there in the morning. And even though objectively, I should be less confident in this world-worn shell, the fact that Sam adores every stretch mark, every wrinkle, liberates me from a trap I didn’t realise I was caught in.
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, the doctor called me,’ Sam says. ‘They want you to go in for another follow-up.’
‘I don’t see the point,’ I say, leaning over to kiss him.
‘Of course there’s a point,’ Sam says, pulling back from me. ‘There might be a new treatment, more tests they can do.’
My body tenses. ‘You want your old wife back.’
‘I want you to get better,’ he says.
‘I thought you loved me, just as I am.’
‘I’ll love you whatever happens, for better or for worse, but—’ He lets out a moan of frustration. ‘I don’t understand what I’ve said that’s wrong.’
For better or for worse. Am I the worse?
‘Sorry, I just feel a bit, I don’t know – jealous.’
‘Jealous?’
‘Yes. To me, this, us, it feels like a brand-new relationship, and in contrast to all the upsetting parts of this weird situation, it feels great, you’re great. Whereas you – you’re eleven years in, you’re already in love with someone I don’t even know, who I don’t know if I’ll ever be again. How do I know you’re not just settling for this lesser version?’
‘You’re not lesser.’ He looks thoughtful for a moment, sitting up in bed. ‘Just different in some ways. Honestly, Lucy, even if the memories aren’t there, every day you seem a little more like your old self.’
I pinch my mouth closed to stop myself from crying. I thought things were fine, I don’t know where this emotion is coming from.
‘You can’t be jealous of yourself,’ Sam insists.
‘I can. I can be jealous of the version of me that got to live eleven years with you, that got to meet you for the first time across a crowded karaoke bar, that got to date you and fall in love with you, not knowing how it would end. The person who got to marry you, who got to see your face when I gave birth to our first child, who got to hold your hand when we lost our second.’ And now I’m sobbing and he’s holding me tight. ‘Because I missed it all, Sam, I missed my life, I missed us.’
‘You didn’t miss it,’ he says, talking into my hair as he holds my shaking body.
‘And that’s just the stuff I know I missed. There are probably hundreds of life-changing moments I’ll never even know about.’ There’s a pause, then Sam lets go of me. He gets out of bed, then reaches a hand to pull me up after him.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask, confused.
‘Come, I want to show you something.’