He says nothing at first, then speaks flatly, sincerely. “If something happened to one of the girls, that would be it for me.”
Jessie watches the smoke rise in fabric twists and thinks of Mandy’s scarf, the one she found behind the radiator in London and, not knowing what to do with it, stuffed back behind the radiator’s dusty grille. It occurs to her that, in different ways, she’s kept doing that ever since. And it hasn’t worked. The past rises out of corners, gaps, keeps moving to the center of the room. She wonders what would happen if, rather than pushing it back, she pulled it toward her. “Did it feel like that when Mandy died?” she says uncertainly, not quite sure of the ground beneath her feet.
Will looks surprised. The question stretches over the silence as he considers it.
“Well, I had Bella. I always had Bella. And my heart had . . . reserves. Mandy filled it up when we were together. And she didn’t take it back when she died,” he replies thoughtfully. “If that makes any sense.”
Jessie nods, moved by his honesty. She can’t remember when they last spoke like this, without agenda or rush. And something of the intimacy reminds her of their early days, lying in the grass of St. James’s Park, revealing bits of themselves, feeling their way around each other’s hearts as the city surged behind the plane trees.
“Mandy left me the capacity to love.” Will pauses, catching up with his own thoughts. He flashes a smile at her. The distance between them starts to shrink. “But I only realized that when I met you.”
Jessie blinks back tears. For the first time, Will is holding his marriage to Mandy on the open palm of his hand, saying simply, This is it, Jessie, this is the beautiful thing I had, this is what I lost.
And his words ring true. She thinks back to the handsome man she first noticed during lunchtimes in the park, how he was angry, hurt, grieving, but not broken, not a man who needed total rebuilding—she wouldn’t have been attracted to that. He was still Will. He was always Will. The idea that she has Mandy to thank for this is both unsettling and humbling.
“Mandy would have hated me to be alone. She’d have thought it a waste of life.” He shoots her a small smile. “She had a great joie de vivre. Like you.”
“Like me?” Jessie flinches, feeling too many things at once then—flattered, stripped of her own uniqueness, sad that she never met Mandy, that she can’t befriend her; yes, all of those things.
“She’d be immensely grateful for all you’ve done for Bella.” Will’s voice falls to a husky whisper.
“Don’t say that. I haven’t been a good stepmother, you don’t have to pretend . . .” Tears strangle her voice. “I haven’t done anything for Bella, I’m afraid.”
“You don’t need to do anything, Jessie. Don’t you see? She just needs to know you are there for her, whatever crap she throws at you.” He pokes the fire with the iron. The logs move, settle into new places. Jessie feels something moving inside her, too. “And she’s thrown lots and lots of crap at you, I do know that, Jessie. And you’re still there.”
“Hanging on by my bloody fingernails.”
They catch each other’s eyes and laugh, the past sitting next to them easily, relaxing, warming by the fire. A branch scratches at the iced window, the truth at the edges of their conversation. It is time.
“Will, I need to tell you something.” She takes a breath. “Bella has your old love letters, the ones you sent to Mandy over the years, when you were abroad, that were stored in the loft in London.”
“My letters?” He looks puzzled, then seems to remember, rubs the back of his neck. “Shit. I haven’t even thought about where those might be.”
“In Bella’s sock drawer.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Right.”
“I found them when I was putting away washing. I think Bella left them there purposefully for me to find. But that’s no excuse.” The flames shoot up like tongues. “Will, I did an awful thing. I read them.”
“You read them?” he says with an astonished laugh.
Jessie nods, braced for his anger. “Back in September.”
“Ah,” he says with a slowly dawning smile, as if this might explain a few things about her mood these last few months.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“No, you shouldn’t. I’d hate to read so much as a text you sent to an old lover. I’d want to chop his balls off.”
For a moment, Jessie almost feels cheated by Will’s response, the way it sucks the power from those letters, makes a mockery of months of jealousy. “You’ve never written me a letter,” she says, unable to let go of it easily.
“Haven’t I?” He sounds genuinely surprised.
“No. You definitely haven’t.”
“Well, I will, then.”
“You can’t now. It wouldn’t be the same.”
His eyes soften. He leans closer, until the tip of his nose touches hers. “It was a different life. You are my life now, you and the girls. And I know it’s not perfect. But there’s nothing else. Nothing else that matters. No woman I love more than you, Jessie.” His hands skate along her tights, brushing the hem of her dress. “Although I miss your dungarees.”
She smiles, her body starting to heat, tighten. “You were doing so well. Don’t overdo it.”
“I’m actually not joking.”
“There’s something else I haven’t told you, Will.” Jessie pulls away. Complete disclosure. It must all come out now. A new wariness settles over Will’s shattered features. “The story about the vanishing girl, the one Bella’s obsessing about?”
He shakes his head. “So you found out, too. That poor kid.”
“You know?” she stutters, baffled.
Will nods sheepishly. “I’ve known for a while. Bella kept talking about it, so I did a search at the library by the station one day when the train was massively delayed.”
Jessie stares at him in astonishment. “Why didn’t you say?”
“I didn’t want to taint Applecote for you or freak you out. I just couldn’t bear to pop your balloon.” He grabs her more playfully, breathes into her ear. “And what’s your excuse, Missus? Why didn’t you say?”
“I knew there was a reason I love you . . .” Will kisses the rest of the words away and, right there, on the sheepskin rug in front of the flickering fire, he peels off her dress, her tights, takes her apart, puts her together again, and the passion that Jessie thought was gone returns, electric, alive, all-consuming.
Jessie sleeps deeper than she has in months. At some point, Romy climbs into bed beside them, snuggling against her breast like a baby. Jessie drifts back to sleep, dreaming she’s floating down a river on her back, an electric-blue kingfisher bombing into the water. She wakes to the second ring of the doorbell.
“I’ll go.” She thows on her old dressing gown. Not very glamorous, but she smells of Will again.
“Hi!” She’s surprised to find the enormous mass of Joe on the doorstep.