The Love of My Life(87)

‘Possibly not? What does that mean?’

‘It means I don’t know for certain. But when we gave notice at the registry office, there was a box I should have ticked to say I’d changed my name. I didn’t.’

Emma is looking at me, but I can’t meet her eye. That was our day. Our happy, beautiful day, with its flowers and wine and cakes and friends and dancing and laughter.

When I saw her father’s name on the marriage certificate, I’d been surprised, of course: his surname was Peel. But Emma told me she’d been given her mother’s surname, Bigelow, to keep her memory alive, and I’d thought that sad and perfect and beautiful.

She lied to me on our wedding day.

‘It was selfish,’ she says, in the end. ‘And wrong. I see now how cowardly I’ve been. But I loved you, Leo. Of course I wanted to marry you.’

I say nothing. I don’t trust myself to speak.

‘I didn’t realise there’d be legal consequences when I proposed. I didn’t think. All I knew was that I was intoxicated with you. I couldn’t believe my luck. I was happy; so happy – I just wanted us to be married.’

I think about my wedding speech. About this woman I knew so well, loved so much. All those upturned faces, smiling and laughing, the raised glasses. To the happy couple!

After a while she takes a long breath and says, ‘There was misery, Leo. There was misery and there was self-loathing; there was loneliness I still don’t have the words to describe. But then there was you. You were everything. You still are.’

I close my eyes. I’m still so deep in shock I keep forgetting what Emma’s been through. What she was carrying on her shoulders when we fell in love.

I think back to our very first phone call, when her grandmother died. How minutes ticked by, then hours; how 6 p.m. rolled around and we were still talking; how my colleagues turned off their computers and went home, smiling at each other, because they could see what was happening to me.

Three and a half hours. That’s all it had taken.

Emma says, ‘Life made sense again, when I met you, Leo. I remembered why people want to live.’

I glance at her, but she’s not looking at me; she’s lost somewhere in her past.

I think of Ruby. Lying on Emma’s chest, marooned and tiny, bellowing with all her might. That dizzying moment, the beginning of everything. What was Emma thinking, as we stared in wonder at our baby? Was she even there?

‘I also wanted to know how you managed to give birth without me knowing it was your second baby,’ I say. ‘The obstetrician told me forceps were common in a woman’s first delivery. Was she briefed to lie?’

Emma shakes her head, slowly. ‘Oh, Leo. No. The obstetrician meant it was my first vaginal birth. Charlie was born by C-section.’

I take this in. ‘But you don’t have a scar, you . . .’ I stop. She does have a scar.

I close my eyes. I’m a man in my forties. I have a first-class degree; I’ve spent an entire career in pursuit of the truth. How could I have been so stupid? An appendix scar just above her pubic bone? I accepted that? For ten years?

‘And yes, they were briefed to avoid any mentions of Charlie,’ Emma says, gently. ‘I think there was a sticker on my notes, or something on the door, or – I don’t know. But they have a duty to protect the mother, Leo. Nobody was trying to make a fool of you.’

Grudgingly, I accept what she’s saying to be true. If they knew even half of what she’d been through to get to that point, I imagine they’d have done anything she asked.

‘And Mags?’ My voice sounds weary. ‘Why did you pretend she ditched you?’

Emma rubs her hands over her face. ‘Because if I told you it was my decision, you’d have wanted to know why I was leaving her. And then I’d have had to tell you Janice had had me sacked. And . . .’ She sighs. ‘It was easier to just not tell you, Leo. I’m sorry. I know that sounds flippant.’

‘It does.’

Emma looks around my shed, pokes the lamp where the shade is dented.

‘Until tonight I thought I tried to suffocate my baby,’ she says. ‘I didn’t trust myself to look after him, so I gave him away. Can you imagine giving Ruby away, when she was eight weeks old? Can you imagine the pain?’

‘No.’

And I can’t. I can’t even come close.

She takes a long breath. ‘Leo, you turned my life around. I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to understand why I kept it to myself, let alone forgive me, but – listen to me.’

She gets off the sofa and kneels down in front of me. ‘It’s real, Leo. Every single bit of you and me has been real.’

I look at her for a long time.

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ She touches my cheek. ‘Nobody can pretend to love. Not for long.’

For a moment I allow myself to turn my face into her hand. Memories slide in and out. The day we both had food poisoning; the first time we met John Keats. Falling asleep on the Northern Line, arguments in taxis; burning endless dinners, kissing on the sofa, the ‘hiking holiday’ we spent in a pub.

These have been good years.

Slowly, I remove her hand from my cheek. I am confused, I’m exhausted.

‘Your dad,’ I say, eventually. ‘Why did you need to lie about him?’