Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(25)

12


Gabriel and I rise early to get ready for work. It’s dark, the house is cold and damp, impossible to heat as it needs a new central heating system, and we’re both tired. We don’t speak very much, we shuffle around the tiny kitchen, bumping into each other while we try to make our coffees ourselves, just the way we like it, and our own porridge. I make mine with milk, Gabriel prefers his with water. Blueberries on mine. Honey on his. Gabriel is too drained by recent family events in his life and frankly I’m too exhausted to listen to the new drama created by Ava, his sixteen-year-old daughter, the source of his pleasure and pain. A self-confessed bad husband and bad dad, he has spent the last few years trying to reconnect with his daughter. He has been doing all the chasing. His daughter is his world, he is her self-appointed moon, and she knows it: the faster she spins the greater her gravitational pull. My brain is slowly whirring as it warms up for the day. Neither of us are morning people, we keep to ourselves, together.

I lean against the countertop, waiting for the first sip of coffee to help fuel my brain and I collect my thoughts to tell him about the PS, I Love You Club. It’s a good time because it’s a bad time. We both have to leave the house in a few minutes or we’ll be late for work, and so it will leave little room for discussion or argument. It will give me a sense of his mood so I can prepare myself for a longer discussion later. I try to practise an intro line that doesn’t sound rehearsed.

‘Why is this in here?’ Gabriel asks, looking in the cupboard at the coffee mugs.

I already know what he’s talking about but I feign ignorance. ‘Hmm?’ I turn around and see the cracked Star Wars mug. ‘Oh yeah. I broke it.’

‘I can see that,’ he says, looking at it for longer than necessary.

Weirded out by his interest, I concentrate on blowing on my coffee and warming my hands on my mug.

The cupboard closes, thankfully, but he looks at me. For too long. ‘Would you like me to fix the mug?’

I wasn’t expecting that. ‘Oh sweetheart, that’s so thoughtful of you, thank you. But no, it’s OK. I’ll throw it out eventually.’

Pause for everything that should be said.

‘OK.’

Pause again for all that won’t be said.

I should tell him about the PS, I Love You Club. That I’ve met them. That I’m absolutely not going to help them. I should really tell him, now. He’s waiting for something.

‘Holly,’ he says, ‘if you’re having second thoughts about moving in with me, please just say it.’

‘What?’ I reply, stunned, not expecting that. ‘Absolutely not. No second thoughts at all. Why would you say that?’

He seems relieved, then confused. ‘Because I feel that you’re … I don’t know, holding back. You’re distracted. It took you so long to put it on the market, for one.’

‘I have absolutely no doubts about living with you,’ I say firmly, and I mean it. ‘I’m sorry I was slow to get it moving.’

Yesterday I’d planned to wait in the local café while the house was being shown. But I wanted to know who was in my home, so I watched through the windows, feeling like a spy and saw figures in the living room. It was so odd to see strangers in my own home, wandering around my rooms, assessing how they could change the foundations of my life and alter them to suit theirs. Knock down walls, wipe traces of me away, the proof of my existence a stain on their new beginning. But it made me sure that I was ready to do the same.

‘So everything’s OK?’ Gabriel asks again.

‘Yes,’ I say brightly.

‘OK,’ he says, kissing me. ‘Sorry, I misread. Ava’s got me over-analysing everything.’

I close my eyes and hate myself for the deceit. I feel like I’m cheating on him with thoughts of my dead husband.

‘Tonight at my place?’ he asks, finally.

‘Yes, perfect,’ I say, overly relieved.

I’ll tell him then. I just don’t know what exactly I’m telling him.

It’s the end of the day and I’m carrying my bicycle through the shop, from the storage room to the front door, when Gabriel calls. I can instantly tell from his tone that something is not right.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve to cancel tonight,’ he says, sighing. There’s shouting and banging in the background. ‘Shut up!’ he yells loudly, away from the mouthpiece but it’s enough to give me a fright. I rarely see Gabriel angry. Grumpy and irritated, yes, but rage isn’t something he exhibits often and never at me; he is usually measured, or keeps it to himself and lets rip on the days that we are not together. A proficiency in self-containment is a finesse you adopt after big relationship number one, a trickle-down strength.

‘Sorry,’ he returns to the phone.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Ava. She’s having problems with her mum. She came to me. Kate chased her here. They’ve decided this is the destination to argue their points.’

There is a screech from Kate, and a holler from Ava. And a door bangs.

‘Jesus,’ I say, eyes widening.

‘I think it will be a long night.’

‘Oh, Gabriel. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry too. But I’m glad she came to me. This is what I’ve wanted.’