Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(73)

‘Jealousy,’ she nods understandingly, looking at the empty blanket where Jewel’s toys still lie.

‘No.’ I frown, confused. ‘Why do you say jealous?’

‘It’s obvious. Your husband did something amazing that other people are now trying to imitate. He started something pretty big. Your fella can’t compete with a dead husband, can he? No matter how good he is at chopping down trees or anything else. So he says to himself, if she’s gonna spend time with her ex-husband, I’ll move my daughter in instead of her. See how she likes it.’

I look at Ginika in surprise. This is a perspective I had perhaps foolishly not considered.

Could Gabriel have been jealous of Gerry? It makes sense, because isn’t that exactly how I felt about his reunion? ‘Ginika, you’re one of the wisest people I know.’

‘I can’t even spell wisest,’ she mutters, uncomfortable with the praise.

‘I don’t think that’s the definition of wisdom.’

‘What is the definition of wisdom?’

‘I don’t know,’ I smile wryly.

‘Five minutes with me and I’d put his daughter straight,’ Ginika says, defensive of me. ‘I might not have the energy I used to have for a good scrap, but I could ram this lollipop up her arse.’

‘Thank you, Ginika, that’s very moving, but stop trying to be teacher’s pet.’

She winks. ‘I’ve got your back, miss.’

‘And it’s thoughtful. It would both hurt her and relieve the pain.’

She laughs loudly, a real belly laugh, and her face lights up.

‘Can I ask you about Jewel’s dad … again?’ I probe, feeling we’re having a moment.

‘I just want to write a letter.’

‘Sorry.’ I reach for the book.

‘That’s not what I mean,’ she says, hand on top of the book to stop me from opening it. ‘What I mean is, I want Jewel to have a letter, from me. I don’t need you to do any of that reuniting stuff for me like you did for Bert’s wife and her sister.’

‘OK.’ It’s like she’s seen right through me. Does she know? Is she testing me? Was her dad in contact? I can’t let it lie. ‘Ah, about that, Ginika,’ I say nervously. ‘I saw your dad at the weekend.’

Her eyes narrow and I feel the sting of her sharp stare. ‘You what?’

‘I felt as though I wasn’t doing enough, that I—’

‘What did you say? Where did you meet him?’

‘I took the bus. The 66A. You told me that was his route. I sat on the bus, I went all the way to the end and back,’ I explain. ‘Then, as I was getting off, I told him that I know you, that you are wonderful, incredibly brave and one of the most inspiring people I’ve ever met and that he should be immensely proud of you.’

She frowns, examines me to see if I’m telling the truth. ‘What else?’

‘Nothing else. That’s all, I promise. I want your parents to know how amazing you are.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing. I didn’t give him time to speak. I just got off the bus.’

She turns away and absorbs this and I hope I haven’t ruined everything, jeopardised our relationship, which I now realise is a friendship, and one I don’t want to lose. I have definitely overstepped the mark, I can only wonder if she will forgive me for this. There’s not doing enough, as with Paul. And then there’s doing too much, as with Ginika. I need to find the middle ground.

‘When did you see him?’

‘Saturday morning. Ten thirty route.’

‘What did he look like?’ she asks quietly.

‘He was quiet. He was busy, working. He was concentrating. He …’ I shrug.

She looks at me, then really studies me. ‘Are you OK?’

‘No, I’m actually shitting myself that you’re going to kill me.’

She smiles. ‘I might. But no. I mean, are you actually cracked? You spent your Saturday morning sitting on a bus with my dad, for what? For me?’

I nod.

‘Jesus.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She’s quiet. ‘Thank you for telling him that. I don’t think he’s ever heard that about me from anyone before.’ She sits straighter, prouder. ‘Did you speak to my ma as well?’

‘No,’ I hold my hands up in defence. ‘You didn’t tell me where she works.’

‘Thank fuck for that.’

We smile.

‘He has a photo of you at his steering wheel. A school photo. Grey uniform, red tie, cheeky little smile on you.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, disappearing a little. ‘He prefers her.’

‘Which version of you do you prefer?’

‘What?’ she asks, frowning.

‘I’ve been thinking this year that Gerry doesn’t know me now, he never met the person I’ve become. I prefer this version of me, yet I became this way because I lost him. If I ever had the power to undo everything, I wouldn’t want to unravel who I’ve become.’

She ponders that. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. I like me better now.’

And what Ginika has been through to get to this version of herself.