A Surrey State of Affairs (53 page)

And then it was over, and we were walking out in clusters to the churchyard, and Rupert took my arm and said, “I’m proud of you, Mum. I know everything you’ve been through.”

I clutched his arm back. “You’ve always been a sensitive boy,” I said.

“No, Mum, I mean, I really do know exactly what you’ve been through. I know because I read it on your blog.”

I nearly dropped my handbag in shock. I had presumed that you alone, strangers who I now also count as friends, were my audience. When I thought about some of the things that I have written on this blog—my initial horror at Rupert’s revelation; my skulduggery with Ivan’s sunscreen; Carlos, oh dear Lord, Carlos—I momentarily felt dizzy. But then Rupert tightened his grasp on me. He had finally tracked down my blog, he said, when he was worried about me after Jeffrey and I had gone AWOL somewhere
in Peru. As my blog was anonymous, he’d had to Google all the things I was likely to mention to track it down—eventually, a combination of “Jeffrey Rupert Sophie Darcy bell ringing John Lewis” did the trick. He told me he’d loved it, he loved me, I had nothing to be ashamed of. I hugged him back. What is the point of dwelling on the past? What more, indeed, is there to say here?

Alex called Rupert away; Jeffrey caught up with me and I put my hand in his pocket. He clutched it, and it took him a few moments to realize that I was wearing the ring he had bought me, which on a whim I had fished out of his bedside table, where it was crammed in between
Golf Monthly
and a miniature Swiss Army knife key ring. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth, cold metal and smiled at me, and at exactly that moment a joyful note pierced the thin air as from up in the belfry the bells, the glorious bells, rang out.