Me and Mr Jones (40 page)

But the truth was out now at least. They could pick themselves up and move on together again, couldn’t they?

She leaned against him and let him hold her closer, then tightened her arms around his back. It was worth a try, she decided. Surely it was worth a try.

Chapter Thirty

Emma had shied away from difficult conversations with David for so long that the night he came home after his self-imposed exile, she almost bottled it again. But Sally’s words chimed insistently in her head and she knew she must be brave.
Do it, Em. Just ask him.

‘David,’ she began, with another mouthful of wine for Dutch courage. ‘Tell me honestly, because I need to know. Do you still want us to buy Mulberry House and live there?’

If he was surprised at such a direct question, he showed no hesitation in giving her a direct reply. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’

And there it was: a major worry answered and eradicated, just like that, after weeks of doubt and dread. Emma swayed in relief; it was as if someone had removed her bones and she was nothing more than jelly. ‘
Really?
Oh, thank God,’ she sighed. ‘Because I don’t want to, either.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I kind of got that impression.’

‘So what changed your mind?’ She couldn’t stop smiling. Maybe it wasn’t polite to be so openly happy, but it was impossible to put a lid on it. He didn’t want them to move to Dorset. He didn’t want them to run his parents’ decrepit B&B. It felt like Christmas.

‘I tried to want it,’ he said. ‘I
wanted
to want it, because I knew that’s what Mum and Dad were hoping. But the longer I stayed there, the more the guests started getting on my wick.’ He pulled a face. ‘They were always bloody complaining! They were meant to be on holiday, having
fun
, but my God, the moans and whinges were just endless: about the weather, or their view, or the room being cold. Some woman actually bitched that the birds were singing too loudly. I mean . . .’

Emma laughed. ‘I’m not even going to mention Poogate.’ He laughed too. ‘I don’t know how my parents have the patience, I really don’t.’ He shook his head. ‘And it wasn’t just that. It was being stuck in the middle of bloody nowhere as well. I love the countryside and the beach, but I started to get stir-crazy. I missed going to the pub, the cinema, restaurants, being able to buy a decent coffee . . .’

Emma gave a theatrical cough. ‘Anything else?’

‘You, Em,’ he said. ‘More than anything. I wish I hadn’t stayed away so long. I’m sorry. I just felt such a failure: not having a job or income, not being able to provide for us.’ He swallowed and looked away. ‘Not being able to make you pregnant.’

Her eyes filled suddenly. ‘You idiot,’ she said gently. ‘You’re not a failure.’

‘That’s not how it felt.’ He fidgeted. ‘Mum sat me down and gave it to me straight anyway. I think she’s been watching too many soaps, because she actually told me I had to “man up” and start facing real life again.’

‘Really?’ She smirked, imagining the scene. To think that Lilian had taken her side for once!

‘Yep. So here I am. Manning up. Facing real life. Telling you I’m sorry for not being around. But I’m back now, and I’m going to sort everything out, I swear.’

His words sent an enormous weight rolling from her shoulders, she felt light-headed with its release. ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she said. ‘I missed you so much. It’s been rubbish without you. I even started going a bit mad, I think.’

‘Talking to yourself in public again?’

She forced a smile. ‘Something like that.’ That was one can of worms she would definitely leave closed, she decided, pouring more wine for them both. ‘So, what’s going to happen with the house then, now that we’re out of the picture?’ She couldn’t help herself; she actually wriggled with joy saying the words. They were out of the running. They wouldn’t be taking over the B&B. David had finally made his choice and he’d come home, to her. YESSSSSS.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Mum and Dad definitely can’t carry on there, though. I don’t even know if they’ll last the summer. Dad’s . . . I think he’s losing his marbles, Em. It’s horrible. He’s forgetful and confused, and it’s all just too much for him.’ He ran a hand through his hair, and she noticed how tired he looked. ‘That’s another reason I stayed so long, because Mum was struggling. But she’s booked a doctor’s appointment for him now, to see what they think, so . . .’

Emma winced. David wasn’t the only one facing up to things then. Going to the doctor was official confirmation that something was wrong, and might be the first step in a whole flood of hospital appointments, tests and check-ups. You wouldn’t wish it on anyone. ‘Poor Eddie,’ she said when he didn’t finish the sentence. ‘And poor Lilian.’

‘Yeah,’ he said heavily. ‘But anyway. Let’s not talk about them. Let’s talk about us, and make some plans together. Me and you, what do you say?’

‘I’d like that,’ she said, as optimism and joy inflated inside her like balloons. She put her arms around him. ‘Oh, David, I’d really,
really
like that.’

It was strange, having her husband moving back in. Good-strange. They had only been apart a matter of weeks, but Emma had become quite set in her ways without him around the place. David being home made her realize how lonely she’d been, with her single mug and plate in the morning; how she’d left the radio on almost constantly just so that she could hear someone else’s voice; how she knew the weekly TV guide off by heart by the time it was Tuesday. Now that he was back, the small rooms filled instantly with his sounds again – the ringtone of his phone, his laugh, the low burble of sporting commentary from Radio 5. She slept so much more soundly with him in bed beside her too, somehow better able to block out the noises from the street below with the comfort of his warm body there.

It had crossed her mind that, for all his promises and optimistic words, he might well fall back into the slough of depression he’d been in, gradually becoming beaten down with negativity if a job didn’t fall into his lap straight away, but on the first morning he got out of bed as soon as her alarm shrilled and went into the kitchen, where she heard him filling the kettle.

‘You don’t have to get up,’ she said, when he presented her with a cup of tea and two slices of toast, with the perfect amount of butter and Marmite. ‘Stay in bed, I would.’

‘It’s cool,’ he said. ‘I’m used to getting up and helping Mum with the breakfasts, remember. Looking after you is a breeze in comparison.’

He was trying, she realized happily as she came home in the evening to find him making risotto for them and saw that he’d circled job ads in the local paper and even arranged a couple of interviews with recruitment agencies. He wanted to make this work – to make
them
work as a team once more. It hit her then just how badly she wanted the same, not to mention how close she’d come to blowing everything, messing about with Nicholas and Greg.

Having David there in the evenings meant she had less time to spend obsessing on the pregnancy forum too. For the last month she’d felt close to the other women all tapping away online in their lonely bubbles of desperation, as if they were in it together. She knew their ovulation cycles almost as well as her own, had been typing them supportive messages and words of encouragement every night. Funnily enough, as soon as she switched off, she discovered that she didn’t miss them one bit – if anything, she felt lighter, not having to worry about them. The website had been a good source of information, and a useful emotional crutch at first, but she could see now that it had long since stopped helping her. If anything, it had only made her feel more obsessed.

In its place she made more of an effort to reconnect with Sally and other friends, and began organizing nights out. She even agreed to go to baby Poppy’s naming ceremony in May. Baby or no baby, she and David still had a lot to be thankful for, after all.

Two weeks after his return to Bristol, David greeted her one evening with a bottle of champagne. ‘It’s not even cava, it’s the proper stuff,’ he said, popping it open with a flourish. ‘Cheers!’

She squealed as the champagne foamed over the fat green lip of the bottle. ‘What are we celebrating? What’s happened?’

His eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve got a job,’ he said. Four words, and he could not have said them with any more happiness or pride. ‘For an architect’s firm in Bath. Great company – the MD is Robert Fletcher, remember me telling you about him? Amazing bloke.’ He pulled a crumpled pile of paper from his laptop bag before she could say anything, and grinned. ‘Picked these up on the way home, too,’ he said tossing them onto the table. ‘Houses for sale. Thought we could look at a few this weekend.’

Emma couldn’t speak for a moment, she felt so delighted for him – for both of them. Finally,
finally
, the wheel had turned and they were moving once more, out from the dark place they’d been in and forward towards a bright new future together. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, kissing him full on the lips. ‘Oh, David, well done. I’m so proud of you. Congratulations!’

The next few weeks passed very happily. David started work, throwing himself enthusiastically into his first new project – a modern extension to a Victorian villa, which seemed to consist of inordinately large pieces of toughened glass, so as to give incredible views down one of Bath’s hillsides. The job was a twelve-mile commute away, but he was able to do it by bike, along the cycle path, which he absolutely loved. Within the week he was bragging about how he’d already shaved two minutes off his journey time. ‘I feel a spreadsheet coming on,’ Emma groaned, rolling her eyes.

Being employed again seemed to flick a switch in David’s internal circuitry. The light in his eyes became brighter, he moved with more energy and purpose. He was David again, in short. Gone were the despair and moping – now he was back playing cricket with his mates every Thursday night, he was swimming his splashy butterfly at the Dean Lane baths, he was running around the park and getting sweaty in Lycra. (Mmm-mmm.)

Emma loved seeing this change in him. He hummed without realizing it. He laughed easily. He even sang in the shower some mornings. She looked forward to seeing him after work every evening and hearing what he’d been doing that day. If they met for dinner or a drink in town – which was quite often – she found herself feeling fluttery as she put on perfume and lipstick, just like in the early days when they’d started dating. It was as if she was falling in love with him all over again.

Even house-hunting was romantic. ‘What a chore,’ Alicia had said sympathetically when Emma told her over the phone that they were about to start looking, but it didn’t feel remotely chore-like to Emma. Walking hand-in-hand up the front path of what might be their new home actually felt really exciting, full of hope. Even going through specifications seemed to bring them closer together. ‘We can’t have this one, the garden’s pathetic,’ he would say. ‘How are we meant to teach the kids football on one titchy patio?’

Such a line might sound throwaway and unimportant to another person, but to Emma it felt seismic, just as ruling out houses with fewer than three bedrooms did. Their checklist simply underlined what they both wanted to find, in a house and in life too.

Emma knew that house-hunting might well take them a long time. As an architect and an interior designer, they were tough customers and knew exactly what they wanted – she was fully prepared for it to be a long haul. ‘There’s no point settling for anything we don’t love,’ they had both agreed.

‘It’s got to be our happy-ever-after home,’ she had added.

It came as a surprise, then, that the third house they looked around, a Victorian semi in Southville, spoke to both of them with the most persuasive of voices. It had a beautiful stained-glass inner-porch door, which Emma swooned over. It had the original Victorian doorbell that David loved (‘It’s an actual bell, rigged up on a cable, look!’ he beamed, pointing it out) and the ceilings were high, with all the original coving and plasterwork still in place. Emma knew quite well that she shouldn’t be swayed by something as temporary as a shade of paint, but when she went into the back living room and saw the deep Brunswick green on the wall, she was smitten.

‘This is it,’ she whispered, as they walked into the kitchen. It was dated, with tired old units, a peeling lino floor and what might even be damp in the corner.
Whatever
, she thought. There were large windows overlooking the garden, a separate utility room, and she knew a reclamation yard where she could get her hands on a good butler’s sink. With a spraygun of Flash and elbow grease, sandpaper, paint and a loving eye, she could turn this room into the very heart of their home.

‘Check out the garden,’ David murmured, gripping her hand, and she knew he was already planning where to put the football net.
If
I get pregnant, she reminded herself.
If
we have children to practise penalty shoot-outs with. But she was sure this house would be way more conducive to baby-making at the very least. They would be happy here.