Ten Years On (19 page)

‘Janet likes Michel,’ I say. ‘I think she’s made a new friend.’

‘He’s wonderful. “There is nothing I won’t do for my customers,” Joe imitates Michel. “I go to bed with my mobile, and if a customer calls in the middle of the night I come!
Ring-a-ding-ding
. Twenty-four/seven I’m there.’

I smile, unused to this light-hearted side of Joe. We walk past a group of scantily clad teenagers on a night out.

‘Makes you feel old, doesn’t it?’

‘And fat. The funny thing is, their night is about to begin as we’re heading home to our beds.’

‘That’s not funny.’ Joe shakes his head. ‘It’s tragic. I’m taking the day off tomorrow. I should be out partying right now.’

‘How about a nice cup of herbal tea at mine?’ I propose.

‘Perfect.’

We walk on, in comfortable silence, until Joe asks, ‘How have you been today? After the party.’

‘Fine, honestly. Thanks for asking.’

We walk into my parents’ drive. ‘Becca,’ he sounds nervous, ‘Peta told me what she’d said to you. Sometimes she doesn’t think before she speaks. She’s dramatic, flamboyant, but not necessarily … oh, look, I’m not excusing it, but I don’t think she set out to hurt you.’

I open the front door; place my keys on the hall table.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘The thing is, I won’t meet anyone else, Joe. I don’t want to.’

We walk into the kitchen. ‘I understand.’ He watches me turn on the kettle.

‘Some people think you can just switch off and move on, as easy as that.’

‘I don’t think she meant it that way.’

‘I’m not just talking about Peta.’

‘Peta hasn’t lost anyone. Until you have, it’s harder to understand. But she is very sorry.’

‘Thanks, Joe. And honestly, it’s fine,’ I say, not wanting him to worry any more.

‘Do you think … well, do you think you could tell her that? Could you call her?’

‘OK.’ I nod. ‘Of course.’ But I know I’d be doing it more for him than for her.

‘Thanks.’ Joe hesitates. ‘Perhaps you can’t imagine meeting anyone else now, but maybe in a few years’ time —’

‘No, Joe,’ I insist, grabbing a couple of mugs. ‘I won’t. It’s unimaginable.’

26

I press the buzzer one more time, am about to turn round and head home, telling myself it was a bad idea, when …

‘Hello,’ he says through the intercom.

‘Joe, it’s me, Becca.’

He opens the door in his pyjamas. ‘Oh no, have I woken you? I should have called.’

‘My fault.’ He glances at his watch. It’s ten o’clock. ‘I fell asleep on the sofa,’ he says, massaging his neck as if it’s sore. When he asks me in, I can sense he’s wondering why I’m here.

Standing in front of the fireplace I tell him, ‘I bought us some croissants and …’ I peer into the next brown paper bag as if I’ve forgotten what’s inside, ‘blueberry muffins. These are really good warmed up. Oh, and some coffee.’ I thrust the tray of cappuccinos at him.
‘I thought, seeing as it’s your day off, I could treat you to breakfast.’

He looks surprised, before telling me he’d better have a quick shower and get changed. ‘I should take the day off more often,’ he calls over his shoulder.

Joe enters the kitchen with a fresh face and damp hair, a towel wrapped round his neck. ‘I’m starving,’ he says. ‘What’s this in aid of?’

‘To say thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For giving me a job. Being a good friend.’ I manoeuvre myself on to one of the kitchen stools next to him and dip a croissant into my coffee. ‘I called Peta this morning –’ I take a bite ‘– and it’s all sorted.’

‘Great, thank you.’ He sounds relieved.

I take a second croissant and stop mid-mouthful, aware Joe is watching me. ‘What?’

‘You’ve got quite an appetite.’

‘You
have
to have two, Joe. It’s compulsory. One croissant is never enough.’

‘What else is compulsory in life?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Sunshine. Holidays. Sleep. Beautiful paintings.’

‘Champagne on a dark day. Cold beer in the summer.’

‘Friends. Laughter.’

‘Facing your fears. Doing what you love. Never holding on to regret.’

‘Olly would have said writing. Writing and having fun.’

Joe thinks about this. ‘Why don’t we just go out and have some fun today?’ He puts the plates into the sink in a way that says he has no intention of washing them up.

‘Now?’

‘Why not? I rarely take the day off so I refuse to look at the accounts or feel guilty that I’m not visiting Dad. In fact, I could do with some help later on, looking round a couple of flats. Are you free?’

Joe and I are shown into a flat in the centre of Winchester, which on paper boasts a modern kitchen, but in reality is wallpapered in an ivy-trellis pattern, and when Joe opens a cupboard the door dangles from one hinge. ‘You could easily fit a cot in here,’ suggests oily-haired estate agent Shane when we walk into the minuscule master bedroom. Joe and I exchange a look before deciding not to explain.

Flats two and three are no more promising, so Joe and I decide to cut our losses and head towards the
nearest cafe, where we order bacon sandwiches for lunch, plus a portion of hot salty chips to share. As we wait for our food to arrive, I glance at a couple of teenage girls at the next table. One looks as if she could be Spanish or Italian, the other has chestnut-coloured hair like mine and pale freckled skin. ‘What we’ve got to do is write down the things we’ll be doing in ten years’ time,’ says the fairer of the two, handing her friend a piece of paper. ‘You know, stuff like where we’ll be working, who we’ll marry, how many kids …’

‘I reckon you’ll marry someone artistic,’ suggests the dark-haired one. ‘A painter or something.’

‘Oh, I’d like that! You’ll be with a doctor,’ she states with certainty. ‘I’m going to work in fashion.’

I catch Joe watching them too.

Olly had said he’d be a famous writer.

‘I was going to rule the world,’ Joe murmurs.

‘My work was going to be auctioned at Sotheby’s for millions, yet I haven’t painted for years.’

‘I run a wine bar. I’m bound to end up an alcoholic.’ Joe raises his glass to mine and pulls a goggle-eyed face.

‘I’ll marry at twenty-seven,’ the fairer one continues, ‘’cos my mum did, and I reckon I’ll have three kids, two boys, one girl, in that order.’

I lean across the table, unable to carry on listening.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘I’m so sorry but I
have
to say something …’

They both stop writing, pens poised. They stare at me as if I’m mad.

‘Stop writing now, because nothing – I mean
nothing
– works out the way you think.’

‘What do you mean?’ the fairer one asks, blushing.

‘What we’re trying to say is, enjoy today,’ Joe tells them reassuringly, ‘because we never know what’s going to happen tomorrow, let alone in ten years’ time.’

‘None of us live in the moment, do we?’ I say to Joe when we leave the cafe. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have interrupted them. I think I terrified those poor girls! What next? Shall we barge over to that couple on the bench?’ I point to an elderly couple sitting outside the bank. ‘Tell them to go bungee jumping while they’re still young enough and have their own teeth?’

I wait for Joe to answer, but he seems a world away. ‘Becca, I didn’t go to Olly’s funeral.’

‘I know. If I could have done things differently, I—’

‘I don’t want you to feel guilty anymore. But I have an idea. I’d like to say goodbye, in my own way. Will you help me do that?’

*

Joe and I stand at the edge of St Catherine’s Hill and admire the view. ‘This was Olly’s favourite walk,’ I tell him. ‘We used to come up here at Christmas, to get away from Pippa and Todd, the twins, the board games, the smell of turkey in the house. We’d stand here and scream and then, after that, we’d dance.’

‘Olly loved to dance. He used to drag me on to the floor, do you remember? Stuffed shirt, he called me.’

‘He still does.’

Joe turns to me, his face breaking into that smile that lights up a room. I’m surprised and relieved by how unfazed he is by the voices. ‘Did he have a favourite spot up here?’ he asks.

I lead Joe to the maze at the top of the hill, dark lines cut out of the turf. ‘Olly was fascinated by the myth behind it,’ I recall. ‘I think one legend was that it was dug out in the seventeenth or eighteenth century by a Winchester College boy who had been condemned for doing something wrong, no one knows what exactly, but it must have been pretty bad, and as part of his punishment he was kept behind in college during the holidays. He was said to have roamed on the hill and was going out of his mind with boredom so he devised and cut out the maze. I think I remember my dad saying he’d done it with a spoon.’

Joe stands in the middle. ‘I want to do it here,’ he decides, holding the strings of the three blue balloons that we bought from the toyshop, after lunch.

‘Olly,’ he begins, ‘I’m going to keep this short. You know I was never a man of many words. I’m sorry I let you down, and I’m so sorry I didn’t see you again. Please forgive me for hurting you.’ He lets a balloon go. I watch as it takes off into the sky, wondering where its flight will end.

‘I’m here with Becca, and I want you to know that I will help look after and support her and your son as best I can. I know you’ll be with them in spirit, guiding them, but if you’d like me to, I’ll encourage your boy to get into music and writing and to enjoy rugby and football, not just weevils. If I’m lucky enough, I’ll kick a ball around with him too and tell him about all the adventures we used to get up to at Bristol.’ The second balloon follows the first skyward.

Tears come to my eyes.

‘You were a light in everyone’s life. Of course you weren’t perfect,’ he adds with a smile, ‘but what I loved most about you was your sense of fun. I
am
a stuffed shirt at times. You brought out the best in me, and I won’t ever forget you.’ He lets go of the third and final balloon.

*

‘This is where Kitty, Annie and I played “Mr Froggy, may we cross your golden river?”’ I tell Joe as we’re standing on the edge of the maze, about to leave. Then I have an idea. ‘Wait there.’ I walk to the other end and face Joe, thinking about what he’d just said about Olly and his sense of fun. ‘Say it!’

‘Say what?

‘Mr Froggy, may I cross your golden river?’

‘Mr Froggy …’ He stops, looks around …

‘No one’s here!’

He relaxes, turns back to face me. ‘Mr Froggy, may I cross your golden river?’

‘Only if you’re wearing something blue!’

Joe examines his clothes. His jumper’s grey. ‘I’m not, so what happens next?’

‘You have to cross my river without me catching you. I can’t believe you’ve never played this.’

Joe jumps from one bit of the maze to another, dodges to the left, moves forward. He makes a run for it and I chase him, but he reaches the other side safely. ‘One more go, and I’m going to get you this time,’ I warn him, as he asks if he can cross my golden river again.

‘Only if you’re wearing something red!’

He makes a run for it, me charging towards him.
‘Come on, fatty! Hang on!’ He stops dead. ‘My boxers are red.’

‘Doesn’t count! Can’t see them.’

Before I know it, he’s pulling down his jeans. We are both soon out of breath from laughing so much, until we stop, realizing we’re not the only ones here any more. Tentatively we turn to see a class of children wearing grey blazers and bottle-green trousers, pointing their textbooks at us, giggling as they’re told by their teacher to move swiftly on.

We’re back in Joe’s flat, drinking tea. On the way home it started to pour with rain, so Joe has lit the fire to warm us up.

‘Are you happy living here?’ I ask, clutching my mug of tea in both hands.

‘Yes. I didn’t think I’d ever want to return to my childhood home. People think it’s unimaginative – you should experience something new, not go back to where your parents lived.’

This is what Olly and I had thought about Pippa, but I don’t tell him that.

‘But it feels natural being here, coming back to my roots. I feel proud it’s my home. I enjoy running my own business, and ironically I have a much better
relationship with my father now. I’ve made a few new friends down here too. It
is
new to me. I still miss London, of course I do. I miss the pace …’

‘If Olly and I went away for a weekend, maybe visiting his parents in Northumberland, I’d get butterflies in my stomach when the train pulled into Euston,’ I say. ‘Everything quickened the moment we stepped on to that platform.’

‘London. I liked being at the heart of England.’

‘Winchester used to be the capital once.’

‘True. I miss the coffee bar culture,’ he carries on, ‘the pubs, the West End.’

‘The parks are beautiful too. Olly and I used to love visiting the Serpentine Gallery on a Sunday afternoon.’

‘Hyde Park in the early hours of the morning, when no one is around except for a few joggers and dog walkers. Most of all I miss the anonymity,’ Joe confides. ‘That only comes with big cities. Living and working here, it can feel like I’m in a goldfish bowl, and the thing is,
everyone
knows my father.’

‘But you’re happier now, aren’t you?’

‘Much.’

‘You’re not the great doctor’s son anymore. You’re Joe, and you’re good at what you do.’

He smiles. ‘Thanks.’

‘What about Peta?’

‘What about her?’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Well,’ he replies elusively. ‘She’s got this audition coming up, for a six-part thriller. She’s trying for the lead role. It could be her big break.’

‘I hope she gets it.’

‘I think she will, or if she doesn’t, she’ll get something else soon. She’s determined. She told me she’d wanted to be an actress since the age of two, told her mother, who was peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink, that that’s what she wanted to do. She paid her way through drama school. I admire that.’

‘Will you miss her when she’s in London?’

Joe tenses his shoulders. ‘Yes, I probably will. I’ve enjoyed the last few months, I like being with her. She takes me away from the problems with my dad. When you’re alone, you can tend to dwell. What about you?’