The Nearly-Weds (32 page)

When I reach the front garden, I gaze up at Ruby’s window and my stomach lurches. I just hope to God the note I’ve left for her and Samuel makes them realize how desperately I’ll miss them: those two gorgeous children who – no matter where I end up in life – I will never, ever forget.

I think about hugging them in the mornings, their soft baby skin as warm and sweet as freshly baked biscuits, their eyes full of energy and excitement. I’m praying they’re not too upset when they wake up and find I’m not there. I really couldn’t bear to upset them. Yet, somehow, I know that’s exactly what they’ll be. Those two small children, who’ve already lost a mother and are now losing . . .

I feel a hard lump rise to my throat and I fight back more tears. I grip my suitcase and tell myself not to be so stupid. I’m their nanny, for God’s sake, not their mum.

I hesitate. Oh, Zoe, are you doing the right thing?

I haven’t a bloody clue.

The taxi driver gets out and attempts to help me put my bag in the boot. Even with both of us working on it, he complains it nearly gives him a hernia. ‘The airport, right?’ he checks, as I slump in the back.

‘Please.’

‘You going home for Christmas?’ he asks, as we turn out of the road.

‘I’m going home for good.’

‘Awww,’ he groans. ‘You mean old Boston didn’t get under your skin enough to keep you here?’

‘You know what it’s like,’ I reply. ‘Home sweet home, as they say.’

‘Yeah, yeah. So where you from?’

‘Liverpool,’ I tell him. ‘In England.’

‘
Liver-pooohl,
’ he replies, in what I can’t help thinking is a closer approximation of a remote African dialect than my own accent. I suppress a smile.

‘Wasn’t that where the Beatles were from?’

‘The very same.’

‘My wife used to have a crush on Ringo Starr.’

‘Really?’ I reply.

As he drones on, I can’t bring myself to listen. All I can think about is the taste of Ryan’s mouth and the feel of his hands on my skin.

The flight is uneventful. The most exciting it gets is a couple of hours after take-off, when I’ve finished my inflight breakfast and am entertaining myself by stacking the plastic cup, cartons, cutlery and sachets. By the time I’ve finished, every item is satisfyingly secure, neat and tidy.

As I hand it to the stewardess, an empty yoghurt carton, a plastic fork and an unopened orange juice clatter on to my tray. ‘Oh, Jeez! I am so, so sorry!’ blusters my neighbour, as she leans over me to scoop up the stray items. ‘I really, really am. Oh, Jeez!’

She’s in her mid-twenties, with olive skin and a short, funky haircut.

‘Oh, man!’ she mutters, as she attempts to lean into the gap between our fold-down trays to reach her spoon and nearly dislocates her shoulder.

‘Hey, I’ll get it,’ I tell her, folding up my tray. As I bend to pick up the spoon I catch a whiff of a heady combination of at least seven duty-free perfumes.

With the spoon safely ensconced in the stewardess’s trolley, my neighbour leans back in her seat and blows a stray hair out of her face. ‘Thank you.’ She smiles, rolling her eyes.

‘Not a problem.’ I chuckle.

‘This is my first time out of the US,’ she confides.

‘Really?’ I say, trying my best to look surprised.

‘I’m taking a year out to travel. Manchester’s my first stop – my dad has family there. Got a job lined up. You know the score.’ She shrugs.

‘Well, good for you,’ I say, meaning it. ‘I hope you love it, I really do.’

‘Thanks. Hey, I don’t suppose you know whether or not I need one of these, do you?’ she asks, brandishing an immigration form. ‘I took one earlier but haven’t got a clue if I’m supposed to fill it out.’

Chapter 77

When I walk through Arrivals at Manchester airport, I find myself scanning my surroundings for Jason. It’s been months since I last saw him, but I know he won’t have changed. My heart is galloping as I look around, desperate to locate his tall familiar frame, his dark hair and the smile that could win anyone over.

Only it’s difficult to see much through the sea of people – and as my eyes dart from person to person, I start to panic. Why the hell isn’t he here? He knew which terminal I was flying into, didn’t he? He hasn’t left me in the lurch again, surely! Oh, God, I’m not sure I could take it . . .

I rifle through my hand luggage for my phone but suddenly spot a hand waving through the crowd. A voice is calling my name. Someone is hurtling towards me.

Only it’s not Jason.

‘Zo-eeee! We’re here!’ Mum elbows her way through the crowds using the sort of guerrilla tactics she usually reserves for the January sales. ‘Zo-eeee! Over here!’ She flings her arms open and propels herself into me with the force of a prop forward. ‘My little girl! Oh, my little girl! Oh, I’ve
missed
you!’

Dad is hovering behind, his arms filled with her belongings, including what looks like a new bag, a dripping umbrella, her Whistles coat and his car keys. She’s put on a little weight since I last saw her, but all in all looks as polished as ever. ‘Hello, love,’ he says cheerily. He attempts to peck my cheek, but Mum gets there first again.

‘Ohhh!’ she hollers, squeezing me so hard that I’m concerned for my vital organs. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you!’

‘Sorry, but can you move along, please?’ interrupts a member of the airport staff, who doesn’t look sorry at all. ‘You’re blocking the access route here.’

Mum disengages herself from me – momentarily at least – then links my arm and shuffles me towards the car-park pay point. ‘We’ve got so much to organize, but you don’t need to worry about
anything.
I’ve made up your bed already so—’ She stops for a second. ‘Gordon! What
are
you doing? Carry Zoe’s bag, for goodness’ sake!’

‘Oh, no, it’s fine, honestly,’ I insist. The suitcase alone is enough to give Dad the backache of an overworked pack-horse.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Zoe,’ she says, thrusting it on to Dad, whose knees almost give way. ‘After that long flight you’re bound to be jet-logged.’

‘Lagged,’ corrects Dad, poking his head over Mum’s coat.

‘What?’

‘I was just saying you meant jet-lagged.’

‘Now,’ Mum grins, ignoring him, ‘things we need to organize. Well, we’ll discuss it in more detail when we get home. You’ll have a rest first. But you mustn’t worry because I’ve started to make a list.’

I’m in the back of Dad’s Vauxhall Vectra and halfway down the M62 before I can get a word in between Mum’s wittering. It’s so incessant you’d think she was being sponsored. ‘How did you know to come and pick me up?’ I ask.

‘Jason, of course,’ Mum says brightly. ‘He wanted to come himself but he had a meeting to go to. It was a very important one otherwise he would have been here. And, anyway, we didn’t have much on.’

As we trundle along the slow lane of the motorway, I wipe my sleeve across the condensation on the window and peer out. It’s hard to see anything because of the drizzle, but everything looks so cold and grey it’s like watching a fifty-year-old portable telly.

‘How are you feeling, Mum?’ I ask.

‘Hmm . . . Not bad, not bad at all now.’ She beams.

‘Good. So what was wrong with you that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?’

She pauses for a second. ‘Don’t you worry about that for now. We’ll have a chat later. Let’s just concentrate on one thing at a time, shall we?’

‘Fine.’

‘Now,’ says Mum, ‘I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I’ve left a message for Anita at the nursery today to ask if your old job’s still going. Of course, you might want to go for something a bit better now. All that experience you got in America must be worth something.’

Dad switches Radio 2 on as Terry Wogan introduces a Coldplay song. Mum switches it off again.

‘Jason’s coming round as soon as he can get away from work,’ she continues, turning round to grin at me. ‘D’you know? I’m
so
pleased you two have had a reconciliation. I knew you were made for each other.’

Something isn’t right about this. Something definitely isn’t right.

‘Is something the matter, love?’ asks Mum.

‘I don’t know,’ I mutter. ‘I suppose I’m just surprised at your reaction – about Jason, I mean.’

‘Whatever makes you say that?’ she gasps.

‘You thought he was the devil incarnate last week,’ I point out. ‘I was dreading telling you I’d arranged to meet him because . . . well, I thought you’d think I was doing the wrong thing. You know, after what happened with the wedding and everything.’

I catch a glimpse of Dad’s expression in the rear-view mirror. He isn’t saying anything. I can tell immediately that this is
exactly
what he thinks.

‘Oh, Zoe, we’d have to be pretty churlish to take that standpoint, wouldn’t we?’ Mum laughs, giving Dad a nudge. ‘I mean, perhaps if he hadn’t taken such drastic steps to prove he means it this time, I might be sceptical. But you can’t doubt his motives now.’

‘No,’ I mutter again, still distinctly uneasy.

‘Not now he’s booked the register office and everything.’

For a moment I wonder if I’ve heard her right. Whether she’s really just said what I think she has. But as I play it back in my mind – and become convinced that she has – I realize that a full fifteen seconds have passed without me taking a single breath.

‘And I have no doubt he’ll go through with it this time,’ she continues. ‘A nice small service. Just a handful of us. No big hoo-ha like last time. Yes, it’ll be fine. Lovely.’

I try to swallow but my throat seems to have closed. ‘What did he tell you exactly?’ I manage.

‘Oh, Zoe, for goodness’ sake.’ She tuts. ‘He had a proper heart-to-heart with us and told us
everything.
That you and he are back together. That you’ll get married at a register office – because it was that big old church and all those people that scared him off last time. Oh, and that it’s happening two weeks on Thursday.’

Suddenly I feel the last mouthful of in-flight hash brown rise up my oesophagus. ‘Right.’

‘Oh, sorry, sweetheart,’ Mum says. ‘He probably didn’t tell you he was going to let us into your secret, did he? Well, don’t worry, we’re not going to breathe a word. There’s only me and your dad who know. And he only told us because he knew we’d never believe he was sincere about you getting back together otherwise.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Everything all right, love?’ Dad asks.

‘Oh, Zoe,’ Mum interrupts, before I have a chance to answer. ‘Don’t look so taken aback. As I’ve said, it’s our little secret. Jason told us how important it was not to tell anyone – and we won’t. I haven’t even told Desy, for goodness’ sake.’

‘And that really is a first,’ adds Dad.

Chapter 78

Jason’s new apartment is on the fourteenth floor of one of the gleaming new developments that have sprung up on the banks of the river Mersey in recent years. An old-fashioned part of me has always loved the stretches of the waterfront that won it World Heritage status – the vast docklands and imposing neo-classical buildings that are a permanent reminder of its grander past.

But the glistening skyscrapers – like the one Jason lives in – have added a surprising new dimension to the city’s beauty and charisma. A boldness about the future that suits it more than anyone who grew up here could have imagined.

As the lift makes its way up to Jason’s apartment, my stomach is doing back-flips. I peer at my reflection in the mirror and feel a wave of relief. Okay, so after a long-haul flight and very little sleep my skin might not be glowing, but I’m slightly tanned and, more importantly, I’ve lost the weight I’d put on. My eyes have their shine back and my hair is satisfactorily glossy. For the first time in ages I feel good about the way I look, comfortable in my skin. I just hope Jason agrees.

As I knock on his door, my heart is beating so fast that if I were undergoing medical tests right now I’d have the same heartrate as a hamster.

A couple of seconds later, it opens.

And there he is.

The man I wanted so desperately to be my husband. The man I thought had rejected me but now wants me back. My lover. My friend. Jason.

‘How are you, sweetheart?’ He grins.

‘I – I’m fine,’ I breathe, my voice wobbling.

We stand in front of each other, neither of us knowing what to say. Finally Jason takes the initiative. ‘Come here,’ he says softly, leaning forward to hug me. But as I move to reciprocate, my sleeve catches in the door frame. Awkwardly, I tug it out and try again.

He wraps his arms round me and I attempt to submit to their reassuring familiarity. I wait to be overwhelmed by happiness and security, as I used to be. I close my eyes and squeeze him.

The first thing that runs through my head is how small his physique feels compared with Ryan’s. My frame isn’t used to slotting into it any more. We’re two pieces of a jigsaw that don’t quite fit. After a few seconds, I pull away and look into his eyes. ‘I’ve missed you,’ I tell him.

He kisses me. ‘Me too. Now, come on in and let me make you a coffee.’

At first the conversation is strangely stilted, even though there’s so much catching up to do. It’s as if the depth and intimacy of what we discussed over the phone while I was back in the States never happened.

‘So . . . there were no delays on your flight or anything?’ Jason asks, as we sit next to each other on the sofa, his arm draped awkwardly round my shoulders.

I feel like a fifteen-year-old in the back row at the cinema. ‘No, none at all,’ I reply.

‘Good.’ He nods. ‘That’s good.’

‘Mmm,’ I agree.

Oh, this is no good. After twenty minutes of small-talk, I’m getting agitated. And, surely, with good reason. Jason hasn’t yet mentioned that he has rearranged our wedding. For two weeks on Thursday.

‘Jason.’ I turn to him and look into his eyes. ‘My mum told me something when she picked me up. Something I thought you might have raised with me by now.’

‘Ah,’ he replies. I can tell he knows what I’m talking about. ‘Did she?’

‘She said you’ve rearranged the wedding. Is that right?’