We Are All Made of Stars (39 page)

Slowly, hesitantly, I push the door open and close it softly behind me. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark. A pink night light glows softly on a shelf, and I see him then, sprawled on his stomach on the bed. My heart lurches. His leg is propped up against the wall, and he's sleeping in a pair of white boxers. He is sleeping, deeply. His face is relaxed and calm. He looks so beautiful.

He takes up most of the single bed, but I strip off my damp leggings and wet top and climb in next to him, winding my arms around his chest, moulding myself to the curve of his back. He adjusts slightly, moving over to make room for me in his sleep. His arms shift to cover mine, securing them, and then he settles back into deep sleep.

For the longest time, I am tense and nervous. I am cold and cramped, waiting for him to wake up and push me away, but he doesn't. After a few minutes, I realise my neck is at a painful angle, my shoulder is pressed against something hard and uncomfortable, but I do not move; I dare not move. Instead, I just let the warmth and strength of Vincent's body seep into mine. And slowly my heartbeat steadies, my eyes grow heavy and dreams start to weave their way into my thoughts.

I am not sure if I sleep for moments, minutes or hours, but when he moves my eyes fly open. He turns in bed, his hand running sleepily, absently, down my flanks, and then his eyes blink open.

‘Stella?' His voice is dry, sparse. ‘Are you real?'

‘Yes,' I whisper. ‘I came to see you.'

He shifts a little, and as he starts to wake up, suddenly conscious of his hand on my hip, he withdraws it.

‘I want to say I'm sorry,' I tell him. ‘And I wanted to say that I was wrong. That I've failed you. Because all I've seen for last the year and a half are the problems, and all I've tried to do is fix things: fix you, make you better, be a nurse. But you don't need fixing. Not by me. You are perfect – more than perfect. You are remarkable and brave and fierce and honourable. And I am so proud of you and everything you have achieved. And I'm not sorry that you stayed alive for me; I'll never be sorry about that. I'm glad and grateful and relieved that you stayed alive for me. I'm sorry that I've seen only problems, and issues and injuries, since you came back. I'm sorry that I haven't seen you. Beautiful, beautiful you.'

Vincent doesn't speak for a moment. His solemn, silent eyes are watchful, searching. I let him think. I wait.

‘I went to see Kip's widow, Maeve,' he says. ‘Before I came here, I went to see her and I told her. I told her what happened. I read her this letter I've been trying to write.'

‘What did she say?' I take his hand in mine, looping my fingers through his, and he does not pull away.

‘She said if it had been him – if Kip hadn't done the same thing – she would have killed him anyway. She said I did the right thing. She said it would be OK.' He pauses, dropping his chin. ‘They've got this little girl, tiny little kid. She's so sweet, Stella, so full of joy – joy for life, even when her Dad is gone. I want to help her, help Maeve and Casey. Be part of their lives, if they'll let me. Maybe take the little girl out, sometimes. Make sure her mum gets back on her feet. I want do that.'

‘I think that's a very good idea,' I say.

‘After I spoke to her, I slept. I've been sleeping without dreaming. At least, without the bad dreams. And it's like … it's like all I had to do was to tell her what had happened for my brain to let me rest.'

I nod and wrap my arms around him, pulling our bodies close together and holding him.

‘We aren't those people, are we?' I say. ‘The girl that likes sitting and the squaddie that couldn't keep still. We aren't those people that met and fell in love any more. I get that now; I get what you've been trying to make me see.'

‘No, we're not,' Vincent agrees. His arms tighten around my waist; his finger trails down my spine.

‘I've been so sad, so heartbroken and lost. So alone and looking for answers that don't exist. Trying to fix things that I can't fix. I lost myself, Vincent, but I think … I think I am on my way back now. Except I know that whoever I am next, I will never be that girl you met one summer's morning any more.'

‘I know that, too,' Vincent says. ‘And, well, I won't ever be the same, either. I can't grow a leg back, can I? And I won't ever feel invincible again, or have this idea that I'm somehow superhuman; that I'm one sort of man when I'm not. The leg – well, yeah, I miss it, sometimes. But I can live without it. My sense of who I am, what I'm like – losing that, it nearly drove me mad, Stella. It nearly drove me into the ground. And now … now I need to find out who I am again. But I do know that I will never be the man you first met again. I might not have died out there, in the heat and dust, but he did.'

I nod, and in the half-light of a winter morning, we look at each other anew, like strangers who have never met, but who know each other as well as they know themselves.

‘I loved him, that Vincent. I loved how brash and crazy, and silly and funny and fun he was,' I say. ‘I loved him. And, the thing is, you might have changed, but that love, it hasn't. It has never wavered, not even for one second. Not even when you couldn't look at me; I still loved you. Not even when you made me so mad I wanted to punch you; I still loved you. And that's what it's about, isn't it? Love? Love's about making it last, making it stick, making it count – even when it hurts, when times are hard, when people change, when life changes them. If you love someone, then you have to want to love them, whoever they are … And if you don't, then that isn't love.'

Sitting up, I draw myself into a kneeling position on the bed.

‘I read your last letter,' I confess. ‘The one I was only supposed to see if you died.'

Vincent shifts uncomfortably, pulling himself up into a sitting position.

‘Do you remember what you wrote?'

He nods again, his gaze falling away from me and to the place where his leg used to be.

‘Whatever happens, however we have changed, the man that survived, the man that I ran across London to see, he's the man that I love. And we can. We can still have our happy ending – if we are ready to fight for it. It might be a different ending, but I know that I am ready to fight for you. But … if I've changed more than you can stand, then I will understand. And I will love you, and leave you, and wish you well.'

A thin strand of grey light filters in through the white curtain, casting shadows on Vincent's face – the bump in his nose, the dimple in his chin, thrown into relief, his lashes lowered still. I thought that in this moment I would feel stricken with grief, anguished, nervous, terrified that he will say no, that he cannot love me any more, but I don't. I feel peaceful and strong. And I know that whatever he says, I will survive it, because somehow during the months and weeks that I lost myself, I found something else: a will to be alive, to inhabit every moment with my life, in every way that I can. Whatever Vincent says next, I know I will be OK. Heartbroken, maybe, but OK.

‘I don't think I have a choice,' he says at last.

I nod. ‘I understand.'

Carefully, I start to rise, but he catches my wrist.

‘I don't think I have a choice but to love you, Stella. To love you with all of our changes and with all of my heart. And, anyway, whatever else happens, you still have the same eyes, like two sunrises greeting me every morning. I'll fight alongside you, if you'll have me.'

Reaching out, I touch his scarred cheek, run my fingertips over the shiny, textured skin and down his chest, along his thigh to where it ends abruptly.

‘Well, I already did my romantic speech,' I say, with a small smile. ‘I haven't got anything left to say, but yes.'

Vincent leans forward, his strong arms encircling me, pulling me astride his lap. We kiss each other fiercely, hungrily. He drags off my vest top, and I tug at his boxers, lifting myself a little to allow me to pull them down over his hips. Closing my eyes, I lower myself back onto him, and we are still, just for a heartbeat – his eyes looking into mine. And then slowly, slowly, I begin to move on top of him, losing myself in his kisses, in the complete connection between us. Our momentum builds until I cry out and fall against him, feeling him shudder against my chest. After a while, I move beside him; he lets himself sink down in the bed, and I rest my head on his chest, his arm around me. With my eyes closed, and the rarest sensation of contentment spreading through me, it takes me a little while to realise that the gentle warmth that caresses my back is sunshine. Twisting around a little, I look out of the window and see a bright blue sky.

Dear Vincent,

You're probably wondering why you've received a letter in the post addressed to you in your wife's handwriting, aren't you? Because right now I am sitting across the breakfast table from you. But don't ask me; don't say anything. Just keep reading.

While I was working at Marie Francis, I wrote a lot of letters for other people – letters that marked the most important moments of their lives. I learned that what people say has a thousand times more meaning when it's written down. On the page, the words become immortal, beautiful, personal, heartfelt and special. They are words that will always be there, to be read again and again, and again. A letter is a memory that will never be lost, will never fade, or be forgotten. And long after we are gone, perhaps one day, a long time from now, our children, or our children's children, will read these words, and they will be there too, in this moment with us, for ever.

We've come such a long way in the last few weeks, fighting side by side. And there is still a long road ahead. One, I hope, that will take us the rest of our lives to travel.

But it won't just be you and me any more, Vincent. Because just before I sat down to write this letter, I found out that we are expecting a baby.

You are going to be a father.

Now before you cry, or throw this letter down and reach across the table and kiss me and tell me how much you love me, just read the final sentence, please.

We are winning, Vincent. We are winning.

All my love, always,

Stella

This book was one of those books that would not share its secrets with me until it was almost finished, which made me a little bit crazy. So I have a lot of people to thank for their patience and support during the writing process.

Firstly, thank you to Gillian Green, my wonderful, supportive and brilliant editor who helped me figure it out, and to all the amazing team at Ebury, especially Emily Yau, Amelia Harvell and Louise Jones, and that fantastic sales team. What a wonderful home for my book to have.

Huge thanks always to my agent, Lizzy Kremer, who keeps me going with many pep talks and refusals of letting me give up being a writer to get a ‘real job'. I couldn't do it without you, Lizzy. And thanks to the brilliant Harriet Moore, Laura West, Alice Howe and all the team at David Higham Associates.

To my amazing, dear, writer friends: Julie Cohen, Cally Taylor, Kate Harrison, Katy Regan, Miranda Dickinson, Tamsyn Murray, Amanda Jennings, Lucy Robinson, Lucy Dillon, Cesca Major – thank you for writing your books, for being part of the group that is always cheering each other on, for being funny, kind and inspirational.

Thank you so much to my oldest friends in the world. I might not see you very often, but somehow I always know you are there: Jenny Matthews, Cathy Carter, Sarah Darby, Rosie Mahony, Margie Harris, Kirstie Robertson, Catherine Ashley.

A special thank you to nurse Rachel Dixon for helping me out with some insight into a difficult and crucial job. Thank you to the Hospice of St Francis for inviting me to see just a little of the incredible, life-affirming work you do. The hospice in this book is entirely fictional, as are all the patients and staff, but the love and infinite care is inspired by this real place.

Finally, but most importantly, thank you to my family. Thank you to my Mum, and to my lovely husband Adam, and my brilliant, wonderful, funny, exhausting, incredible, delightful children. And to Blossom my dog, who arrived in my life soon after I started writing this book, and has been asking to be let in and out of my office ever since.

With love, Rowan
April 2015

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Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781448175130

www.randomhouse.co.uk

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