‘Look, I haven’t got time to get into something. I really have to go,’ Margot said, almost braining herself on the collection of handbags hanging from the hook on her bedroom door, such was her haste to leave the room.
‘So, there is something wrong?’ Will called after her, flinging back the duvet, but he reached the hall just in time to hear the slam of the front door behind Margot.
Rather than being authentic and deep and intimate (all things that normally Will shied away from) had he crossed a line last night that he shouldn’t have? He was the one that brought barriers and boundaries with him wherever he went, never really appreciating that other people put up walls too.
He sleepwalked through the morning deliveries, got a parking ticket because he didn’t see a ‘no loading’ sign and had no appetite for lunch. The shop was quiet, so he wandered round the corner to the mews, where Rowan had a huge team prepping for a midweek wedding in a back garden the size of a field in Highbury. The whole affair was going to ‘look like a fairy grotto by the time we’re done,’ Rowan promised grimly, as she expertly strung together vertical garlands of soft lilac and delicate pink flowers, which would form a flowerwall for the guests’ own photos.
‘Can I help?’ Will asked. ‘Nothing too tricky, though.’
‘I was going to ask you arrange the bride’s bouquet.’ Rowan shook her head at the very thought of it. ‘Actually, can you assume scary banker mode and tell the bride’s mother to stop putting sides of salmon in the fridge where she said I could put the table centrepieces? Then tell the bride’s youngest brother that wearing a white rose buttonhole isn’t going to turn him gay.’
‘I don’t mind dealing with a fractious mother of the bride, but I’ll ask if she’ll have a word with her homophobic, flower-hating son,’ Will said. After he’d made a very diplomatic call to the mother of the bride, he drew up a stool and lent a hand with conditioning the buckets and buckets of flowers, so they’d reach perfection on the day of the wedding and not a moment sooner. There was something soothing about the repetitive motion of cutting stems on hundreds of white roses then handing them to the next person in line who carefully placed them in buckets of nutrient-enriched water.
‘I know that you’re far too highfalutin to have spent an afternoon conditioning wedding flowers, but thank you,’ Rowan said hours later when they were locking up for the night. ‘Bit of a waste of your fancy business degrees.’
‘Never hurts to mix with the proletariat,’ Will muttered, but he felt too heavy-hearted for a spot of light banter. ‘You fancy a quick drink?’
He wasn’t one for confiding in his family. He’d come back and slotted into a slightly uncomfortable role as the trouble-shooting prodigal son. There to be leant on, to sort out problems, to provide a buffer, but he and Rowan had always had a different relationship. They’d never lost the closeness they’d had as children.
Maybe it was the only happy legacy of their childhood. Six years ago, after Rowan had had the twins and was struggling with post-natal depression, she’d call Will in the small hours – early evening in New York – when she was doing the night feeds. They worked their way through a complete re-watch of The West Wing together, but sometimes Rowan had just wanted to talk, to whisper her deepest fears down a transatlantic phoneline. That cycles of abuse tended to be repeated and what if it turned out that she was a terrible mother?
Rowan wasn’t and never would be a terrible mother. She’d also married a man who was the polar opposite of their father. He might be so laidback that he was in permanent danger of falling over, but Alex had been rock-like during that difficult year. Will had been there too, because he and Rowan understood each other in a way that only came from sharing a parent like Peter Hamilton. More than anyone, Rowan would understand what Will was going through now. She was the one who’d insisted that he start therapy when he’d come back to London, half-broken.
But now Rowan shrugged helplessly. ‘I would love to, but I promised I’d be home in time for dinner, then to do bath time and stories. They hardly see me on the weekends at the moment.’
‘Of course.’ Will watched as she bolted and locked the studio doors. ‘We should catch up properly. When wedding season isn’t too weddingy.’
‘I’ll book you in for some time in October,’ Rowan said, putting the keys in her bag. She glanced at Will, then glanced again. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ Will said with a determination that made Rowan frown.
‘You say fine in exactly the same way that mum says fine when things are absolutely not fine,’ she said folding her arms and leaning back against the door. ‘I can give you five minutes of prime quality time. What’s up?’
‘Nothing . . .’
‘I can and will smack you . . .’
‘OK, OK.’ Will held his hands up to show that he was defenceless. ‘When you started seeing Alex, how long before you knew that you . . . That he was . . .’
‘That I loved him? That I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him?’ Rowan supplied. ‘Is this about Margot?’
‘She wants a family. She’s always been very upfront about that, even before this . . . this . . . It was meant to be very casual between us, Ro, but is it fair to her when she wants someone who’s going to be in it for the long haul?’
‘Wow. This is a lot to pack into five minutes of quality time,’ Rowan said with a sigh, but her expression was thoughtful. ‘So, you definitely don’t see things working out with Margot, especially not having a family?’
This was a very strange, intense conversation to be having outside some lock-ups. ‘It’s not the “with Margot” part that’s the problem. Margot would be a great mother, a bit helicoptery, but only because she cares. She’s conscientious. She wants everyone to be living their best lives,’ Will said, because that’s what she’d wanted for Blossom, and no one could say that Blossom wasn’t living her best life. Apart from Blossom herself, who’d say that there should be a lot more sausages and belly rubs on tap.
Rowan hmmed in agreement. ‘So, million-dollar question, how do you feel about having children of your own?’
‘Do you remember after you had the twins and you said that there were many ways to fuck up when you have kids?’ Will traced a half circle with his foot. ‘Would having kids be the thing that makes me turn into Peter? Or would I realise that I’m not able to commit to being a father? That, just like he told me, I’m useless. That I’ll never amount to anything.’
‘You are as far from useless as it’s possible to get,’ Rowan said hotly, because she was Will’s sister and contractually obliged to say that. ‘Look, why don’t you come back with me and have some dinner?’ she suggested just as Will’s phone, which had been silent all afternoon, because absolutely no one needed him, chimed three times in quick succession.
It was Sage.
Where are you?
You were meant to be coming round for dinner half an hour ago. Mum said that she told you this morning.
There’s an emergency. Get your arse here immediately.
‘Actually, can we take a rain check?’ he asked Rowan. ‘Sage is having some kind of existential crisis and my presence is required.’