Of course, there are exceptions.
‘I should check on Mum and Dad,’ I say to Theo when he returns with my drink.
I find them in the living room, in the midst of their friends. My parents are fit, healthy and active, but neither looks young for their age. Dad is head down and deep in conversation with some of his fellow stallholders from Masham market, his hair now entirely white and as wild as ever. Mum appears more polished with her make-up still intact and her neat light-brown bob clipped back at the sides. She’s been dyeing her hair for years, but the lines around her eyes and mouth betray her age. They seem to have expanded even in the few months since I’ve seen her.
She’s talking to Veronica, our closest neighbour and the mother of Becky, my old school friend.
‘Have you only just got back?’ she asks me with surprise.
I nod reluctantly and raise my glass to chink hers and Veronica’s before taking a sip.
Mum tried to convince me to put Emilie to sleep in their bedroom, but the thought of waking up a teething toddler in the dead of night and expecting her to transfer to her cot after a twenty-minute taxi ride… She would have kept us awake for hours.
We could have stayed here, but… nice solitary Airbnb vs full house… No contest. It seemed worth sacrificing the return journey time for the peace and quiet.
‘Never mind, you’re here now.’ Mum pats me on my arm.
She doesn’t do ‘I told you so’, Supermum that she is.
I’m not even being sarcastic.
‘I hear you’re moving to Australia?’ Veronica chips in as my father excuses himself from his friends and comes over.
‘That’s the plan,’ I reply with a smile at Dad as he throws his arm around my shoulder.
‘As long as neither of them gets a criminal record before their visa application is sent off,’ Dad teases, repeating Theo’s joke from earlier.
He gives me a kiss on my temple, the smell of whisky on his breath. The weight of his arm is familiar and comforting.
Oddly, I miss him, even though he’s standing right next to me. Is this what anticipatory homesickness feels like?
‘How’s Becky?’ I ask Veronica, feeling bad that I don’t already know the answer.
‘She’s really well,’ Veronica replies warmly as Dad lets me go again. I shoot him a smile, hoping he doesn’t stray far. ‘Did you know she’s expecting?’
‘No!’ I feel a pang at my ignorance. ‘When’s the baby due?’
‘Late August, so he or she will either be the youngest in their year, or the oldest if they don’t grace us with their presence until September. Becky doesn’t mind either way; she’s just glad it’s not Christmas.’
‘I bet,’ I say with a laugh.
Becky’s own birthday is overshadowed by Christmas. Emilie was also born in December, but she was an accident, so her date of arrival was down to the luck of the gods. I have no idea if Becky and her husband were trying for a baby or not.
‘She was so sorry she couldn’t be here,’ Veronica continues. ‘She would have loved to have caught up with you. She and Robin are in Canada at his sister’s wedding. I have a horrible feeling Becky’s going to like it there so much that she’ll also decide to emigrate.’
‘Oh, no, she won’t,’ Mum says dismissively, trying to reassure her old friend.
Her reaction makes me feel guilty: my parents are gutted that we’re moving abroad.
‘I would have loved to catch up with her too,’ I say, and it’s true. Once, my high school bestie and I were inseparable, but now an entire year can go by without us exchanging a word. It’s not that we meant to grow apart, we just did.
‘She and Robin sent a lovely card.’ Mum nods at the crammed side table.
‘Jamie read them out earlier,’ Veronica adds.
‘You missed the telegrams!’ Mum realises with dismay.
I stare at her and she has the grace to look awkward.
So, not only did Jamie read out all the messages sent by those who couldn’t make it – something that surely should have been my responsibility – but I wasn’t here. Did anyone even notice my absence?
‘There was one from George,’ she adds, and my jealousy is immediately scrubbed out by another emotion I couldn’t even begin to describe.
‘George Thompson?’ I ask with barely contained disbelief.
Mum nods, blissfully ignorant of what this news is doing to me.
In a daze, I walk over to the side table and pick up card after card until his handwriting leaps out at me, immediately recognisable with its small neat letters and left-handed slant.
Dear Carrie and Ivan,
I saw the article in the paper and felt compelled to write. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get in touch, but I wanted to say thank you for all that you did for me. I’ve thought about you often over the years. I’m doing okay and hope you are too. You look well in the picture.
Wishing you both a very happy birthday and a (hopefully) relaxing retirement.
George Thompson
His handwriting has hardly changed in almost thirteen years, yet he sounds completely alien.
Suddenly I see him clearly inside my mind: long legs, high cheekbones, chestnut curls, dark eyes…
Every hair on my body stands on its end.
George saw the article?
The local rag ran a piece about my parents and it was picked up by one of the nationals. But where did he see it, the local or the national newspaper? Somewhere online? Where is he?
I turn the card over, searching for a return address and finding nothing.
‘Hey.’
The sound of Theo’s voice causes me to spin around. He looks at the card and then at me, with my rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expression.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he says flatly. ‘Jamie read it out earlier.’
‘I heard.’ My hand is shaking as I return the card to the side table.
‘Thought he was gone for good.’ His tone is quiet, uneasy.
‘I thought so too.’ I swallow hard and turn back to him.
‘Theo Whittington!’
We both start as Alfred, an elderly farmer from the surrounding area, interrupts from a nearby huddle. The old man hobbles over to say hello, unaware that we’re having a ‘moment’.
‘Now then! How are you, lad? I swear you look more like your father every time I see you.’
‘Hello there,’ Theo replies amiably, somehow managing to sound cheerful.
I step closer to his side and take his cool hand in mine as Alfred persists in making small talk.
If there’s one thing Theo hates, it’s being compared to his father.
He squeezes my hand, hard.
* * *
Later, in the taxi, I take the middle seat because I want to be close to my husband.
He climbs into the car beside me and buckles up, slipping his arm around my waist as we leave the party lights behind us.
He’s on edge until we pass by the imposing stone gateposts and gatehouse of his former home, but once that obstacle has been cleared, he relaxes and pulls me close.
‘You look so beautiful tonight,’ he murmurs in my ear. ‘I like this dress on you.’
It’s black with long sleeves and a hemline that skims my knees.