‘What happened today?’ George asks me with confusion.
‘It was Emilie’s first day at nursery.’
‘Oh! How did it go?’
I nod. ‘She had a great time. I was a bit of a mess, though.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says tenderly as he turns towards me. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Please, George, don’t worry about me. This is momentous.’ I nod at his phone.
‘Yeah. I can’t believe it.’
‘Wait, do you have access to her Facebook page?’ I think to ask.
He nods.
‘Can I see her?’
He unlocks his phone. It’s still open to the Facebook app. He clicks on Sophie’s icon and passes the phone over, craning his neck to look over my shoulder.
Tears unexpectedly prick my eyes. ‘She looks like you.’
She has long wavy brown hair, maybe a shade or two lighter than her brother’s, and brown eyes, with a strong nose and an oval-shaped face. Her smile is what really makes her stand out, though – she’s smiling in every photo, all white teeth and beaming. She’s with friends in most of the shots, but there’s one with her adoptive parents, I presume, a man and woman in their late forties or early fifties perhaps. The man is ruddy-faced with brown-grey hair and deep laughter lines spanning from the corners of his eyes. The woman has dark hair and a warm smile. They’re at a restaurant, from the looks of it, and in front of the three of them, on the table, is a birthday cake with a large lit Number 18 candle. It must’ve been taken last year.
I turn to George and press a kiss on his shoulder. ‘I’m so happy for you,’ I whisper as Mum comes back into the room with two filled champagne flutes.
‘Will you have a glass too, George?’ she says. ‘Don’t make Leah and me drink it all. You’ve seen us tipsy.’
‘Yeah, I have,’ he replies with a grin. ‘I’ll stick with bitter.’
I whack his arm and pass Mum his phone. ‘Have a look, Mum, she’s beautiful.’
Mum takes the phone and sits down on the other side of George, scrolling through the photos.
As George smiles and nods and agrees with Mum’s spoken-aloud thoughts, it occurs to me that he must’ve driven straight here after discovering Sophie had replied. We were the ones he came to, the ones he wanted to share this with. It should make me feel happy, but I know only too well how fragile bonds can be. If I’m not careful, I’ll find myself hanging on by a fine thread when they snap.
Chapter 29 Now
A little over a week later, shortly after Emilie finishes nursery on Friday afternoon, George drives us down to Devon.
Mum offered to have her granddaughter for the weekend, but I thought Emilie would enjoy the mini break. It’s been a long time since I’ve taken her to the seaside.
‘Annie’s gone to visit her sister and family so we’ll have the house to ourselves,’ George reveals an hour into our journey.
Why didn’t he tell me this earlier?! I’ve been stressing all week about it. I’m not ready to meet his still-too-recent-ex, let alone stay with her in the home they shared together.
‘How many bedrooms is the cottage?’
‘Only two,’ he replies. ‘So yeah, that wouldn’t have worked.’
‘I hope she didn’t mind.’
‘No, she offered. She said she’d make up the spare room for you too, but we’d better check that she has before we carry Emilie in.’
I’m hoping Emilie will stay asleep. It’s a six-hour journey, but we plan to break it up with dinner and coffee breaks along the way so it’ll be late by the time we arrive.
It’s eleven when we finally roll into the tiny village of Torcross on the south coast of Devon. It’s dark, so I can’t see much outside the window, but when George returns to tell me that the cottage is unlocked and our room is indeed ready, I climb out of the car to the sound of waves crashing against the shore.
I realise as I cross the road with my sleeping daughter in my arms, that the sea is right there, and a few moments later, as we walk down an alleyway between a cottage and a restaurant, it becomes clear that George’s fisherman’s dwelling sits practically on the beach.
We climb up three steps to reach a patio, and then he has to duck his head to enter through the front door. Inside, the space is so small that it makes George seem even taller than usual. He’s switched on a table lamp so I can see where I’m going without the room being flooded with light. He leads us up the stairs and opens a door to the right of the landing. The spare room is neat and tidy with a double bed taking up a large chunk of the space. George has already turned down the covers so I’m able to slip Emilie straight into bed. She stirs but continues to doze. I changed her into her pyjamas and brushed her teeth at our last motorway stop.
Back downstairs, George has switched on the lights properly and now I can see signs of a woman’s touch everywhere. In the throws over the cream-coloured sofas, on the floral-patterned cushions, in the pastel artwork hanging on the walls…
‘It wasn’t this girly when I lived here,’ George tells me, as though reading my mind. ‘I’m a man of minimal tastes.’
‘A man of many molluscs,’ I tease.
He cuffs me over top of my head, his lips pursed.
‘Drink? Brew?’ he offers when I’ve finished laughing.
‘Just water, I think.’
The kitchen is simple and clean, albeit tiny, with white cupboards, a wooden countertop and a table by the window. The fridge is plastered with magnets and photographs. I wander over to study them, feeling uneasy at the sight of a very pretty twenty-something with flyaway light-blond hair and blue eyes in several of the pictures. There are other people too – men and women and a couple of young children who may be Annie’s niece and nephew, but I’m hazarding a guess that the blonde is Annie.
Then I see a picture of her with George, both of them sitting outside in the sunshine. It’s a selfie, which he’s taken from the looks of the angle. I don’t know why this makes it so much more painful to see. They’re both smiling and they seem carefree, joyful.
Even though George hasn’t lived with her for several months, Annie still has a picture of him on her fridge.
Is this a woman who wants him back? Is she keeping his bed warm for him until he ties up his loose ends and comes to his senses?
‘Here you go.’ George jarringly interrupts my thoughts as he passes me a glass of water.
I have a feeling he’s been standing there, watching me.
‘Do you still love her?’ I blurt out the question before remembering that he asked me the same thing about Theo.
He frowns and shakes his head. ‘We broke up ages ago.’
‘Then why does she still have a photo of you on her fridge? You look so happy together.’
He shrugs. ‘We still like each other. Just not in that way.’
Tonight he’s sleeping in the bed they shared. I detest the thought.
‘When I told you that I still loved Theo…’
He cuts me off. ‘It was a stupid question. Of course you still love him. I’m sorry I asked.’
We call it a night soon afterwards – George is exhausted after the long drive and tomorrow will be a big day – but I lie in bed for ages next to Emilie, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how my heart will withstand another fracture.