‘That’s what he said. But maybe you could get your mind out of the gutter for a minute? I can see what’s going on in there and it’s not pretty.’
She holds her hands up in defence, and replies: ‘I’m just saying. Bernie described them as an unhappy couple. Joe … well, he was never more than a mate to me, but Joe wasn’t exactly hit by the ugly stick, was he?’
‘Definitely not,’ adds Michael, earning himself a scowl from me.
‘That doesn’t mean anything. And anyway … so what? It’s not like I expect him to have lived like a born-again virgin ever since 2003. I know I haven’t. It changes nothing.’
Both of them look shocked at that statement, and I may have been exaggerating – I’ve not exactly been setting Tinder alight, it has to be said. But they don’t need to know that, and anyway – we don’t know what happened with Joe and Geraldine, if anything, and we certainly have no right to judge.
I have no idea how I’ll feel if I find out that he’s now married, or with someone else. Loath as I am to admit it out loud, I probably have constructed some kind of fantasy around all of this – built myself a fictitious future happy ending.
Another woman would definitely get in the way of that happy ending, but I can’t allow that to derail me right now.
‘Really?’ probes Michael, his eyes wide, leaning forward in deep interest. ‘You? And … men?’
‘For goodness’ sake, Michael, I am a human being! Of course there’ve been other men …’
Something in my outraged tone sets off Belinda’s very well-tuned bullshit detectors, and she points a finger at me.
‘How many men?’ she asks. ‘Precisely?’
I try to maintain my outrage, but it suddenly all strikes me as funny – getting my almost non-existent love life dissected by these two. They didn’t even know each other a week back and now they’re ganging up on me.
‘OK,’ I reply, grinning. ‘One man. It was a few years ago. I … I decided I needed to try it. To be with someone else. So I used a fake name, and I contacted a man online, and I met him in a Travelodge off the M62. We booked into a room and we had sex. And then I left.’
‘Wow,’ says Michael, shaking his head. ‘That sounds almost unbearably sensual.’
‘Well it wasn’t. It was shit. But … I had to do it. I had to see if it was the same with other people as it’d been with him. With Joe. And it wasn’t. It was awkward and uncomfortable and embarrassing, and I’ve never been tempted to do it since.’
‘What fake name did you use?’ Belinda asks, randomly. Boy, her detectors really are well-tuned. I feel myself redden slightly, and force myself to meet her enquiring gaze.
‘Belinda. Belinda 666, to be accurate.’
‘I knew it! I just somehow knew it!’
Luckily she seems to be seeing the funny side, and all three of us are laughing into our Guinness by the time Sean returns, hovering uncertainly beside us until I gesture for him to please sit down.
He nods at the others, and holds up a sheet of paper.
‘This is all I had. We bought the pub from a Geraldine and Adrian Doyle – there’s a phone number on there, but it’s anyone’s guess as to whether it still works or not. They listed their address as here, which doesn’t help much. I also called my mother, and she said there were definitely some … how did she put it? Extramarital shenanigans. The husband, she doesn’t know much more about – but she did recall that the wife and child moved to Cornwall not long after. Probably not much help, I’m afraid.’
I take the paper he offers, and thank him sincerely. He blushes again, and adds: ‘No worries. I’ve put my number on there as well. In case, you know, you stay around and need a local guide.’
He tells us he has to get back to work, and as he leaves, Michael leans across the table and whispers: ‘By “local guide”, he means big Irish shag – you do know that, don’t you?’
I throw a beer mat at him, and stare at the info Sean’s jotted down. It’s not a lot, and it doesn’t really give us anything more than we already had. I’ve seen that photo – I’ve seen Joe. I know that he helped restore this lovely old building I’m sitting in, and I know he moved to Cornwall.
But Cornwall is a big place, and I have no clue what to do next. It all feels huge and overwhelming.
‘I’m going out for a fag,’ I say, gathering my backpack.
‘You don’t smoke,’ points out Michael, helpfully.
‘It’s code for I need a minute alone,’ I respond, walking away and heading for the door.
I find a spot near the edge of the hill, and sit in the sunshine looking down at the glittering sea, trying to come up with a plan. The landscape is beautiful but gives me no answers. The thought of just heading for a new part of the country and starting all over again is daunting, and feels insurmountable.
I grab my bag, and its precious cargo. I pull out an envelope marked ‘Read Me When You Feel Like Giving Up’, and gently prise it open.
Do you remember that time the nurses in the hospital tried to help you with all the baby stuff? The breastfeeding, and the bathing, and the changing? They tried to be kind, but I could see on your face that you were terrified. You had no clue what you were doing, and nobody seemed able to help. When we came home with her, it was even more scary – I saw the tears you tried to hide, the frustration, the way you felt like a failure every time she cried or wouldn’t latch on.
But I also remember coming home from work one day, when she was a few months old, and finding you both asleep on the sofa. She was crashed out on your shoulder, and you both looked so peaceful. So content. It’s something I’ll always treasure, that image – I’ve carried it with me ever since. She was fed, and happy, and you were finally relaxed and confident. You were finally starting to believe that you could be a mother. All the things you’d struggled with at the beginning were second nature. All the challenges that threatened to break you had been overcome. You were a mum, and you were great at it.
You didn’t get from being a frightened girl to being a momma bear by accident, Jess. You got there with hard work, and patience, and determination. You kept at it – you never gave up, never gave in. Don’t forget what you’re capable of.
I fold the note away, and close my eyes, and feel the sun on my skin and hear the insects buzzing and the seagulls screeching. I remember those early days, how hard they were, but how joyous I was.
He’s right – it was so hard. But so very worth it.
I clamber back to my feet, brush warm grass from my jeans, and go back inside.
‘So,’ I say, as they look up from their pints. ‘Anyone for Cornwall?’
Chapter 20
Cornwall feels like half a world away, and we are all grumpy and tired by the time we complete a mammoth journey of ferries and packed motorways and terrible food at fume-ridden service stations.
It also, when we arrive, feels like it’s full – every single family with school-age children has come here on holiday.
I’ve never been to this part of the world before, and I can see why it’s full. It’s picture-perfect, apart from the hordes of people.