I felt a surge of emotion, knowing that in recent weeks, months, I hadn’t invested the same time and energy into us as a couple as I had once done. I used to leave him notes, buy him little gifts for no reason, attempt new recipes with ingredients he loved, made thoughtful anniversary gifts, printed off photos of holidays together to frame on our walls. Now sometimes it was all I could do to get home, persuade him to order a late takeaway and fall asleep next to him. When had I stopped doing those things? When had I stopped investing energy in our relationship?
Grandad didn’t need me. I stood up, phone in my hand.
‘I’m going home,’ I said, knowing exactly where I wanted to be.
Grandad smiled and nodded at me. ‘Send him our love,’ he said.
I moved around the table, kissing him on the head. ‘Love you, Grandad,’ I whispered, seeing his eyes water again as I stood back to say goodbye to the rest.
I heard their laughter all the way through the house and out into the street.
I headed back home, knowing Luke would still be out with Adam in the pub, planning to spend some time cleaning and scrubbing our flat, making the place shine. I bought fresh flowers from the florist on the corner of the road, enjoying the scent, which brought the morning with Grandad back to me. A little piece of garden in our flat. When I pushed inside, however, I was greeted with a pristine place. Luke had beaten me to it. Every surface tidied, wiped down and polished; all the washing-up stacked up to dry on the side, the living room hoovered, a smell of beeswax wafting through the flat, the curtain billowing from a half-open window. His way of showing he had been thinking about me that day.
I arranged the flowers in the vase in the centre of the table and stared round at our spotless flat, realising how often I had taken this kind of gesture for granted. I couldn’t remember the last time I had looked under the sink for cleaning things, the last time I had unearthed the hoover from its cupboard. The sight filled me with fresh determination. I took down one of Luke’s favourite recipe books, searching for something truly mouth-watering to make.
Going out shopping I managed to find everything I needed, enjoying the sun warm on my skin as I made my way back to our flat, past the park opposite where people lay out on rugs, children cycled past, parents watched toddlers on unsteady legs. Everyone looked relaxed and happy in over-sized sunglasses, fading tans: squeezing the last drop out of summer.
An hour later I was finished, a satisfying smell filling the flat. I had texted Luke summoning him home and, as I heard the front door, felt a little skip in my chest at the thought of seeing him.
‘Lottie?’
‘Hold on,’ I called, pulling the warmed plates from the oven and spooning out the boeuf bourguignon I had made. It did look incredible, the meat succulent and tender, the sauce rich and thick.
‘What have I done to deserve all this?’ Luke laughed, taking in the rare sight of me in an apron that shouted Barbecue King, next to the laid table, wine glasses already full, the flowers in the centre, two candles lit and flickering either side.
‘How was today?’ he asked, pulling me to him, concern pulling his eyebrows together as he looked me in the eye.
I put my arms around him. He was warm, as if he was filled with sunshine, and he smelt of freshly cut grass and beer.
‘It was perfect,’ I said, resting my head against his chest for a moment.
‘So,’ Luke said, pulling back, ‘talk me through this feast, what have you made?’
With a flourish and a giggle I presented him with his plate, watching his eyes widen as he took in the sight.
We spent the evening eating, talking and working our way through a bottle of expensive red wine that someone had given us when we moved into the flat. I felt happy and loved as I closed my eyes that night, Luke already asleep beside me.
Lying in late the next day couldn’t be part of my plan. Moving through to the kitchen I caught sight of my briefcase and, as I nibbled half-heartedly on a croissant, all the calm and good thoughts from the previous day seemed to evaporate. Taking Luke a coffee I pulled back the curtains, the sun shining brightly. I felt jealous of the people moving past in the street below, imagining their Sunday: a barbecue in the garden, a game of football in the park, reading under the shade of a tree.
Luke was up and itching to get outside and do something. He could be like a small child, so much energy. I watched him attempt to hide the disappointment when I told him I would have to work all day; the smile he forced, not wanting to destroy our recent fragile peace, as he reached for his phone and dialled one of his friends. Luke seemed to have a steady supply of friends and I was always impressed that he remembered their birthdays, important interviews and more. Last year we had so many wedding invitations we spent practically every weekend in a church, registry office or marquee. I listened to him laughing as he made a plan and stared wistfully out of the window at the sliver of blue sky I could see above the rooftops of the houses opposite.
‘I’m proud of you,’ he said, kissing me on the top of the head as I jabbed at the laptop, trying not to take out my frustration on him. Luke had always been impressed by my job, asking me in awe to show him the wig I wore in court, attending a trial to watch me in action from the public gallery. I had never been so nervous as that day, aware of him somewhere above me watching every hand gesture, inflection, fact that came from my lips, watching my manner with the jury. What had he thought?
‘I just couldn’t believe it was you,’ he had said afterwards, babbling in the café we had gone to, dissecting the case, wondering what the jury would do. His enthusiasm had reminded me that I did love what I did, I had worked for years to get myself there and found the thrill of debate, the formal atmosphere of the court, the drama that unfolded on a day-to-day basis exciting. It felt important.
But then on days like this, with Luke heading out of the door and the sun straining at the windows, and the pile of papers in front of me, the endless contradictory statements to work through, I suddenly felt it was the least important thing in the world.
‘Bye,’ I whispered sadly as he turned to go, not wanting to ruin his day, a small niggle at my ambitious plans to take on more work, to prove to everyone that I could make silk in record time. That was what I wanted . . . wasn’t it?
Darling Cora,
It was your birthday today. You would have been 78. Today was the day we finally laid you to rest in your beloved place: your garden. So after hours dithering over the perfect rose bush, returning to the garden centre with Geoffrey to get his opinion too, I knew the decision was made.
Lottie came over to join me. She wouldn’t have missed it for anything. It was a still day: as if you were there sitting beside us in the dappled sunshine, holding both our hands on the bench as we thought of you. Some days I feel a weight on my chest and know there is nothing I can do to ease it but today I felt lighter as we moved back inside the house, lighter as our friends appeared too, sharing in the celebration of your life, telling Lottie stories she had never heard: you were so special, my love.
I try not to be angry, try not to rail that we still had years ahead of us. I try to live like you did, here in the present with joy, but it can be hard. As I lie here now I am thinking of you and all the other birthdays we celebrated together. I hope I gave you the best life, the most jam-packed life. Did we have enough adventures? Did we laugh enough? Sometimes I want to go back in time and be more present, notice more. But I can do that now in honour of you. And I hope I can teach Lottie to do the same.