This Book Made Me Think of You(42)

Twenty-Seven




May 2018, Tilly’s promotion

As she handles the cork, she gets a waft of the lingering smell of prosecco and a memory of Joe coming home from work with a bottle and an enormous bunch of peonies after she’d called to tell him Sade had promoted her from editorial assistant to junior editor. They’d been planning on eating leftovers for dinner that night, but he insisted on cooking her favorite meal instead: steak with dauphinoise potatoes followed by homemade apple pie.

“I knew you could do it,” he’d told her, holding her tightly. “Ever since the first time I met you and you tried to persuade me to buy half the bookshop when I’d only stepped in there to get out of the rain. I knew then that if anyone could see how much you cared about what you do, then you were bound to go far. I’m so proud of you.”

She lifts another cork from the jar.

December 2015, our first Christmas

They spent it just the two of them, mostly in bed, venturing out to graze on the mountains of treats they’d acquired from M&S, Joe insisting that the holidays were about doing exactly what they wanted, which, it turned out, was mostly each other.

November 2016, Connecticut, Tilly met parents

October 2015, Joe’s first visit to Hay-on-Wye

The corks document their whole life together, every single celebration. She holds the final cork tightly in her hand. April 2021, Moved into 21 Albert Mews.



* * *



—

“We’re home!”

The movers have just set down the final box and shut the door behind them, and Joe is standing with his hands triumphantly on his hips as if he has not only just moved into their flat but built it with his bare hands.

“How do you sound so chirpy?” says Tilly. “My clothes are fused to my body with sweat. I can’t feel my arms. And please don’t say it’s my own fault for owning so many books.”

“Well…”

“I edited them! I took that box to the charity shop last week.”

“Mouse, I saw three different editions of The Catcher in the Rye.”

“Hey, that book is tiny. Three copies basically equates to one regular book. And you’re no better. No one needs three coffeepots! Or five boxes of Christmas decorations. At least I have a system for my books. Don’t pretend I didn’t see you chucking your toiletries in a box with all the kitchen stuff. That makes no sense.”

“I got bored, packing is boring.”

“So is unpacking.” She lets out a groan. “Look at all this stuff.”

The boxes are piled almost to the ceiling. The bedroom downstairs is just as bad, their bed lying in pieces yet to be assembled and the floor space taken up with yet more boxes, cases, and the bin bags Joe has shoved all his clothes into because he forgot to order enough boxes.

“It’ll be fine!” Joe replies, giving her shoulders a squeeze and kissing the top of her head. “And I’ll get rid of one of the coffeepots if you really like. But I draw the line there—you gotta have a spare for when people come over. To our place. We’re homeowners, Tilly. Man, that makes me feel like such a grown-up.”

“Me too,” Tilly says with a little laugh.

“I’ll go get us some food. You stay here.”

With Joe gone she contemplates starting unpacking but instead lies on the mattress in the bedroom, not even bothering with a sheet, and falls immediately asleep.

A little later she wakes to the smell of mozzarella and basil and the sound of music playing upstairs. She finds Joe on the balcony, where he has constructed a makeshift table out of a cardboard box, a bottle of wine and two pizza boxes in the center. The sun is just beginning to set, and for the first time Tilly takes in the view out over the London rooftops and up toward Primrose Hill. Their own patch of London sky. And there silhouetted against it is Joe, gray hoodie rolled up to his elbows, barefoot and looking already completely at home.

“I hope pizza is OK,” he says, looking up at her with a hopeful expression. “I thought it would be best given I can’t find the cutlery anywhere. Oh, I can’t forget the last important ingredient of our first meal in our new home.” He pulls a bottle out from behind a chair. “Champagne!”

The cork goes flying across the balcony, but Joe bends to retrieve it, slipping it in his pocket. As he pours it into plastic cups, Tilly kisses him on the cheek, his jawline rough with his five-o’clock shadow.

“This is perfect, thank you. I’m sorry for getting grumpy. I was just tired and hangry.”

“I know,” Joe says as they settle around their makeshift dining table. He threads his fingers through hers, squeezing reassuringly. His eyes meet hers, and she knows from the way he looked at her that he does know, not just how she’s been feeling but her. He knows her and he loves her even when she is tired, sweaty, and grumpy, dressed in tracksuit bottoms and an Aimee Rain tour sweatshirt she got free from work.

With the streaked London sky behind them and Joe’s thumb gently stroking the palm of her hand, Tilly thinks to herself, We’re going to be happy here.

“And I don’t care about the mess. Home is wherever you are.”



* * *



—

Just like that the tornado subsides, leaving behind silence and a trail of Joe’s things. What would she have done if she’d known back then everything that was to come? The engagement, his mother’s reaction, the fights the two of them had in the months that followed…