I watch now with the benevolent patience my decision, my untethering from this life, affords. As the son, my boyfriend, walks out through the gate, and takes a shorter path up through these hills. Occasionally obscured by trees, he presses on until he’s too large for the scene, stepping out of it, into life. He advances.
‘There you are,’ he says when he gets to me. ‘Hiding out?’
I squint up at his face. He holds up an open bottle of champagne with a roguish grin.
‘Pinched some provisions!’
He crouches, then stretches out, until he’s lying awkwardly beside me. He sets the bottle down on the grass. His shirtsleeves and collar scrunch out from under his gilet. I think I hear the faint resonance of the band warming up, blending bittersweet into the chirping and rustling soundscape of this place.
‘Look. About that puppy business, before –’ He stops. I watch him roll on to his back.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says up to the sky, ‘about all this. You know, your – our brush with cancer.’ He stage-whispers the word. Imbues it with a perverse, buzzing electricity. ‘Coming so close to – well, death. It’s given me perspective. A reminder. Of what’s important, what truly matters.
‘Life, it’s…’ He smiles, and familiar lines crinkle from the corners of his eyes.
‘We’ve got to seize it!’
I can’t see London from here. Nothing scrapes or pierces the soft blue sky. And he’s better for it. Something about the city, its construction, the industry, the bustling globalization – erodes him. He turns to me, his eyes wide, and searching. He touches his hand to my arm.
‘My parents think you’re great.’ He smiles. We lie in silence, for a moment.
‘Fuck it,’ he says. ‘Let’s get married.’
He inches towards me, eyes soft-closed and lips squeezed into a kissy pout. He believes his words in this moment, I believe that. But his is the fleeting belief of a moment, and it will pass. As soon as new fancy strikes, the next adventure. I understand. It’s the impulse of a boy who himself understands, in his flesh and bones and blood and skin, that he was born to helm this great nation – upon which the sun has never set. Not yet. It’s bright, now. And the sky is impossibly blue. He’s himself again. Here. At home, and rendered in sharp contrast to me. But without this place, without that contrast –
What had you hoped to find here?
I should meet his kiss. Then we’ll clamber up, brush off, and walk back down to the house holding hands. Guests will be here soon, it’s almost time. Everything’s coming together. The champagne’s tilted over, its fizzy contents puddling on to dry soil and grass. His lips tremble with the strain of pursing; confident in the assumed yes, and yet, uncertain.
Suddenly, so uncertain.
Footnote
1. It is remarkable, even
in the ostensible privacy of my own thoughts
I feel
（still）
compelled
to restrict what I say.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my editor, Hermione Thompson, and my agent, Emma Paterson, for the insight, support and guidance. Along with Jean Garnett and Monica MacSwan, I couldn’t have hoped to work with a better team.
I am grateful to Spread The Word for selecting me for a 2019 London Writers Award. Thank you Bobby, Eva, Ruth and team for the opportunity.
Thanks also to Jackee and Elise Brown, Amina Begum, Harald Carlens, Maja Waite, Han Smith, Niroshini S., Adam Zmith, Salma Ibrahim, Taranjit Mander, Vanessa Dreme, Chloe Davies, Sarah Day, Francisca Monteiro, Lisa Baker, Laura Otal, Anna Hall, Jacinta Read, Katy Darby, Rose Tomaszewska and Sam Copeland.
And to my family – thank you for everything. This book would not have been possible without your support.