He is admirable. I can’t argue. Why would I even think of doing so? I have started joking that while people like me—they might even think I’m especially lovely, in fact—when they meet him, they like him more and they realize I’m actually the dull half of the couple! I make this joke with a smile in my voice, to show it doesn’t bother me. Because what kind of woman would I be if I was bothered that people like my husband inordinate amounts? I am not overlooked. If anything, people notice me more now that I am his, and that I have the boys. He is used to being center stage. A wife dying so young begs attention, as does being a really excellent single dad. Mark smiles a lot; he likes being liked. I mean, who doesn’t? He doesn’t have to work at it. Even when he stops smiling, say to have a conversation with the Year 1 teacher about the kid who bit Oli, he’s still adorable. I’m so lucky he chose me.
“It’s great that the weather hasn’t spoiled a thing!” says Fiona.
“I know, right.” I shake my head.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
She knows me too well. “Okay, this is crazy, but you know how my mother gets under my skin?”
“What’s she said now?”
“Nothing. Well, nothing new. It’s just that when I saw the weather this morning I did have a moment when I couldn’t help but wonder, if there was a God was there a chance he was a bit miffed with me, feeling the brunt of my snub?”
“Because you didn’t marry in a church?” I can hear the amusement in Fiona’s voice. It helps. Her laughing at me exposes my silly superstition for what it is. Fear.
I allow myself to smile. “I guess he’s not that annoyed anyway. He hasn’t sent a plague and pestilence, just gray skies and a bit of early-morning drizzle.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty low-grade for a slighted Almighty. Maybe it’s Frances showing her displeasure,” Fiona teases, poking me playfully in the ribs. “She’s up in heaven, looking down at you and she’s pretty pissed off that you’ve moved in on her hubby and kids and her home quite so swiftly.” Fiona, who does not have a religious belief in her head, laughs as she says this. She squeezes my shoulder affectionately, to show me she’s teasing and means no harm at all.
I shiver. It is chilly and my floaty, flimsy dress was designed and picked for a brighter day.
“Look, you’re shivering! She just walked over your grave.” Fiona howls at her own joke. I love Fiona, but we’re not very alike. I’m all careful and good. Or at least I try to be. She’s wild and fun and often makes bad choices. It’s part of the reason I love her. It’s unreasonable of me to feel uncomfortable. A moment ago, Fiona’s irreverence was comforting. It’s not her fault she always takes things too far and she’s just stepped over to tactless, tasteless. Fiona only ever sees the joke, the joy. She clocks the anxiety in my face and softens. “Seriously, Leigh, chill. The poor weather is a bit of a shame, but we live in England, crap weather is an odds-on favorite, not a surprise or a punishment.” I nod, bury my nose in my flowers. I want the clean, rich smell of the roses to overwhelm me. “You do know that if there was such a thing as an afterlife—which there isn’t—” Fiona rolls her eyes, dismissively “—but if there was, and if Frances were looking down, surely she’d be really pleased that her sons have found a new mum to love them.”
“I’m not trying to replace her.” This is something I’ve said a hundred times in the months since I met and fell in love with Mark.
“I know you aren’t, but you will, because the boys will love you and they will forget her. They are only young. It’s for the best.”
“How are you so sure?” I mean about the boys retaining memories of their mother—or otherwise—but Fiona misunderstands me.
“That there is no afterlife? Well, it’s a fairy tale, isn’t it? It makes no sense. I mean, what happens when you and Mark die if Frances is already up there holding a seat for him? Are you going to have a cozy little threesome? I don’t think a ménage à trois is your style.”
She is right, of course; none of the stories about the afterlife make sense. Nor does it make sense that God would punish me for deciding to marry in a garden to save the boys’ feelings. If he is a vengeful God, he has murderers, terrorists and pedophiles to pursue. And from what I can gather—watching the news, reading online—those people often go unpunished.
“Hey, Leigh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. Look, this is the best day of your life. You have the family you have always wanted, the family you thought you’d never have.”
She’s right. There is nothing to worry about. Everything is going to be okay from now on. I have a family. It’s a miracle. I stop even flirting with the idea of there being a God. Or lucky people and unlucky people trapped by fate and predestiny. I decide to make my own way from now on.
Mark is talking to a group of friends. He’s laughing along with whatever it is they are saying, but I sense that while chatting with them, he’s also hunting me out. Checking I’m okay, that I’m not alone, that my mother hasn’t upset me, that the wedding logistics haven’t overwhelmed me. Things I’ve admitted to worrying about on the run-up to the wedding. We catch one another’s gaze; he smiles at me. It’s a warm, honest, open smile that completes me. I smile back, he blows me a kiss. I pretend to catch it. We both laugh. Then we each look about us again. Eyes scanning like a beam from a lighthouse. We simultaneously spot the boys, sitting under the cupcake table, faces smeared with cream and delight. We are all having a perfect day. We’re going to make our way as a family and it’s going to be lovely.
6
Mark
Thursday 19th March 2020
“Where’s Mum?”
“Don’t know.”
Seb stares at his father, his dissatisfaction with that answer radiating. “Why hasn’t she rung this week?”
“She’s probably been too busy.” It’s a low move. A dig at his wife that pinches at the child, but Mark is furious with her, so he doesn’t care.
“She’s normally home by now,” Seb points out. He sounds churlish and concerned. It’s clear he doesn’t know which way to go. “I need her to check my French homework.”
“I’ll have a look at it.”
Seb looks unimpressed. They are both aware that Mark knows little about conjugating irregular verbs, probably less than Seb himself and Seb is in the bottom set for languages. “You’re all right,” he mutters and then slowly makes his way out of the kitchen. He hasn’t finished his breakfast, but Mark can’t be bothered to shout at him, insist that he should return to the table. He hasn’t got much fight in him, or at least what he has he’s keeping to vent on Leigh.
Oli does not ask where his mother is, but he keeps glancing at the kitchen clock. It’s twenty-five past eight. Both boys need to be getting to school. They are going to be late. Normally Leigh is back just before eight, sometimes if the tubes play up, she bounds through the door at five past. The sleeper train gets in at 7:07 a.m. Leigh is always off the train the moment in arrives into Euston. Keen to get back home and see the boys before they go to school, even if it’s only for a few minutes. She always calls if the train is running late. Always. She’s a stickler for planning and time-tabling. She’s forever telling them that her success as a management consultant comes from the fact she is in control of her time, doesn’t allow a dead moment, maximizes all the time she has, etc., etc. They often tease her about her slightly uncompromising approach but they all reluctantly accept that the structure she places on their lives is largely helpful.