As I hang up, I can’t help feeling disappointed. Is that what life is – missing out in your twenties because you have no money, then missing out in your forties because you have no time?
Ringing Mr Finkley’s doorbell, I call into the intercom, ‘Hello, it’s Lucy Young, um, I mean Rutherford.’ He buzzes me in and I walk up the stairs to the top landing where I find him dressed in a bathrobe, holding his rusty metal watering can.
‘Morning, Mr Finkley. My son, Felix, wanted to invite you to his birthday party on Saturday,’ I tell him, handing over the invitation. ‘It’s in Surrey, and it’s not really a party, just the four of us, grandparents, and a couple of school friends. I know you only met him once, so you don’t need to feel obligated—’
‘Yes,’ he says, and he looks genuinely thrilled as he opens the hand-drawn envelope. Felix has covered the invitation in drawings of monstrous plants all wearing party hats.
‘Oh, okay, great,’ I say, trying to hide my surprise. ‘Felix mentioned you don’t like the train, so I can drive you if you like?’
He nods, his eyes brimming with emotion as he reads the invitation.
‘So, I’ll pick you up around midday, shall I?’ He doesn’t answer, and I wonder if he’s heard me. ‘Mr Finkley?’
‘Leonard. My name is Leonard.’ He looks up at me and I feel ashamed; ashamed of my first reaction to Felix wanting to invite this man to tea, ashamed that I lived below him for two and a half years, and I never even knew his name.
Walking back towards the tube, I try to console myself that a kids’ party in the garden with my eccentric old neighbour, will be just as much fun as a girls’ weekend in Mykonos. Okay, so it won’t, who am I kidding, but Felix will be thrilled that Mr Finkley can come, that’s the important thing. Looking up at two birds circling each other in the clear blue sky, I find myself wondering what the opposite of bird might be.
That evening, as I sit in bed with a book, glancing up at my perfectly plastered ceiling, I reflect how quickly it is possible to adapt to the strangest situations. How can I now be okay with being forty-two, when two weeks ago I could barely catch my breath? Is it because I’m a tiny bit obsessed with my new husband and I’m allowing the experience of falling for him to distract me from the horror of missing all those years? Or am I simply too busy to invest time in the existential crisis I should be having?
‘What are you thinking about?’ Sam asks, his voice heavy with sleep. He reaches across and presses a thumb to my forehead. ‘You get a line right here when you’re deep in contemplation.’
‘Nothing,’ I say softly. It’s too much to explain.
Of all the things I have had to adapt to, being loved by this man has been the easiest to accept. I like being his wife, I like sharing a bed with him, knotting hands after sex and knowing I don’t have to worry about whether he’ll still be there in the morning. And even though objectively, I should be less confident in this world-worn shell, the fact that Sam adores every stretch mark, every wrinkle, liberates me from a trap I didn’t realise I was caught in.
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, the doctor called me,’ Sam says. ‘They want you to go in for another follow-up.’
‘I don’t see the point,’ I say, leaning over to kiss him.
‘Of course there’s a point,’ Sam says, pulling back from me. ‘There might be a new treatment, more tests they can do.’
My body tenses. ‘You want your old wife back.’
‘I want you to get better,’ he says.
‘I thought you loved me, just as I am.’
‘I’ll love you whatever happens, for better or for worse, but—’ He lets out a moan of frustration. ‘I don’t understand what I’ve said that’s wrong.’
For better or for worse. Am I the worse?
‘Sorry, I just feel a bit, I don’t know – jealous.’
‘Jealous?’
‘Yes. To me, this, us, it feels like a brand-new relationship, and in contrast to all the upsetting parts of this weird situation, it feels great, you’re great. Whereas you – you’re eleven years in, you’re already in love with someone I don’t even know, who I don’t know if I’ll ever be again. How do I know you’re not just settling for this lesser version?’
‘You’re not lesser.’ He looks thoughtful for a moment, sitting up in bed. ‘Just different in some ways. Honestly, Lucy, even if the memories aren’t there, every day you seem a little more like your old self.’
I pinch my mouth closed to stop myself from crying. I thought things were fine, I don’t know where this emotion is coming from.
‘You can’t be jealous of yourself,’ Sam insists.
‘I can. I can be jealous of the version of me that got to live eleven years with you, that got to meet you for the first time across a crowded karaoke bar, that got to date you and fall in love with you, not knowing how it would end. The person who got to marry you, who got to see your face when I gave birth to our first child, who got to hold your hand when we lost our second.’ And now I’m sobbing and he’s holding me tight. ‘Because I missed it all, Sam, I missed my life, I missed us.’
‘You didn’t miss it,’ he says, talking into my hair as he holds my shaking body.
‘And that’s just the stuff I know I missed. There are probably hundreds of life-changing moments I’ll never even know about.’ There’s a pause, then Sam lets go of me. He gets out of bed, then reaches a hand to pull me up after him.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask, confused.
‘Come, I want to show you something.’
In the hall, Sam grabs a torch, then hands me one of his thick knitted jumpers to throw on over my pyjamas.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask again. But he just slips on some huge, green wellies, then pulls some yellow ones from the hall cupboard for me. The cosy feel of Sam’s jumper and the sense of an impending adventure have already taken the edge off my melancholy mood. Wordlessly, I follow him out of the back door into the garden, where the moon is bright and luminous in the sky, and the air has a distinct chill.
‘Is this the part where you show me all the bodies you’ve buried?’ I ask playfully.
Sam lets out a ‘ha,’ so I keep talking. ‘Imagine if there were these husband-and-wife serial killers, and one of them got amnesia so their partner had to take them into the basement and be all, “Hey, honey, you know you forgot about liking Sudoku, well you also forgot about us killing eight people.” ’
Sam doesn’t laugh like I expected him to, only reaches for my hand and guides me further down the garden path. We stop at a small tree at the end of the garden, planted in a raised bed. He shines the torch onto a carved wooden plaque that reads, Chloe Zoya Rutherford. Daughter, sister, and granddaughter. So little, yet so loved. Then the date of her birth and death, just two weeks between them.
‘Oh, shit,’ I say, slapping a hand over my mouth. Sam turns to face me, but I can’t see his expression in the dark. ‘I am so sorry, I’m an idiot, there’s me blathering on about you showing me where the bodies are buried, and you’re taking me to see . . . oh fuck.’