‘I’m nineteen, and I know marriages are give and take – any good Disney film tells you that much,’ she smiled.
‘Perhaps,’ he answered her smile. ‘I bet you’re a good mum, aren’t you, Ava?’ His tone had softened, his bravado falling away. ‘I remember you playing happy families with your dolls.’
‘And do you remember Gail stabbing them all with a kitchen knife?’ It had scarred Ava for months – perhaps longer. ‘She was never maternal even then.’
‘Yeah, I remember.’ He shook his head. ‘She was pretty feisty at times.’
‘I can think of better words to describe her.’ Ava looked down at the palms of her hands, remembering. ‘I only wanted to play with her – be part of her world. But she rarely let me. Always blamed me for Dad leaving.’ Tears burned behind her eyes. ‘Anyway, enough about the past,’ she said in a rush. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure I’m going back.’
‘You’re staying in Cornwall? Here? With us?’ She couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice.
‘Yeah, for a bit anyway.’
‘What do you do? For a job, I mean? My wages won’t stretch to another person, Peter, and you know Mum hasn’t worked since Willow was born.’
Jeannette had been in a high-powered position in forensics before Ava was born, but when their father left, she never returned to it. Instead she took a part-time job in a factory office, working alone most of the time – which she said she preferred – and rarely socialised out of work. When Willow was born she insisted it was Ava’s turn to work – that she’d done her bit for this family. She would stay home and look after the baby. Ava had tried to argue, wanting desperately to be with Willow. But her mother was firm. ‘You work, or you leave.’
‘Well, I’ve been doing a bit of plumbing,’ Peter said. ‘A bloke over in Australia took me on as an apprentice. I’m pretty good, so once I get a bit of freelance work, it’ll take the pressure off you a bit.’ He broke off for a moment before saying, ‘So you’re going to be Gail’s bridesmaid?’
‘Mmm, only because Rory wants Willow to be their flower girl – apparently he loves kids. Not sure he’s twigged Gail doesn’t,’ she laughed.
‘So where is Willow?’
‘Upstairs asleep … in fact, I’d better check on her.’ She rose, studying her brother once more. As her eyes met his, another memory invaded. She could see herself huddled against the kitchen wall, gripping her knees, and Peter is yelling, his body shaking, his eyes bloodshot, face streaming with tears. ‘I hate you. I hate this house. I’m leaving,’ he spat. ‘And I’m never coming back.’
Now
‘Hi beautiful,’ Aaron calls from the lounge as I lumber through the front door, and dump my briefcase, laptop, and the gift I received onto the table at the foot of the stairs. ‘Bet you’re glad that’s over until September.’
I am, although I know I will be in and out of school working throughout the holiday. I take off my shoes, and slip my feet into my slippers – sighing with relief as I pad through to the kitchen.
Aaron appears from the lounge, and kisses my cheek before sitting down in front of his open laptop.
‘You OK?’ he says, smiling, and I think, as I always do, how handsome he is, never fully shaking the feeling he’s out of my league.
We met a year ago. I was out with friends when he walked into the bar in his pilot’s uniform. Confident, tall, dark-haired – perfect. Us girls were giddy on wine that night, and gave a collective swoon, followed by a flurry of laughter. He looked over and smiled. But it was me he focused on – staring for a long moment. And it was me he chatted to later, when I pushed my way to the bar to order more drinks.
‘Fancy escaping?’ he said, and I looked over at my friends who were now up on the dance floor, giggling – happy.
‘I can’t,’ I said, although I desperately wanted to, despite not knowing him. ‘It’s a friend’s hen night.’
‘Another time?’ he suggested.
We exchanged numbers. A week later he called. He was landing in Luton again.
‘So, tell me about yourself,’ he said, when we met up at a bar on Old Stevenage High Street, and sipped wine.
‘Well, I’m a teacher. I have a thirteen-year-old daughter.’ I took a gulp of wine. It seemed funny to sum up my identity with two short sentences. But that was my life. Still is. Although now I’m with a man I love – who loves me back.
I went on to tell him about Willow, and waffled on about how wonderful Eleanor was. How I loved my dad more than the world.
‘I’m a tiny bit OCD,’ I continued after another sip of wine, straightening some beermats into a neat row for effect, and he laughed. ‘I’m kind to animals, and hate surprises.’ It was nerves causing my inability to shut up. Nerves because somehow, in less than an hour, I knew I was falling for him.
‘I’ll keep that in mind when I want to send you surprise roses,’ he said. ‘Or want to whisk you off to Paris.’
I laughed. ‘Well, there are exceptions to every rule.’ I felt myself blushing, my stomach tipping. ‘So tell me about you,’ I said, and drained my glass.
‘Well, I’ve travelled a lot,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived in Paris, Stockholm, Naples, Sydney, New York – the list goes on and on.’ He paused and with a smile added, ‘I’m presently living in Luton.’
I laughed at the contrast, as he got to his feet and took my glass. ‘Let me get you another one of those,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it when you hear more of my life story.’
Once back at the table, he told me how his father died when he was young. That he was close with his mum. That he hadn’t had any serious relationships ‘because of my job’. That his favourite film was, and still is It’s a Wonderful Life. ‘Oh, and I can’t get enough of Frank Sinatra, and enjoy a bit of classical if the mood is right,’ he concluded.
Now he closes down his laptop, rises and takes me in his arms.
‘I’m glad I got to see you before you take off again,’ I say, laying my head against his chest.
‘Me too.’ He lifts my chin and kisses me tenderly, before releasing his grip. ‘This is so bloody hard,’ he says, not for the first time.
‘Well, I knew what I was getting into when I met you. I don’t know what your excuse is.’ I laugh, and he laughs too.
‘I just wish … well … you know what I wish.’
I head for the kettle. ‘Coffee?’ I ask, picking it up and filling it, but when I glance over my shoulder he’s shoving his laptop into his bag.
‘I haven’t got time,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
My heart sinks. ‘You’re going already?’ It’s a daft question. I know his schedule. Planes don’t fly themselves.
‘Sorry,’ he says, putting on his jacket. He’s always sorry. ‘I’ll call you when I get there, like always,’ he continues, approaching, and his lips brush against mine once more. ‘I hope all goes well with Willow.’
He moves towards the door, grabbing the handle of his pull-along case.
‘I’ll give her your love, shall I?’