out and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. ‘That’s understandable. You’ve been waiting for today for so long.’ There’s a pause. ‘You never know, your parents might turn up,’ he adds carefully.
I shake my head, grateful that he thinks my longed-for reconciliation with my parents is the reason for my momentary wobble. It’s not the main reason but they’re definitely part of it. They moved to Norfolk six months after Josh was born because, my father told me, I’d made them ashamed in front of their church and their friends and they could no longer hold up their heads in the community. When I asked if I could visit, he told me to come on my own. I didn’t go; it was bad enough that they wouldn’t accept Adam but their rejection of Josh was too much.
I wrote to them again when Marnie was born, to tell them they had a second grandchild, a granddaughter. To my surprise, my father replied that they would like to see her. I wrote to ask when the four of us could visit and was told that the invitation only extended to me and Marnie – he was willing, my father said, to see Marnie because she had been born in wedlock. Again, I didn’t go.
Ever since, I’ve tried to maintain contact with them, sending them cards for their birthdays and Christmas, despite never getting any from them, and inviting them to every family celebration. But they never acknowledge the invitations, let alone turn up. And I don’t suppose tonight will be any different.
‘They won’t come,’ I say miserably. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m forty years old. It’s time I let go.’
Adam turns his head towards the window. ‘Have you seen the weather?’ he asks, knowing that I need a change of subject.
‘I know, I can’t believe it.’ I lie back on the pillows, another worry gnawing away at me. ‘I think I might have gone over the top with my dress.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s long, down to the floor. And cream.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I’m worried it might look too much like a wedding dress.’
‘Does it have lots of frills and stuff?’
‘No.’
‘And do you intend wearing a veil?’
I burst out laughing. ‘No!’
‘Then,’ he says, raising his arm and tucking me into the space underneath, ‘it’s just a cream dress that happens to be long.’
I look up at him. ‘How do you always manage to make me feel better about myself?’
‘Just making up for all those years when I didn’t,’ he says lightly.
I find his hand and link my fingers through his. ‘Don’t. You married me, didn’t you? You didn’t walk away.’
‘No – but I did spend a lot of the first two years in Bristol with Nelson, instead of with you and Josh.’
‘Until Marnie arrived, and gave you a reason to stay home.’
He lets go of my hand, and recognising the closed look on his face, I want to take the words back. He’s spent the last twenty years trying to make up for those early days, both to me and to Josh. But it still affects him.
‘I got a lovely text from her,’ I say, because talking about Marnie always lightens his mood. ‘She said she might not be able to phone today. She wants to be able to revise for her exams without being distracted so she’s taken herself off for the weekend, to somewhere without wi-fi.’
‘How did we make such a sensible child?’ he jokes, his good humour back.
‘I have no idea.’
I give him a weak smile and, thinking I’m nervous about my party, he gives me a kiss.
‘Relax. Everything’s going to be fine. What time is Kirin picking you up?’
‘Not until eleven.’
‘Then you can rest a bit longer.’ He gets up from the bed. ‘Have your coffee while I shower, and when you come down, I’ll make you breakfast.’
9 A.M. – 10 A.M.
I push at the canvas of the marquee with my shoulder and it gives slightly before bouncing back. I push at it again, harder this time, and manage to get the door of my shed open just enough to get inside.
I love my shed, with its earthy smell of the sawdust that powders the floor. Several large blocks of wood – oak, pine and walnut – sit at different levels under the front wall, where the window looks onto the garden. A twenty-foot workbench runs the length of the back wall, dotted at various intervals with clamps and power tools. Two open shelves hold the smaller tools I use. In the far corner, there’s a TV and DVD player and two old armchairs. Nelson and I come here sometimes to watch sport or a black-and-white film. He brings beers for the fridge and admits that he’s hiding from Kirin and the kids.
It’s the other end of the shed that I’m here for. I’ve been keeping a box there since Marnie came up with her idea to surprise Livia. It’s a metre-long wooden crate that held a large piece of black walnut and I need to move it into the garden and hide it under the table as soon as Liv leaves.
I drag the box to the doorway. And that’s when I realise the marquee is too close to the door for it to pass through.
‘Damn!’
I look at taking the box apart and putting it back together in the garden, but each of the sides is nailed down tightly. I sit down in one of the armchairs, wondering where the hell I’m going to find another box big enough for Marnie to hide inside. The smell of wood and varnish calms my mind and I prop my feet up on the workbench and let my mind wander. I never intended being a carpenter. Ever since my dad took me to see the Clifton Suspension Bridge when I was seven years old, all I wanted was to build bridges, so when I was offered a place at Edinburgh to study Civil Engineering, I couldn’t wait to go. Josh’s arrival changed everything – at least, that was how I saw it at the time.
I’m not making excuses for how I behaved back then but it was hard seeing Nelson and my other friends having a great time at university when I had to do an apprenticeship I wasn’t interested in. I don’t know how Mr Wentworth, the only person who would take me on, or Liv, put up with me. I’d disappear to see Nelson in Bristol, leaving her alone with Josh, sometimes not coming back for days. I’d crash in his room and sneak into his lectures with him, then stay up drinking, living the student life I so badly wanted. It’s why I can understand Liv craving this party. When you’ve been robbed of something you wanted more than anything, it never really goes away.
My ledger is lying open on the table and I pull myself up from the armchair and flip through the pages. I automatically log my orders on my computer but I also keep a written record, something Mr Wentworth insisted we did. I’ve kept all of his ledgers. He loved the idea that one day someone would read about the different pieces he made; the wood he used, the approximate number of hours it took, the amount he charged. He died five years ago and although I hadn’t worked with him for more than ten years, I still miss him.
Most of the wood in my shed has already been commissioned – the biggest piece, a beautiful block of burnished oak, will eventually be a table for a rich banker in Knightsbridge – but the black walnut, my favourite, is reserved for Marnie. I’m going to make a sculpture for her twentieth birthday in July.
I had zero expectations before she was born. Josh’s arrival three years earlier had been so bewildering that I still hadn’t adapted to being a dad. But the minute I laid eyes on Marnie, I was besotted. If Josh’s arrival brought out the worst in me, Marnie’s brought out the best. She taught me how to be a father, simply by being.
When she got older, we became close