day seemed to evaporate. Taking Luke a coffee I pulled back the curtains, the sun shining brightly. I felt jealous of the people moving past in the street below, imagining their Sunday: a barbecue in the garden, a game of football in the park, reading under the shade of a tree.
Luke was up and itching to get outside and do something. He could be like a small child, so much energy. I watched him attempt to hide the disappointment when I told him I would have to work all day; the smile he forced, not wanting to destroy our recent fragile peace, as he reached for his phone and dialled one of his friends. Luke seemed to have a steady supply of friends and I was always impressed that he remembered their birthdays, important interviews and more. Last year we had so many wedding invitations we spent practically every weekend in a church, registry office or marquee. I listened to him laughing as he made a plan and stared wistfully out of the window at the sliver of blue sky I could see above the rooftops of the houses opposite.
‘I’m proud of you,’ he said, kissing me on the top of the head as I jabbed at the laptop, trying not to take out my frustration on him. Luke had always been impressed by my job, asking me in awe to show him the wig I wore in court, attending a trial to watch me in action from the public gallery. I had never been so nervous as that day, aware of him somewhere above me watching every hand gesture, inflection, fact that came from my lips, watching my manner with the jury. What had he thought?
‘I just couldn’t believe it was you,’ he had said afterwards, babbling in the café we had gone to, dissecting the case, wondering what the jury would do. His enthusiasm had reminded me that I did love what I did, I had worked for years to get myself there and found the thrill of debate, the formal atmosphere of the court, the drama that unfolded on a day-to-day basis exciting. It felt important.
But then on days like this, with Luke heading out of the door and the sun straining at the windows, and the pile of papers in front of me, the endless contradictory statements to work through, I suddenly felt it was the least important thing in the world.
‘Bye,’ I whispered sadly as he turned to go, not wanting to ruin his day, a small niggle at my ambitious plans to take on more work, to prove to everyone that I could make silk in record time. That was what I wanted . . . wasn’t it?
Darling Cora,
It was your birthday today. You would have been 78. Today was the day we finally laid you to rest in your beloved place: your garden. So after hours dithering over the perfect rose bush, returning to the garden centre with Geoffrey to get his opinion too, I knew the decision was made.
Lottie came over to join me. She wouldn’t have missed it for anything. It was a still day: as if you were there sitting beside us in the dappled sunshine, holding both our hands on the bench as we thought of you. Some days I feel a weight on my chest and know there is nothing I can do to ease it but today I felt lighter as we moved back inside the house, lighter as our friends appeared too, sharing in the celebration of your life, telling Lottie stories she had never heard: you were so special, my love.
I try not to be angry, try not to rail that we still had years ahead of us. I try to live like you did, here in the present with joy, but it can be hard. As I lie here now I am thinking of you and all the other birthdays we celebrated together. I hope I gave you the best life, the most jam-packed life. Did we have enough adventures? Did we laugh enough? Sometimes I want to go back in time and be more present, notice more. But I can do that now in honour of you. And I hope I can teach Lottie to do the same.
I love you, my darling.
Teddy x
Chapter 14
Love is like my dishwasher: comes with no guarantee
CYNTHIA, 79
A man in a balaclava stood at my door and for a second my life flashed before my eyes. Before I