shift next to me, his arm encircling me. ‘We walked to the train station and sat in the seat opposite the door where I first saw you. I gave you a blackcurrant throat sweet because that’s what I had in my mouth.’
‘We went to the florist’s, but I didn’t hit you with the door that time.’
The memory is filled with calm, and I feel the light surrounding it, forcing away some of the red-hot vacuum. I picture us walking hand in hand as he led me towards his old address: I’d been wearing a blue-flowered summer dress and he had put his cap on my head backwards because the back of my neck was burning in the midday sun. ‘You sat me on the front doorstep of your first house . . .’ I lean my head against his shoulder, ‘because that’s where you’d sat after our first date when you’d got locked out. But it wasn’t raining like that day so you squirted water at me from a water bottle.’
‘And I took you to the old stone wall by the bus stop because that was where we had our first proper row and that was the moment that I knew I was in love with you but I didn’t have chance to tell you because you’d stormed off, jumped on the bus and left me on there.’
‘I cried all the way home. I stayed on the bus . . . did the whole round trip but you’d gone when I got back to the wall.’
‘I never knew that.’ He kisses me gently on the lips. ‘Let me help, Jen. Let me help.’
‘I don’t know how you can. It was my fault, Ed . . . it was my fault that she died.’
‘Oh, Jen . . . listen to me. What happened was an accident. A horrible, cruel accident. You are not to blame for Kerry’s death.’ He pulls away from me and grips me by the shoulders. ‘Are you listening to me, Jen?’ My head wobbles as he shakes me gently. ‘Kerry’s death is not your fault.’
He pulls me back into his chest and kisses me on the head. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
But it was.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ed
Is this what they call an existential crisis? I’m sure that’s what this is. I close the toilet seat and tap ‘existential crisis’ into the search bar of my phone as Oscar brushes his teeth.
People can suffer from an existential crisis for a number of reas—
‘Is that two minutes?’ Oscar interrupts.
‘No, buddy . . . another, um, forty seconds.’
—ons: guilt over losing a loved one . . .
Ha! Jackpot!
Right. I type in ‘how to fix an existential crisis’ as Oscar spits. I’ll have this sorted in no time . . . I’ve already diagnosed the problem; I’ll have Jen back to her old self by the end of the week.
There is no quick fix to an existential crisis, but there are a number of things you can do to help. 1. Identify your triggers.
‘What’s an egg, eggsiss—’ Oscar leans over and peers at the screen.
I close the tab and stand. ‘Right, what story do you want?’
I distract my son and guide him into his bedroom, ignoring the sounds of Jen crying from behind the bedroom door. I can fix this.
I lean in and kiss Oscar’s forehead, closing the door quietly behind me.
‘Daddy?’ Hailey’s voice calls out. I glance at my watch.
‘Hey, poppet, what’s up?’ I smooth down the unicorn’s face on her duvet and pinch the end of her nose.
‘I can hear Mummy crying.’ I turn my head towards the door where Jen’s soft sobs can still be heard. ‘Is she alright? Is she cross that I drank proper Coke?’
I smile. ‘No, no . . . we haven’t done anything wrong. Remember how I said that Mummy’s heart is a bit broken?’
She nods, her blonde hair bouncing with the action. I tuck it behind her ears and follow the outline of her birthmark with my finger.
‘Well, sometimes, to fix it, you need to cry. Just like you did when Chester the hamster died. Do you remember?’
She rubs her eyes, red-rimmed from the chlorine in the swimming pool and the pull of sleep.
‘Shall we make her some flapjacks tomorrow?’ Her mouth opens wide as she yawns through her words. ‘Mummy made me flapjacks when Chester died and then I was OK.’
Hailey’s eyes close.
‘Sure. Get some sleep now though, OK?’
‘Night, Daddy. Love you millions.’
‘Love you zillions.’
I sit at the end of the bed and watch Jen