Twenty-eight

The door of Gerald’s room is ajar when Vanessa arrives at the hospice. She peers round it, afraid of what she might find. He’s lying on the bed, his eyes closed. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but his feet are bare. They’re pale and bony, and she wants to cradle them, wrap them in the blanket in case they’re cold.

She pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits down. ‘Gerald,’ she whispers. He doesn’t stir. She watches the rise and fall of his chest; his breathing is steady and regular. His face looks relaxed and free of the tension the pain generates. She leans forward and touches his lips with hers. They taste of strawberries – he’s been putting on the lip gel she bought for him. For some reason it makes her want to cry.

His hands are folded over his chest. She covers them with her hand. Their touch always comes as a surprise, no longer like a sculptor’s, rough and worn, the nails chipped, but smooth and soft.

She runs her fingertips along his arm. He used to be able to make the muscles of his forearm contract, so that it was rock hard. ‘Gerald,’ she calls again, but still there’s no movement. This is what it will be like one day: she’ll call, and there’ll be no answer. But then it will be forever.

The door behind her opens, and she glances over her shoulder. It’s the nurse from last night.

‘Not still asleep,’ she says in a loud voice. She goes to the other side of the bed and pats Gerald’s cheek gently. ‘He’s been lethargic today,’ she says. ‘We had a job to get him to have his shower.’

‘He phoned me earlier. He seemed okay.’

‘I’ve been off for a few weeks and I don’t know everyone yet. Are you Vanessa?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was upset first thing, when you didn’t answer your mobile.’

‘Oh.’

‘Come on, Gerald.’ The nurse moves his pillows. ‘He gets very down if he sleeps for too long in the day.’

‘Does he?’ Vanessa says. ‘I usually visit in the evenings, and I’ve been surprised how positive he’s been.’

‘They often put on a brave face for visitors. Come on, Gerald.’

Gerald’s eyelids flicker, and his eyes open. He looks up at the nurse. ‘Have there been any calls?’ he asks, his voice thick with sleep.

The nurse nods towards Vanessa. ‘Better than that. She’s here.’

Gerald turns his head on the pillow. ‘Nessa!’ He catches hold of her hand and lifts it to his lips.

Vanessa feels the moist warmth of his breath on her palm.

‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come.’ He pushes himself into a sitting position and twists his legs round. ‘Help me off this blasted bed!’ he demands of the nurse.

She hooks her arm through his. ‘You see how he’s come to life, now you’re here,’ she says to Vanessa. She helps Gerald slide off the bed.

He runs his hand over his face. ‘I need to freshen up. Give me two minutes, Nessa.’ He moves towards the bathroom, leaning on the end of the bed as he goes. He shuts the bathroom door.

‘I’ll leave you lovebirds alone.’ The nurse winks at Vanessa. ‘Call me if he needs anything.’

Vanessa sits down and waits. The French window is slightly open, and the net curtain quivers in the draught. She looks over at the armchair, where Gerald usually sits. The high bed looms in between. She feels ridiculous on this side, as if she’s hiding. The sound of running water comes from the bathroom. She gets up and moves her chair over to his.

The bathroom door opens, but Vanessa doesn’t look round. She can’t watch his laboured progress across the room.

Gerald settles himself into his chair. He looks drained and perspiration lines his top lip, but his expression is fierce and determined, just as it used to be when he was contemplating a new piece of work. ‘When you didn’t phone or come this morning,’ he says, ‘I thought you’d finally given up on me.’

Vanessa can’t meet the intensity in his eyes, and she looks down.

‘I thought you’d decided Jake’s right,’ Gerald says. ‘I’m too much of a bastard.’

‘I’m here aren’t I?’

‘But are you here to say goodbye?’

Yes. The word circles her mind. She forces herself to meet his gaze. So many times she’s lain in his arms and stared into those eyes, searching for answers. No. No, her brain insists. How can I say goodbye?

‘Christ, Nessa, the silence is killing me!’

‘There’s so much going round in my head. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Okay. Okay.’ Gerald leans forward and rests his arms on his knees. He stares down at his hands. ‘Do you love me?’

The question makes her want to howl with pain. What she would have given once to hear it, to hear the vulnerability, the longing in his voice. Then he assumed she loved him. Absorbed her love like he breathed in air. She focuses on the squared pattern of the vinyl on the floor. If she stares hard enough, the squares grow smaller. She looks up.

His hands are clasped under his chin, and he’s watching her. ‘I know I’ve got no right to ask that question,’ he says. ‘I’ve learnt a lot over the last year. One thing you can say about this fucking illness – it forces you to contemplate your soul. When I came back to England last year for tests and asked you to meet me, I expected you to fall into my arms. What an arrogant prick. But you’ve been so good to me, looked after me. You seemed to care. It made me hope – ’

‘I do care, Gerald.’ She has to break in, has to stop him punishing himself. ‘I do love you.’

He covers his eyes with his hand.

She touches him on his shoulder and can feel it shaking. When he takes his hand away, his eyes are red.

He reaches up to stroke her face. ‘I thought I’d never hear you say that again.’

‘I didn’t think I would. It doesn’t change what happened though, does it? I wish it did, but it doesn’t. That day happened, and nothing can change it.’ She rests her cheek against his hand. Then pulls away. Stares out of the window. Pages from a discarded newspaper are blowing across the lawn. The sheets are caught by the wind; they spiral upwards, then fall, splayed across the grass.

‘Did you believe what I said last night when Jake was here?’ Gerald asks.

‘That Andrew caused the accident?’

‘I was afraid you’d think I said it to put myself in a better light.’

‘Not even you, Gerald, are such a bastard that you’d tell Jake that if it wasn’t true,’ she says. ‘Besides, when I finally read the inquest report, there were things that didn’t add up.’

‘What things?’

‘Like all the alcohol in Andrew’s bloodstream … he hardly ever drank … it would have had a huge impact on him. I expected you to have been drinking, but apparently there was only a trace of alcohol in you.’

‘And?’

‘And the police said there was no evidence of the car that was supposed to have been on your side of the road.’ She looks across at him. ‘So, why did you lie to the inquest?’

‘I was hoping to save Jake – you and the girls as well – but mainly Jake from knowing it was Andrew’s fault.’

‘Andrew’s fault?’

Gerald looks puzzled. ‘I told you what happened – he pulled the steering wheel out of my hand.’

‘Andrew wasn’t to blame.’

‘You mean you still blame me?’

‘Of course I blame you. You came back. I was happy with Andrew.’

‘But not happy like we could have been, Nessa.’

‘You’re still not facing up to it, are you?’ She bangs her fist against her forehead. ‘I was happy with Andrew. No, it wasn’t like the early days when we fell in love. It wasn’t all consuming, it wasn’t selfish, it wasn’t I must have this at all costs. It was warm, it was gentle, it was loving – ’

‘Nessa, I can’t bear it. I’m so sorry.’ Tears stain Gerald’s cheeks.

‘I watched out of the window that day when you came to pick me up. I saw you kick up a fuss when, instead of me, it was Andrew who came out. If you’d looked up, if you’d smiled at me – that would have been it. I would have left Andrew and come with you.’

Gerald rubs his hand across his eyes. ‘So close. I didn’t know how close I was to getting you back.’

‘It wouldn’t have been any good though. Andrew would have been heartbroken. I couldn’t have taken Jake away from him as well. And I couldn’t have survived without my little boy.’

‘Don’t say any more, Nessa. I can see what I did. All the pain I caused. I was selfish. I wanted you and nothing else mattered.’

‘It was the same for me,’ she says. ‘I wanted you. Nothing else mattered.’

‘But you’d chosen to stay with Andrew. He told me. You did the right thing. You chose Andrew.’

This is it. This is the moment she’s been forcing herself to face up to. The moment she rehearsed in front of Charles to see if she could get herself to say the words. ‘I waited all day for Andrew to come back. I couldn’t understand what had happened. Where on earth he was. I knew once he came home, that was it. I had to forget you. Forever. Then the police came. Said there’d been an accident. On the way to the hospital, a message came through on their radio. One fatality.’

‘You poor darling. Come here.’

She doesn’t move. ‘I prayed,’ she says. ‘I never prayed. I didn’t even know if I believed in anyone or anything. But I prayed. Please. Please. Please, I said. Let Gerald be alive. Please let Gerald live.’

‘Oh Nessa, I love you so much.’

‘You see what it means, don’t you?’ she says. ‘I chose you. If only one of you could live, I chose you. I killed Andrew.’

‘Of course you didn’t!’

‘Suppose I’d said Please let Andrew be alive. Suppose my prayer changed things.’

The silence hangs between them like the stillness before a storm. Vanessa gazes at the floor as if the first splashes of rain might appear.

‘Come here, Nessa.’

She looks up, and he stretches out his arms. ‘Let me hold you.’

She slips to her knees beside his chair.

He pulls the comb from the back of her head and strokes his fingers through her hair to loosen it. Her scalp tingles under his touch. His fingers move to the back of her neck. He presses against the hollow at the bottom of her hairline, the place he used to caress when they lay, half awake half asleep after they’d made love.

‘I understand what you’re saying.’ His voice is soft. She can only just make out the words, but she can feel his lips moving against her hair.

‘I know everything we did was wrong. I know if it wasn’t for us Andrew would still be alive. But haven’t we punished ourselves enough? Can’t we let it go? Can’t we love each other?’

The air around her seems to echo with his final question. She hardly dares breathe in case she disturbs it.

‘Will you marry me?’ he asks.

The balloon of pain filling the space in her chest deflates. ‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘Yes.’

Vanessa goes up to London to buy her wedding outfit; the first one she tries on is perfect. The silk material is a pearly-grey colour that looks soft green in certain lights. ‘It complements your hair and skin beautifully,’ the assistant tells her. The jacket has a high collar and fits tightly at the waist, flaring over the hips. There are tiny buttons, covered in the same material as the suit, running down the front and from wrist to elbow on the sleeve. The skirt is long and straight with a fishtail pleat at the back.

Cordelia and Savannah are spending a couple of days in London, and Vanessa arranges to meet them at the National Gallery before she gets the train home. They settle down in the café with a pot of tea and a plate of pastries.

Savannah takes a bite from a chocolate éclair. ‘I’m starving after all that culture, Granny.’ She licks at the oozing cream.

Vanessa remembers when she used to trawl round the galleries; how exciting it was to see all those paintings for the first time. The day when she and Andrew bumped into one another again slides into her mind. ‘What have you seen today?’ she asks quickly.

‘Savvy’s got an art history project, so we’ve been weighing up possible subjects,’ Cordelia says, pouring tea into their cups.

‘Mum, I can speak for myself!’

‘Okay!’

‘What have you decided on?’ Vanessa intervenes.

‘We wondered about the way artists treat bathing,’ Cordelia says. ‘They’ve got three great paintings here: Monet, Cezanne and Seurat.’

‘Seurat was original in his day,’ Vanessa says. ‘I love the Bathers at Asnières.’

‘You wondered, not me!’ Savannah protests. ‘I need something I can get fired up about.’

‘It was only an idea, Savvy. There’s some interesting material.’ Cordelia is reading from a guide. ‘Apparently, the painting predates Seurat’s pointillism, but he added dots of orange and red to the boy’s hat later.’

Savannah finishes her éclair. ‘Mm, that was awesome.’ She points to the carrier bag Vanessa has placed on a chair. ‘Check out the bag, Granny. What have you bought?’

‘Something expensive,’ Cordelia says, ‘judging by the posh carrier.’

Vanessa’s heart starts to beat faster.

‘How about the history of carrier bags for my project?’ Savannah asks. ‘That would be cool.’

‘Come on, tell us what you’ve bought,’ Cordelia says.

Oh well, it’s now or never. ‘My wedding outfit.’ Vanessa can’t look at either of them.

‘Your wedding outfit?’ Cordelia says.

‘That’s what she said, Mum.’

‘As in your wedding outfit?’

Vanessa nods.

‘You’re getting married?’

‘Yes.’ The word comes out as a whisper. Vanessa tries again. ‘Yes.’ That’s better. She sounded much more definite that time.

‘Who are you marrying?’

‘Gerald.’ Vanessa feels heat flood into her cheeks.

‘Gerald?’

‘Yes.’

‘As in my father Gerald?’

Vanessa senses the people at the next table have stopped talking and are waiting for her to answer. ‘Yes.’

‘You and Gerald are getting married?’

‘Shut up, Mum, you’re like some demented parrot,’ Savannah says. ‘You’re getting married to Granddad again? For real?’

Laughter pushes itself up into Vanessa’s throat. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘Mad, isn’t it?’

Savannah leans over and drapes her arms round Vanessa’s neck. ‘It’s so cool.’

Vanessa kisses her. ‘Thanks, Savvy. That means a lot.’ She shifts her gaze to Cordelia. ‘How about you? Are you okay with it?’

Cordelia doesn’t answer. Vanessa looks down at her hands; she twists the emerald ring round and round her finger. Suppose Cordelia hates it. Suppose she won’t speak to her again – like Jake.

‘Say something, Mum,’ Savannah urges. ‘What do you think?’

Cordelia starts to laugh.

What’s going on? The idea must be too ludicrous for her to contemplate.

‘Mum, say something.’

‘It’s brilliant!’ There’s a catch in Cordelia’s voice. She’s laughing and crying at the same time.

‘Honestly? You think it’s all right?’

Cordelia catches hold of Vanessa’s hands. She lifts them up to her face. ‘It’s the most fantastic thing – my mum and dad getting married again!’

Vanessa clutches Cordelia’s hand. ‘I was afraid … I was afraid you’d be angry.’

‘Angry? I love it. I absolutely love it.’

The elderly couple at the next table stand up. The woman is smiling, and the man gives a little bow. ‘My wife and I couldn’t help overhearing. May we congratulate you?’

Vanessa squeezes Cordelia tighter and smiles up at him. ‘Of course. Thank you very much.’

The man takes Vanessa’s hand. ‘We think your future husband is a very lucky man.’

As soon as she arrives home, Vanessa calls Jake. She’s left several messages on his mobile since the night he turned up at the hospice, but he hasn’t responded. His silence is a constant ache in the pit of her stomach. Ever since his birth, Jake has had the sunniest of personalities. He’s always found it easy to give her a hug, say ‘I love you, Mum’ … ‘I missed you, Mum’ when she’s been away. She remembers holding him moments after he was born, the black hair stuck to his scalp, the weight of him in her arms, the eyes seeming to stare up at her, already knowing. She remembers the quiver of love that shot through her. So different from Cordelia or Esme’s birth. She was ecstatic when Cordelia arrived, of course she was, but she missed her mother; if only Mammy could have been there to see her granddaughter. She was scared too, scared of the impact of this little scrap on her life with Gerald, on her work, scared of the responsibility that stretched ahead forever. And when Esme was born, all she could think about was Gerald: where was Gerald? Why hadn’t he come home? Was he with someone else?

Jake’s phone goes to voice mail, and she leaves a message: call me when you get this, please.

She takes her wedding suit from its carrier bag and lays it over the back of the sofa. It’s as beautiful as it seemed in the shop. She makes herself a sandwich and sits down in front of the television. The news is on. Images flicker across the screen: an ambush in Afghanistan, a bomb in Gaza, a woman murdered by her husband, a young man stabbed in a London street. So much hatred. So much pain. She switches off the television. Is she doing the right thing marrying Gerald? It felt right when she said yes. It felt like an end to the hurt, the blame, the remorse: a way of redeeming love.

She calls Jake’s mobile again. It rings several times, and then a female voice says ‘Jake’s phone.’

‘Esme, is that you?’

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Why are you answering? Is he okay?’

‘Yeah, he’s gone for a shower.’

‘He won’t speak to me.’

‘I know. He doesn’t answer when he sees it’s you.’

‘What am I going to do?’

‘He can’t keep the silence up for ever.’

‘If only he’d let me explain things.’

Esme makes a noise. It sounds like exasperation. ‘It’s not going to be easy. He hates Gerald.’

Vanessa runs her hand over the smooth silk of her new skirt. The pearly-grey colour shimmers in the lamplight. ‘It’s worse than you think.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’m going to marry Gerald.’ Vanessa waits, but there’s silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Esme?’

‘I’m here, Vanessa. I’m absorbing the news.’

‘Is it that bad?’

‘No, I think it’s great.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Of course honestly! I never used to understand the fuss about the great Gerald Blackstone, but now I’ve spent time with him, I’m really sad I didn’t know him when he was younger.’

‘That makes me want to cry. I’ve been so caught up with Cordelia and Jake’s reactions, I haven’t thought about you.’

‘Typical. Middle child syndrome: ignored, overlooked.’

‘That’s not true – you know it’s not.’

Esme laughs. ‘I’m winding you up. You’ve always been a great mum, even if you wouldn’t let us call you that!’

‘If you only knew. If I could turn back the clock and hear your little voices call me ‘Mummy’ again.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up about that as well. It gave us a certain cachet at school calling you by your first name.’

‘I keep thinking about all the things I got wrong.’

‘How’s Cordelia with you and Dad marrying again?’ Esme asks.

The picture of Cordelia and Savannah’s faces when she told them flashes across Vanessa’s mind. ‘She said it’s brilliant.’

‘There you are then. You and Dad are made for each other. If he hadn’t mucked up first time round.’

‘But then I wouldn’t have been with Andrew, and there’d be no Jake.’

‘No point having regrets then. I couldn’t be without my little brother.’ Esme goes quiet. ‘He’s out of the shower. I’ll have to go, but I’m pleased. You and Dad marrying is the best.’

‘So, will you come to the wedding?’ Vanessa hears how tentative the question sounds.

‘I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to Jake.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Don’t sound so disappointed. When is it?’

‘Next Friday. The sooner the better … with Gerald … you know.’

‘Yeah. I’ll think about you. You’ll have a great day.’

‘What about Jake?’

‘Give him time. He’ll come round.’

Vanessa feels tears threatening again. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, I am. He loves you too much not to have you in his life.’

Vanessa goes shopping to buy something for Gerald to wear at the wedding.

‘Make sure you get me something stylish.’ He grins up at her. He’s in bed, lying propped against the pillows.

Vanessa smiles back. She isn’t going to be the one to crack. He’s determined not to marry in the hospice, as the nurses suggested, and doesn’t want the party afterwards there either, even though the doctor thinks the day will be a lot for him to cope with.

The day before the ceremony, she takes him the clothes: a light grey suit and a black cashmere polo neck. She opens the carrier bags and hangs the suit on the back of the door, smoothing the creases in the linen with her hand. She takes the sweater over to Gerald so that he can feel how soft the wool is. He’s always cold and it should keep him warm.

‘What about shoes?’ she asks.

‘That’s it.’ Gerald points to a row of footwear lined up by the window: a pair of leather moccasins, the backs trodden flat, grey trainers that have seen better days, and flip-flops. ‘It’s years since I bought expensive shoes.’

‘You’ll have to wear the trainers,’ Vanessa tells him. ‘Loads of young men in London wear them with suits.’ She crosses to the bed to kiss him goodnight.

‘And what fetching little number will you be in?’ he asks. ‘Any chance of the white dress you wore first time round?’ His voice has that husky teasing note she used to love.

She slaps his hand. ‘Can you remember how short it was even for the sixties?’

‘Can I? I’ll never forget how sexy you looked.’ He takes hold of both her wrists and pulls her towards him. He stares at her with that intense look, when it feels as if he will possess her soul. He laughed once, when she told him that. ‘You make me sound like the devil.’

She used to try to stare him out. It was one of their games. She always backed down first. Now she holds his gaze steadily, and it’s his that falters.

‘You do know how much I love you, don’t you?’ he asks.

She smiles. ‘You tell me often enough!’ She doesn’t want him making a speech. She’s only just holding it together as it is. His grip on her wrists is strong. It reminds her too much of how powerful Gerald’s hands and arms used to be. How tiny she felt when he held her. Precious as a jewel, he always said.

It’s still dark when Vanessa goes downstairs. She’s slept fitfully, the night disturbed by restless dreams that leave her anxious. On the landing, she tiptoes past the bedroom, where Cordelia and Patrick are asleep, and the smaller room where Savannah is. Sabina’s flown over specially and is staying at the hotel at the top of the town.

Vanessa boils the kettle and drops a fruit tea bag into a mug. She remembers how sheepish Patrick looked when they arrived last night. He came to her straight away: ‘Vanessa, thank you for letting me come to your wedding.’ There was none of the arrogance that previously made her wary of him.

After supper, Cordelia said they were going to see Gerald. ‘I want him to meet Savannah and Patrick before tomorrow.’

Vanessa had a thought: ‘What size shoes do you take, Patrick?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Shoes?’ He glanced down at his feet as if he’d never considered the question.

Vanessa took in the shininess of the black leather, the curve of neat stitching across the toecap – the sort of shoes Gerald used to wear.

‘Nine,’ Cordelia said. ‘He takes size nine. Little feet.’

‘Less of the little,’ Patrick protested. ‘They’re neat.’

‘Have you got any others with you?’

‘At least three pairs,’ Cordelia said.

‘Would you mind lending Gerald these for tomorrow?’ Vanessa asked. ‘He’s fussing because his shoes are no good.’

Patrick gave a bow. ‘I’d be honoured to be Prince Charming to his Cinderella. I’ve got another pair I can wear.’

‘Let’s get going,’ Cordelia said. ‘He’ll be asleep if we don’t get a move on.’

Vanessa pours boiling water into the mug and watches the tea bag float to the surface. She rubs her thumb over the red letters on the front of the white china: World’s Greatest Grandma. Savannah gave it to her one Christmas. Grandma. Bride: the two ideas collide. A faintly obscene image springs into her mind, breaking her dream. She takes her tea and creeps upstairs to her room. Soon the house will be full of noise and flurry: showers to be taken, clothes to be ironed, the florist and the caterer will arrive. The ceremony is at midday. Cordelia and Patrick will collect Gerald from the hospice in a taxi, and Savannah will walk to the registry office with Vanessa. Everyone else will meet them there.

A shiver runs through Vanessa when she thinks of the vows they will say. She looks into the mirror and recites the words: ‘I, Vanessa Bridget Heaney, take you, Gerald Blackstone, to be my lawful wedded husband …’ She repeats the word husband softly several times, allowing the sounds to vibrate in her mouth. In a few hours, Gerald will be her husband again.

She crosses to the wardrobe and takes out her suit. Slipping it free of its plastic cover, she hangs it from the wardrobe door. She glances at the clock: five hours to go. The house is still sleeping round her. She kneels down beside the bed, dragging out the case from underneath. It’s the same little case that she kept under her bed when she lived with her parents. It went with her to Gerald’s house and then to Andrew’s cottage, with her white mini dress wrapped in its tissue paper. The hat and boots she’d worn were long gone, but something made her hang on to the dress. When she moved to Lyme Regis, she thought she might sell it in the shop, or offer it to a fashion museum – clothes from the sixties were always popular. But in the end, it took up its place under her bed again.

She puts the case on the duvet, flicks open the brass locks and lifts the lid. She hasn’t looked inside for a long time now. She pulls aside the folds of tissue paper and takes out the dress. The wool has gone yellow in places. She holds it against her. God, how short it is. As she looks closer, she sees them: little feathery holes which fray as she fingers them. The crochet work disguised the problem at first, but then she realises the material is full of moth holes. She clutches the ruined dress to her.

The phone on her bedside table begins to vibrate. She tosses the dress on the bed and rubs her hands over her eyes. The screen on the phone says Hospice. She can’t help smiling. Gerald has probably got them to phone. He usually rings himself when he wakes up, but some superstition about talking to her on the morning of the wedding has stopped him. She remembers him scoffing at that idea once.

She presses the accept button. ‘Hi, Vanessa here.’

‘Vanessa, it’s Mary.’

Mary’s one of the older nurses and she’s got a soft spot for Gerald. ‘He’s been showing me some photos of you and him together when you were young,’ she said to Vanessa one day. ‘Such a good-looking couple you made. Like film stars.’

‘What is it, Mary?’ Vanessa asks now. ‘Gerald making sure everything’s going to plan?’

‘I’m afraid it’s not good news.’

Vanessa presses the phone closer to her face. A throbbing pulse starts up inside her ear. ‘What is it? Has he taken a turn for the worse?’

‘We went into his room fifteen minutes ago to wake him up and give him his drugs. I’m sorry to tell you, Vanessa, but he’d died in his sleep.’

‘No.’

‘I looked in on him this morning about five. He was a bit warm, but his pulse was steady. It must have happened sometime after that. The doctor’s with him now, but we think it was a heart attack.’

‘But his heart was fine.’

‘It can happen, Vanessa. I’m so sorry. Do you want to see him?’

‘I’ll get ready and come now.’

She drops the phone on to the bed. She picks up the white lace dress and buries her face in it. Its musty smell fills her nose. She goes to the window and opens it wide. The early morning air is cool on her cheeks. Across the roofs, she can make out a patch of sea. Above it, the sky is beginning to lighten. The greyness is edged with pink. It’s going to be a fine day. The sun was preparing itself to shine for her wedding day. She clamps her teeth over the material of the dress and bites into it.

Sounds drift up from downstairs: the slam of a door, a loo flushing, Cordelia’s voice. Everyday morning sounds; the others are getting up. They’ll be excited, planning all the things they need to do before the ceremony. She wipes her face on the dress and taps her eyes with her fingers. The lids feel bloated.

*

She sits on the sofa. There’s a fresh mug of tea on the floor beside her. Cordelia’s arm is round her shoulders. In her thin nightdress, Vanessa is icy cold, and she leans closer to Cordelia’s warmth. Patrick’s poised on the edge of the armchair; he’s already fully dressed, right down to his black brogues. From upstairs comes the sound of Savannah weeping.

‘She fell in love with Dad last night,’ Cordelia says. ‘If only I’d let her meet him earlier.’

‘We all wasted time,’ Vanessa says. ‘Time we didn’t have.’ She stares at Patrick’s shoes. ‘I forgot to ask when you got back. Did Gerald try your shoes?’

Patrick gives the thumbs-up sign. ‘Fitted a treat.’

‘I bet he was pleased.’

‘Too right. He wanted to look his best for you.’

Vanessa smiles. Gerald would have liked Patrick’s style – always wanted people to notice him. But he’d have liked Patrick in other ways too. In another world, another time, they’d have gone for a drink together. If is a little word that stands in the way. ‘We should get dressed,’ Cordelia says. ‘We have to get to the hospice … unless you want to see him on your own?’

Vanessa feels her hair slip out of its clasp, tickle the back of her neck. Gerald always loved her hair. She touches Cordelia’s hand. ‘Come with me, but I’d like some time alone with him first.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve spent so long thinking about the years I’ve known Gerald. Going over and over all that’s happened. I’ve got to let go. I need to say goodbye.’

Vanessa turns her head to the window, straining for the sound of the sea. You can’t hear it from the cottage even on the roughest of nights, but when she lies in bed under the eaves, she sometimes imagines she hears its soft swish lulling her to sleep. Now the noise of the waves is a distant whisper as if the tide is a long long way out. It feels as if it will never turn, will never again come crashing and roaring against the Cobb, spitting spray and foam over the surface of the wall. But even as she feels her heart being sucked away with the receding tide, she knows it will turn. It will come back.