On Monday morning, we leave Sarah and Ricardo playing with Lego and head off to Brighton to see the specialised guardianship lawyer. It seems, as I drive over the downs and past Cuckmore Haven, as if a lid has been slapped on all of the emotional turmoil that would normally be whipped up by today’s fraught programme. I feel cold and efficient, and Jenny looks the same. But it feels as if one false move might result in the lid popping off and both of us collapsing into tears.
I park the car up on Brighton seafront and we walk side by side towards the town centre.
“What an amazing day,” Jenny says.
“It is,” I agree, looking out at the horizon. It’s proof of my preoccupied mood that I’m only now noticing today’s spring-like weather. “We’ve been pretty lucky this winter,” I say. “We’ve had quite a lot of sun.”
“You’re right,” she replies. “We have.”
We get to the Lanes a little early, so we head to Café Nero for coffee.
“Cute dads,” Jenny says once we are seated, and I glance over to see a sporty, trendy, bearded dad carrying a toddler Sarah’s age.
“You only get dads like that in Brighton,” I say.
“Yeah,” Jenny agrees. “I know. Maybe I should have moved here. I might have caught one for myself.”
And I sit and think about that. Because of course all of our lives would have been different in innumerable ways if we had just decided to live somewhere else. An infinite number of different lives are spread out around us, but until we choose one, until we move and find out who we end up meeting because of where we live they’re all unknowable. Other than the fact that you’re far more likely to meet a sporty, bearded ad exec in Brighton than in Huddersfield, it really is a lucky dip.
And then I note the past tense of Jenny’s phrase, and say, “You still can you know.”
It’s been so long since she made the comment, she says, “I’m sorry?”
“You say you should have moved here. You still can.”
“Oh yeah,” she says vaguely. “Of course.”
Five minutes before our appointment we head over to Statton and Houghton’s swanky offices in Prince Albert Street.
A fairly attractive woman who I think is trying to look like an old-school lesbian-librarian shows us through to the waiting room but no sooner have we sat down than a voice booms out and we both turn to see a vision of elegance grinning at us from the doorway.
Peter Statton, it transpires, is an extremely good looking man. He is in his late thirties, is tall and dark with a pleasant tan – no doubt from a recent winter break. He is also the most incredible dandy and is wearing a stunning checkered suit and has the biggest knot in the pinkest tie I have ever seen.
“Please, take a seat,” he says, fixing his cuffs and slithering behind his desk.
I sit and listen as Jenny explains the situation in a controlled, business-like manner, and I wonder how it must feel to be Peter Statton. I wonder how it must feel to have been born that good looking, that well bred, to be that self confident. I wonder how it would feel to wear that suit, and, somewhat inappropriately I wonder how it would feel to kiss those lips.
The guardianship will turns out to be fairly straightforward. It has to record Jenny’s wishes regarding the future of her daughter and must be witnessed by two independent witnesses. Because Nick is alive and could reasonably contest the will, it also needs to state as many reasons as possible that she wants it to be me, and as many reasons as possible that it shouldn’t be him.
Once we have listed these, Stratton stands and smooths his tie, continuing the movement of his hand until it strokes his crotch. And then he shakes hands with us and ushers us from his office.
Whilst we wait for the paperwork to be printed I have to place my coat over my lap to hide a rather absurd hard-on. It’s the strangest thing that this should be happening here today because the context of the visit has made me so tense that my neck muscles are actually hurting.
Once the will is printed and signed in triplicate and we have paid the outrageous two-hundred pound fee, Jenny and I step outside.
“Can we go and have lunch somewhere?” Jenny asks. “I could do with some time to decompress.”
We wander down to the seafront and after take window-seats in Alfresco.
“Are you OK?” I ask.
Jenny nods. “Yeah,” she says, smoothing one hand over the envelope. “I’m just trying to convince myself that the words in here don’t change anything.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well it’s sort of in writing now, isn’t it. It almost seems like it’s inevitable.”
I sigh. “I know what you mean,” I say, “but you mustn’t think like that.”
We sit and stare at the view until the waitress takes our orders. Once she has left, I say, to fill the void as much as anything, “Two-hundred quid though!”
“I know,” Jenny says. “Still, he knew his stuff. It’s reassuring to know that it’s worded just right.”
“I suppose.”
“And they do store a copy forever included in the fee.”
“Sure. Though I think his prices have more to do with his taste in suits than storage costs.”
Jenny nods and sighs. And then her expression changes. “Is it just me, or did he … you know … ooze sex?”
I slip into a smile, my first today. “No. He’s a stunner.”
“I kept looking at his lips,” Jenny says.
“Yep. Me too. So kissable.”
“I know! And did you see how … No. Never mind.”
“What?”
“No, I’m just being pervy,” she says. “I haven’t had a shag for too long … I expect that’s it.”
“I saw him give his packet a good stroke before he shook hands at the end,” I laugh.
Jenny’s face lights up. She slips into a broad grin. “I know!” she says. “I saw that too. The dirdy birdy.”
“I got a bit hard actually,” I say. “That’s why I was sitting with my coat on my lap.”
“I think I got a bit wet,” Jenny whispers.
I pull a face. “Jenny!”
She rolls her eyes. “Honestly,” she says. “You gay guys. Any mention of …”
“Please don’t,” I say, raising one hand. “I’ve ordered mussels.”
Jenny’s mouth drops in amused outrage. “That’s so rude,” she says. “You have no idea.”
I wrinkle my nose. “No,” I say. “I do have an idea. I remember.”
I smile at her. A bit of humour and a change of context and she suddenly looks almost normal.
I watch her fiddle with the edge of her wig as she laughs. You could almost forget that she has cancer. Almost.