I’m at a service station off the M25 of all places when my past catches up with me.
“Joel?”
I turn, feel an unexpected rush of pleasure to see Melissa. “Hello.”
She takes me in for a moment, then introduces me to the Adonis at her side. “Leon, this is Joel.”
Warily, I offer him a hand, wondering if he might opt to punch me instead of shake it. But he doesn’t. He just greets me with a half smile, which is a whole half more than I probably deserve.
Melissa laughs. She’s wearing the kind of hot pink lipstick that demands impeccable teeth. “It’s all right. I’ve only ever spoken extremely highly of you, of course.”
I shoot Leon a look that’s supposed to mean, You can punch me some other time, I promise.
“Might go and grab some coffees,” he says. “Back in a minute.”
In the middle of the thoroughfare we face each other. A torrent of travelers rushes noisily past.
“Are you . . . How’ve you been?”
“Good.” She smiles. “We’re just off to Heathrow, actually.”
“Lucky you. Anywhere nice?”
“Barbados.” She extends her hand so I can see her ring. “Honeymoon.”
“Wow, that’s . . . Congratulations.”
Her long hair’s cropped short, and I can see the floral jumpsuit beneath her coat and scarf. Barbados-ready, classic Melissa. It’s good to see her loved-up and luminous in a way she never was with me.
She looks as though she wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. So, ever the gentleman, I jump in first. “Leon’s all right, is he?”
“Well,” she says, “he’s nicer than you.”
“Good. That’s a start.”
“Just joking. He’s great. Really great.” She looks longingly in the direction of the coffee concession he’s wandered off to. “So where are you heading?”
“Oh—Cornwall. Not quite as exotic as Barbados.”
“Holiday’s a holiday.”
“Er, no—I’m actually moving down there. Fresh start.”
“Wow. I’d have had you living in that flat until you died. No offense.”
Her trademark lack of tact almost stirs up a kind of nostalgia in me. “None taken.”
“What prompted that, then?”
“Family stuff. Long story.”
She tilts her head. “So you’re not still with the girl who lived upstairs?”
The girl who lived upstairs.
“No. She’s . . . with someone else now. Married, I think.” (Actually, I know. Doug told me—turns out he has an acquaintance in common with Gavin.)
Melissa nods. And, for possibly the first time in the history of our relationship, fails to make a quip. “Have you got a job down there, then? In Cornwall?”
“I have, actually.”
“You’re going back to vetting?”
“Yep.”
She nods again, more slowly this time. Meets my eye and holds it. “Well. Congratulations.”
I feel unexpectedly moved. “Thank you.”
Some seconds pass, and then she reaches up to hug me good-bye. It’s strange to feel her arms around me again. Like rediscovering a favorite piece of clothing, breathing in a familiar scent. “What are all those batty old ladies going to do without you?”
I swallow. It’s not been a great year on my street, mortality-wise. “Just the one now, unfortunately.” (Iris hanging in there, tenacious as ever.)
Melissa pulls back from me. “And you’re not seeing anyone?” Like she doesn’t quite believe I’d have any other reason for moving to Cornwall.
I sigh. “I’d love to, Melissa, but you’re on your honeymoon.”
She laughs throatily in a way I’ve kind of missed. “You know, it was a shame you and I could never be friends.”
“I think we’re friends.”
She lingers for a moment, and I realize she’s finding it hard to say good-bye. “Well, take care of yourself. Try to meet a nice girl.”
“I did. It didn’t work out.”
One last, mischievous wink. “Joel, what can I say? I’m married now.”
I’ve rented a place ten minutes from Warren’s in Newquay, with a small garden and a spare bedroom for visitors. I stopped off at a garden center just after crossing Devon, bought a basketful of houseplants for my new living room. And I threw in a window box too. Because even though I’ve moved here for a fresh start, I still can’t live without reminders of Callie.
By early afternoon I’m more or less straight, so I head round to Warren’s.
“Tough good-byes?” he asks me.
“Tamsin was a wreck. She wants to come down next weekend, bring the kids.”
“Be good to see her,” Warren says. “How are you feeling, about being here?”
“Nervous. But good-nervous.”
“That’s the best kind. Haven’t had enough good-nervous in my life.” He smiles. “All set for Monday?”
“Think so.” I’ve been working part-time with Kieran for just over a year now. I plan to split the next six months between my new practice in Cornwall and refresher courses in Bristol.
“Not sure if I said it before, but I’m proud of you, mate. You’ve really turned things around.”
“Cheers.”
“And for you to be down here, with me . . . well, that means the world. It really does.”
I nod. “Waves any good?”
Warren checks his watch. “Right now?”
“Yep.”
“They are.”
“Fancy a quick one?”
“Always, mate. Always.”
That night I dream about Callie.
I wake just as I’m telling her I love her again.
My face is wet with tears, my shoulders shaking with sadness.