It’s about seven o’clock when I finally get a minute – the lull between the speeches and the dancing. Many people are outside, enjoying the late August warmth. Some are drinking coffee. Most are back on the ale, gearing up to get drunk for the second time around after sobering up during the meal. The chocolate mousse has put a couple of guests to sleep on various Victorian sofas. My nan’s gone home. ‘I’ve had a marvellous time, but I’ve had enough,’ she’d said.
I’m outside in a small bandstand. It’s off the beaten track, at the bottom of another manicured lawn. The only reason I know this hideout exists is because yesterday, during the decorating, Gareth’s little nieces brought me here to show me what they called the fairy house.
I should be thinking about the speeches. Remembering the hilarious words from Gareth’s best mate; the incredibly moving ones from my brother and his new husband. My dad nailed his jokes, surprisingly. My mum sat with her best smile fixed like the Joker, ready for a photo opportunity. When I was applauded for being Kit’s sister, with the odd wolf whistle, she didn’t look at me. She just kept on smiling, clapping, playing along. What she really thought of me was hidden from view, brushed beneath the top table. And it’s her words that linger, that stick. They bug me on repeat.
Not serious? About anything? Is there any truth in that?
Perhaps.
It’s times like this I wish I smoked. Something to do with my hands. I’ve got a gin and tonic, but the ice has melted, making my palms cold and sticky. I wipe them on my dress, trying not to drift off into the dreamy land where Jack can sometimes still be so present. Lately, he’s been popping up in my actual dreams, which – if I’m honest – is an absolute fucker. At least when I’m awake I can maintain some sort of control, but when he’s there, at night, in some random mashup of Thailand and London and high school and a random clock tower, a place that doesn’t exist any more than he does, I have no control. So I enjoy. I believe. I fly. I kiss him and God, I feel so aroused. Then I wake up. And for what can be minutes, maybe even an hour, I lie there part-convinced that the dream was real. Until I remember, and I don’t want to wake up ever again. So I just lie there, in a heavy fog, taking as long as it takes to sit up, swing my legs out of bed and eventually stand.
‘God, I wish you were here,’ I say.
The bandstand creaks; the scuffle of a footstep.
‘Alright, Tilly Mint!’ It’s my dad. He’s left his jacket inside and looks smart in his waistcoat, his shirt sleeves rolled up like a bootlegger, ironically, as he’s holding a cup of tea with a saucer. He’s been nervous about everything running smoothly today and has hardly touched a drop of the free-flowing alcohol he offered to foot the bill for. ‘Who were you talking to?’
‘Jack,’ I tell him.
My dad’s shoulders drop a little, as does his face.
‘Do you see him, my love?’
I shake my head.
‘’Cause I won’t think you’re mad, you know. I used to see me dad.’
‘I know. He told you I was choking.’
‘D’you remember?’
‘No, I remember the story. And I’ve no reason not to believe you.’
He scans the gardens surrounding us, almost as if he’s looking for my grandad to appear. Then he puts his cup of tea down, stuffs his hands into his pockets and sits beside me.
‘Uncle Frank whispered in me ear how he was sorry for me loss,’ I tell my dad. ‘And I wish Jack had been here, alive. That short conversation could’ve been so, so bloody different.’
He doesn’t say anything. He does give me a little squeeze though.
‘You know what, Dad? Jack never got to see me all dressed up like this. We never made it to a wedding together. The last time he wore a suit was the night we met.’
My dad stands and holds out his hands. I accept and he pulls me up. He kisses the top of my head; hugs me tight.
‘He’d tell you you’re gorgeous, ’cause you are,’ he says. I want to crumble, to fall into a million delicate pieces, like confetti. ‘The first dance is about to start in a sec.’
‘Okay.’
I lean my head into my dad’s chest and we sway, side to side, slowly.
‘Dad? Why’s me mum so disappointed in me?’
‘Oh, love. She’s not disappointed in you. She’s disappointed for you.’
‘No, she’s sick of me. She’s—’
‘Ssh, ssh,’ my dad says, stroking my hair, still swaying. ‘She wants you to have all the things you wish for. Not ’cause she wants them for herself, but ’cause she knows you want them. And whenever you hurt, she hurts. Christ, girl. I hurt. But look. I handle me hurt one way, she handles it another. Just like you do.’
‘I’m so sorry for putting you both through all this, Dad. I don’t want youse to hurt for me. Surely this is my problem? Not yours or me mum’s.’
‘It’s very much our problem. It’s called being a parent. And it’s a lousy part of the job.’
I step away a little and look at him. If only my mum could be as kind; as honest.
‘We should go back in,’ I say. ‘Today’s about you and me mum, too.’
When we get back to the party, the photo booth is in full action. A queue is forming with lots of guests trying out different hats and accessories. My dad joins the line, rubbing his hands together. I still haven’t been able to exchange more than a few words with Beth. She’s still sitting at her table with Fergus and whatever they’re talking about looks pretty intimate.
I find Si wandering out of the gents’.
‘Sorry,’ I say to him. ‘I hope Malcolm wasn’t boring you too much?’
‘You serious? He’s a Sondheim fan. Saw the original Into the Woods. On Broadway!’
‘I still feel like I’ve abandoned you.’
He waves his hands around.
‘Not. At. All,’ he says. ‘I’m having a blast, Chloe. Best. Wedding. Ever. Like, how much love is there in one room? Really? How much? It’s simply marvellous.’
He’s fitted right in. I’m delighted.
‘Now, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, Chloe – but your mum, she’s full of shit, right?’
Now that does make me laugh.
‘What’s she said now?’ I ask.
‘Told me you’re quitting teaching. And I was like, hardly, Miss Roscoe’s directing the school musical. Oh, you should’ve seen her face. Proud as punch, she was. Why would she say you were quitting?’
I open my mouth, struggling to find words. I’d be stooping rather low if I make my mum out to be a liar, a fabricator here. Okay, so she’s definitely the latter, but not always. I think my silence has answered him, though.
‘You’re not?’ Si asks, his face dropping, the happy drama mask flipping to the sad.
‘Would you judge me if I did?’
Still sad, he shakes his head. ‘You need to do whatever makes you happy.’
‘Problem is, I don’t know the answer to that.’
‘So don’t be hasty.’ He leans into me. ‘Chloe, those kids need you.’
‘You’re too kind. But they don’t need me. They don’t even know me.’
‘Look, I’ve heard on the old grapevine that Laura – the woman you’re covering – isn’t coming back. She wants to be a full-time mum. So the position is likely to be up for grabs. You should.’
‘Grab it? Oh, I dunno. I’m so shit at me job.’
‘You’re not! You’re just not committed. Yet.’
I’d never thought of it like that. I’ve only ever covered for maternity leave – I’ve never been permanent. Lack of commitment has been a running theme throughout my life. It’s worked both ways. People, jobs, even hobbies: they’ve all given up on me as much as I’ve given up on them. Maybe Si’s right. Go where the work is. Listen to my head for once. My mum wouldn’t be the only one to remind me that listening to my heart hasn’t got me very far.
But going back to London means returning to the flat – to my life without Jack.
I thought I could escape all of that by coming home to Liverpool, but Jack’s absence rings like a loud bell wherever I go.
Malcolm appears, taps Si on the shoulder and hands him a glass of champagne. I lose his attention, which I’m grateful for. A booze-fuelled pep-talk wasn’t on my agenda for today, as sweet as Si’s intentions are. A moment alone, contemplating what to drink without the pressure to speak, is nice. I give Malcolm a little wave and browse the spirits section of the drinks menu.
Nothing’s ever serious with you, Chloe. Ever.
Maybe she had a point, my mum.
But what is serious, really? Why does life have to be ‘serious’? Because Jack getting killed was pretty fucking serious, in my opinion, and I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy. Serious – in the words of my seventeen-year-old self – sucks.
Seventeen. Half my lifetime ago. One of our Kit’s school mates told me I haven’t changed one bit. Well, other than gaining a few laughter lines and changing the colour of my hair, I can see what he means. I don’t have that subtle softness from having children, I haven’t transformed into a fitness guru or doubled my weight.
But I am different to who I was at seventeen. So very different.
Back then, I had hope.
Hope was bursting from the seams of my boob tube as I danced Thursday nights away at The Carwash. I was the ‘Dancing Queen’, the ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, the one everybody was ‘Stuck in the Middle’ with. And I know it’s easy with youthful spirit to have a wider outlook, to dream that life can be spectacular, especially on the brink of new beginnings – like university, or even something as simple as getting into a nightclub without fake ID. Those new beginnings change with age. They become so much bigger, and most of the time, less frequent. I think about Beth wanting a baby. Once, she just wanted a Lipsy dress.
What do I want?
‘Wanna dance?’ Si asks.
‘I need another drink first,’ I attempt, but Si’s already dragging me onto the dance floor. For a man of such small build, he’s strong; I find myself twirling, this way and that way, and without much choice, I’m fully supported into a stylish back bend.
‘Wow. You’re a good dancer!’ I exclaim.
‘Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve had plenty of training.’
And he thrusts me out and reins me in, until all I can do is go with the flow and enjoy myself. He’s right. There’s so much love in the room. It mightn’t be the love my heart is aching for, but it’s love all the same.
And who am I to argue with that?