Page 47 of Gideon (Finding Home #3)

Carol, my partner on the bus, is a spiky, very sarcastic Cornish woman with jet-black hair and a huge family.

We’d taken to each other instantly, which had been enhanced by the fact that she and Gideon took one look at each other and recognised a kindred spirit.

As such, she’s often at our house, sparring with him in the kitchen.

After a few months at the cottage, Gideon declared his intention to buy a house locally.

It was the start of a turbulent time for us, as I was determined to play an equal role in buying a place.

The only problem was that my money would never have bought even a room in the size of the house that Gideon could afford.

Gid went along with me for a while, displaying a patience that would amaze anyone who didn’t really know him.

He viewed tiny house after tiny house, giving each one a chance before we had to dismiss them, mainly because the press would practically be in our front room if we moved in.

The turning point came when we found this place.

It’s an old, five-bedroom house right on the banks of the River Fowey, and we’d fallen in love with it at first glance, loving the large sun-filled rooms that seemed to move with the lights from the water speckling the ceilings and walls.

I still remember when Gid had turned to me and said that this was the one, and I had to get over my pride.

The row that followed had been loud, as had the sex afterwards, and looking back probably neither should have taken place in the prospective house, but luckily our estate agent had scarpered when the raised voices started.

Afterwards we lay together under the window of what is now our bedroom and he hugged me close, whispering about what I gave him. Things that he could never say thank you enough for. And I realised what a twat I was being.

So we bought it. I insist on my wages being put towards the bills, and he humours me, even though those bills are a tiny blip in what he earns.

That’s true even now. Yes, he lost work and jobs in the ensuing months of his coming out, but he gained so much more.

He branched back into the theatre and had a two-year stint on Asa Jacobs’s show that led on to so many other diverse and interesting roles.

Lately, though, he’s scaled even those back, preferring to narrate audiobooks. He installed a studio at the bottom of the garden and most days find him pottering around in there. He’s happy and it fairly shines out of him these days.

As if reminding me of one of the reasons for this joy, the monitor on the bedside table warbles into action, and I lie for a few minutes listening to the sound of the baby cooing and babbling away to himself happily.

When the noise becomes louder I take my cue and slide out of bed.

Paying a quick visit to the bathroom, I clean my teeth, run a cursory hand through my hair, and pull on shorts and a T-shirt.

When I round the nursery door, Gus is there, sitting up and prodding a stuffed bear rather dubiously.

When he sees me, his smile explodes across his face, and he wiggles, putting his hands up.

“Up,” he demands, which is actually the only word he knows apart from “no.” He’s definitely been brought up in a house filled with Gideon’s personality.

I lift him up, feeling his little weight settle against me. I press a kiss into his blond curls, inhaling the scent of baby powder and shampoo.

“Alright, cariad ?” I say. “Good sleep?”

My son gives me a gummy smile, his olive-green eyes creased in happiness.

I change his nappy and dress him in shorts and a t-shirt, nibbling on toes and making him give his little chuckle. I stroke my fingers down his soft cheek, marvelling once again at the gift we’ve been given.

When we’d first discussed surrogacy, I’d been very dubious.

The surrogate laws in the UK give parental rights to the mother and her partner if she changes her mind, which had spelt disaster to me.

I’d therefore been very wary. However, Gid had no doubts whatsoever, and as I got to know our surrogate I realised how right he was.

She was lovely, and we intend to tell the children all about her when the time comes.

She gave us a great gift and I’ll never stop being grateful to her.

The handover of parental rights had been smooth with each child, and I think it was only then that I took a full breath.

Once Gus is dressed, we wander down to the kitchen which lies in a pool of sunny stillness.

Knowing where Gid’s gone without him even having to leave me a note, I amble down the garden with Gus to where a wooden jetty lies.

The water sparkles today like it’s been fractured into a thousand shiny pieces, and Gus and I settle ourselves down on the lawn so he can have a look around.

He won’t crawl and for some reason travels everywhere on his arse which Niall says he definitely inherited from Gideon, given that he tends to look at life through his arse.

I smile at the thought and look up as I hear the phut phut of the outboard motor approaching.

The bright yellow dinghy zips across the river coming toward us.

Gideon sits at the back steering, while at the front our terrier dog stands dressed in his orange life jacket, barking shrilly as if instructing Gid on how to moor the boat.

My husband steers one-handed, his other hand moored firmly around the waist of Hetty.

I grin at the sight of father and daughter as the boat comes to a neat stop.

With Gus on my hip, I take the rope he flings me and hold on as the dog jumps neatly out and starts to jump around me, his little tail coiled scorpion-like along his back.

We got him from a local farm as a puppy, and this tendency to jump to great heights had led to him being named Tigger.

The firm bond he has with Hetty and the fact that she frequently looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards has inevitably led to them being nicknamed Stig and Tig.

Gus coos, reaching for Tig, and I watch as Gid hands out Hetty and vaults out of the boat himself, clutching paper bags that smell of gorgeous things.

“Dadi,” Hetty shouts, darting at me and hugging me tightly round the leg. Gus chuckles and reaches for her, tangling his hand in her blonde waves. I remove it quickly, knowing from experience that he’ll get it caught again and we’ll end up having to cut bits of her hair to get his hand out.

“I had icy biscuits with Paula,” she announces. “And Daddy bought lots and lots of wossants.”

“Croissants,” I say as I take off her life jacket.

She gives me her wide, gap-toothed grin. “Then we came back across the river and Daddy said ‘shit’ really loudly at some boys in a boat when they got too close.”

“Oh look,” Gideon says quickly as I turn to stare at him. “What is Tig doing?”

“Not swearing at tourists so that our daughter can go to school and teach the children that word, the same way that she taught them pillock the other week.”

“She knows they’re naughty words,” he says, holding her upside down while she shrieks. “Don’t you, Stiggy?”

I look down at my daughter. “Oh my God, who dressed her?” I say faintly.

“She did,” Gid says, grinning as he lets Hetty down to the ground.

He hands me the bags, which I know will contain a selection of pastries still warm from the oven at the bakery in the town.

I also know that Gideon will have stopped for a coffee and a gossip with the owner Paula, while Hetty and Tig will have sat with him nibbling on the fresh iced biscuits that Paula saves for them.

It’s a scene I’ve seen so many times, as Gideon has taken to Fowey like it was meant to be.

He’s often to be found zipping across the river in the boat, calling in at cafes or the pub to see the locals who’ve formed part of his set here.

For a man who said he hardly had any friends, he certainly seems to have been gifted with them now.

The locals, who can be insular, have taken to him like he’s one of their own, so now we’re invited to endless house parties, meals, and nights at the pub.

I love it for him that he can potter about dressed like a tramp and with contentment oozing from him.

“Why do you allow this?” I mutter, looking at our daughter as she dances about on the grass wearing bright orange shorts and a shocking pink T-shirt that badly needs an iron.

Her blonde wavy hair is sticking up in all directions, and she’s wearing green heart-shaped sunglasses and ratty old yellow Converse with a hole in the toe.

Her arms are also loaded with more plastic bracelets than Madonna wore in her heyday.

“It’s good for her to dress herself,” he says, bending to kiss Gus, who grins and kicks wildly when he sees his daddy.

“That’s lovely, and when we’re reported to social services for the holes in her clothes you can enlighten them as to the benefits of our daughter looking like a tramp.”

“I shall,” he says grandly. “And they will listen because I am the Man with the Golden Voice.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you know about that award,” I say ruefully. “You’ll be wanting a superhero costume next.”

“I very well might,” he muses. Then he comes close and whispers, “But I definitely won’t wear pants.”

He laughs, and I eye him. Dressed in jeans and a faded purple Ralph Lauren polo shirt, he looks a world away from that thin, stressed man I first met.

Now, his hair is longer and touched at the sides with grey flecks that make him look even more gorgeous.

His eyes are creased at the sides with laugh lines and his wide, mobile mouth is stretched into a big smile.

He’s tanned from the sun and looks wonderful.

Warm and rumpled and all mine. I savour the feeling for a second, putting out a hand and catching my fingers in his shirt when he kisses me and goes to move away.