Page 23 of Love at First Sight

‘You ready for this?’ I ask Henry at pick-up. He is currently chomping down his snacks on the way to the bus stop. ‘I know Mummy being away isn’t an amazing thing, but what do we always say?’

‘If at first you don’t succeed, give up?’ Henry asks, more focused on his Soreen banana bread than on me.

‘No!’ I say. ‘What? Where did you hear that? It’s if at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.’

‘Oh,’ he says, going in for his tuna sandwich now.

‘And anyway,’ I continue, ‘what I was going to say was, two things can be true at once. We can miss Mummy, but we can also have lots of fun together!’

I wrap my arms around him and squeeze, careful not to make him choke on his sarnie. That wouldn’t be a good start.

‘I’m thinking pizza nights, I’m thinking bike rides, I’m thinking watching some of Black Panther but fast-forwarding the scary parts …’

That gets his attention. ‘What about Endgame ?’ he says. ‘Can we watch Endgame but skip any bits with Thanos?’

‘Henry!’ I say, putting my arms wide in a show of excitement. ‘We can do whatever we want!’

Henry and I begin our big holiday by getting into pyjamas at 4 p.m., even though it’s still light outside and I’ve offered him both park time and a bike ride.

‘It’s too hot,’ he tells me, in that very serious way he has when his mind is made up.

‘Mummy draws all the blinds and leaves the screen door open, and then we put both the fans on.’ It’s funny, Ali O’Hara is as famous as a Brit can get within their own country, but England being England, nobody has air conditioning.

English celebs: they melt in the summer just like the rest of us.

‘Then that’s what we’ll do,’ I say. ‘You hungry for pizza yet? I’ll order in, since we have our fun money …’

‘From Domino’s?!’ Henry asks, excitedly.

‘I mean, if we have to …’ I say. ‘I do think the place on the corner is nicer …’

‘Domino’s!’ Henry cries, because he loves it when he thinks he’s convinced me of something.

I have previously tried to develop his taste for pizza into something more artisan, telling him that the pizza from the place on the corner is made by actual Italian people, which is where pizza is from, and it’s made with an extra-special ingredient that Domino’s pizza isn’t: love.

‘I don’t think I like pizzas made with love’ was his reply, and so the salt factory known as Domino’s it is.

‘Can I read a bedtime story to you?’ Henry asks, as we prep for our party by procuring drinks and napkins and mats for the table. ‘I read a bedtime story to Mummy sometimes. Now I’m getting good.’

‘Absolutely,’ I say, aware that he’s probably already worrying about a bedtime without his mum, running through his little head how it will be, what it will be like. ‘We can do anything you want. It’s been a while since somebody read me a bedtime story, so I am very up for that. What a good idea!’

Henry nods, satisfied.

‘And even if you already know this, I’m going to tell you again: I know you’d prefer Mummy here, and that’s okay.

It can be super tricky to be brave when we miss people.

But I love you very much, and I have the most special job in the world, which is keeping you safe.

You know who gets to decide the ways they feel safe?

You. You decide. I think I know you pretty well, so I know some of the ways you feel safe and happy, but if I miss anything you just tell me, okay? ’

‘I’ll read The Koala Who Could ,’ Henry says, almost as if he hasn’t heard anything I’ve just said.

‘We did it in English at school and I already knew the book because we have it at home. The koala clings on to the tree, like this!’ He does an impression of holding on to a tree, squeezing his eyes shut and making a high-pitched ‘squeak’ noise.

‘It’s set in Australia. Do you know where Australia is? ’

I shake my head.

‘In the southern hemisphere,’ he tells me, and I’m so surprised that he knows the term southern hemisphere that I squeal and lurch forward to put him in what we used to call ‘cuddle jail’ when he was little.

‘How do you know that?’ I say, holding him tight. ‘How do you know southern hemisphere ?! You’re so smart!’

Henry laughs and pushes me off him.

‘Can I have sweetcorn on my pizza?’ he says, once again changing the subject. It makes me smile. He might not want to tell me he hears my compliments, but I’m going to keep giving them anyway.

After sharing a stuffed crust and watching The BFG , we brush our teeth, pee, turn on the stars that shine onto his bedroom ceiling, and I lie beside Henry in his bed as he reads me The Koala Who Could .

He gets halfway through and then yawns, before asking me to take over.

By the time I’m done he’s already half asleep, clutching the Mickey Mouse toy he got at Disneyland last summer.

I lie there looking at the stars, counting his breaths, until his sleep is deep and dreamless and heavy, and I can head downstairs.

I always forget about this part of staying over at Ali’s, the part where Henry is in bed and I become acutely aware that I am in somebody else’s house.

Obviously it’s gorgeous, but in my own place I know where to sit, which mug I like, the best way to organise the lighting so I can see my book but also feel cosy and relaxed.

I get a glass of water and pull back the blinds to let in the cooler evening air.

I decide to sit outside, flopping down in the oversized armchair that had to be craned in over the back garden wall when it was delivered, which at the time seemed like another world to me.

Getting furniture craned in? I’ve only ever had Dad help me carry stuff from the charity shop or self-assemble stuff from Ikea.

Urgh. Dad. The big chat that needs to happen hasn’t yet, and I suppose it’s fair play that I haven’t heard from him because it should be me who reaches out.

He’ll be waiting for me to calm down and do just that.

It’s just … God, it still stings, that he sided with her, like a new precedent has been set.

Which puts me exactly on my own, and that’s terrifying.

I pick up my phone. No texts, no missed calls.

Idly I scroll through a bit of social media, then the news.

I flick through to my email, simply for something to do, and certainly not because I expect anything of note.

But there is. There’s an email from a Hackney council address, and the subject is: CONGRATULATIONS!

I gasp, skimming the email but taking nothing in, and then force myself to read it again and again until it registers: I’ve got the funding. I am being given ten thousand pounds to launch Stray Kids.

Oh my god!

Unthinkingly, I find Cal’s text, the one where he sent me the photo of my flyer with his face in it, the text I should have deleted when it came through but didn’t.

I never saved his number, but I kept the message – I was too scared to read into why that was, so I didn’t.

I click the top icon and then ‘call’. Cal picks up on the third ring.

‘Hello?’ he says, voice deep and steady.

‘I got the funding,’ I say, and there’s a pause as he mentally confirms that it’s me. But then, ‘I knew you would! Jessie! That’s fantastic!’

‘Ten grand,’ I say, my heart beating like it’s trying to fight its way out of my chest. ‘I feel so …’

‘So what?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know! I’m shaking! And my mind is running away with me with, like, all the things I can do, when I can get this done by, how it will feel .’

He laughs. ‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘That’s so, so, great. Congratulations.’

There’s a lull. In between my initial excitement and Cal’s answer, something settles. I rang him. Out of everyone, I rang Cal. And he picked up. Suddenly, I am mortified.

‘How are you celebrating?’ he asks, after a pause.

‘I’m with Henry,’ I say. ‘So, this glass of water alone in the garden will have to do.’

‘I could …’ he says, and I know how I want him to finish the sentence, and I am terrified that’s what he will actually say. I hold my breath. ‘Come over? Drink a glass of water with you?’

Obviously that cannot happen. Cal cannot come to Ali’s house whilst she is away, her son sleeping upstairs.

‘That’s okay,’ I say, and I can almost hear his disappointment in the way he breathes. Then, even though I shouldn’t, I ask: ‘Can you talk a bit longer though?’ I immediately doubt myself. ‘Or do you have places to be?’

‘I can talk,’ he says, softly. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Okay.’

I can hear the light breeze moving through Ali’s artfully dishevelled garden, the small urban jungle quivering overhead.

The light is low, the sun barely peeking over the tops of the houses, but she’s defiant in her glory, determined in her honeyed hues.

I take a sip of water and curl my feet up under me.

‘So, no big plans tonight then?’ I finally say. I hear him smile.

‘Not tonight, no,’ he replies. ‘And even if I did …’

‘What?’

‘I like talking to you, Jessie.’

I exhale loudly. I can’t say it back. Even if I wanted to, I can’t.

‘Done any more Tough Mudders lately?’ Cal changes the subject, and I can hear the cheekiness in his tone. He’s letting me know he doesn’t know what to say, either – and yet, neither of us wants to hang up.

‘I have not,’ I say. ‘But you did inspire me to volunteer, what with you helping me so much, so I shall pay it forward soon enough.’

‘Oh yeah? You won’t regret it. You get to meet all sorts of people.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ I say, and then there’s nothing, just his breathing down the line. ‘Hey, if you could only eat one meal for the rest of your life, what would it be?’ I have to move the conversation forward. We can’t just sit here not talking.

‘Oh, okay,’ he says. ‘Get-to-know-you questions, I see you. What would I eat for the rest of my life? The Jennifer Aniston Salad.’

‘The what?!’ I say.

‘The Jennifer Aniston Salad. Apparently she ate it on the set of Friends every single day, for ten years. I make five on a Monday morning and have it for lunch during the week, so the rest of my life doesn’t seem a stretch.’

‘I’m going to need the recipe for this.’

‘Let me find you a link.’ It takes ten seconds to get the bleep that means he’s sent it. I put the phone on speaker and take a look.

‘Tasty,’ I say. ‘Like a sad version of a Caesar salad, which isn’t a bad thing.’

‘Yes,’ Cal says. ‘Famously being a sad version of anything is quite the compliment.’

‘Nestlé is the sad version of Cadbury but Nestlé make Mars Bars …’ I point out.

Cal makes a noise of disagreement. ‘I think Mars make Mars Bars …’

I shrug, although obviously he can’t see that. ‘The point still stands.’

‘I suppose it does.’

I yawn. It’s getting late. It makes Cal yawn.

‘I’m going to take you inside,’ I say. ‘I need to start getting ready for bed.’

‘Same,’ says Cal, and that’s how I end up locking up the house, brushing my teeth and getting into my pyjamas with him.

‘I really am sorry for all the confusion, for what it’s worth,’ Cal says, when we’re both settled in our respective beds. It’s intimate, lying in the dark with only his voice. ‘I know I keep saying it.’

‘I know you are. And I mean, look. Nothing happened, at the end of the day. You came close to the line, but you never actually crossed it.’

‘I think I wanted to, though,’ he says. ‘I know that’s wrong of me to say.’

I sigh. ‘Yeah. You can’t talk that way. That’s a hard line in the sand, okay?’

‘Boundaries,’ Cal says. ‘Noted.’

‘Good.’

‘We’re going to be friends, then?’

I roll my eyes playfully, even though he doesn’t know I’m doing it.

‘I suppose so. I figure you’re going to be around a lot if you’re going to stay together, which I take it you are.

And I’d like to be friends with the guy who helped me get my funding.

It’s been kind of you to push me to do something with Stray Kids. ’

‘You’d have got there eventually.’

‘Maybe,’ I reply.

‘I’m almost asleep over here. But I don’t want you to think that’s a reflection of you. I’d talk all night if I could.’

‘I should go to sleep too. I have a seven-year-old to entertain all weekend. The trampoline park won’t bounce itself, and the lemon cake won’t bake on its own!’

‘Big plans,’ says Cal. ‘I’m kind of jealous.’

‘We’ll save you a slice,’ I say. And then I add, ‘Probably.’

‘I can live with probably .’

‘Then you’re a kinder fellow than me.’

We’re talking nonsense, but saying goodbye feels too hard, for some reason.

‘Do you have any recurring dreams? Or nightmares?’ Cal asks. ‘Like the story your subconscious comes back to again and again.’

‘Huh,’ I say without meaning to.

‘Huh?’

‘My mum. I don’t know if it’s a dream or a nightmare but … she’s there a lot. I guess I must miss her.’

‘I’m sorry. How long has she been gone?’

‘She’s not dead,’ I tell him. ‘But sometimes I think that would be better, not to sound too harsh. She moved to Australia when I was eighteen. I think I don’t let myself wonder how she could have ever left her only daughter behind when I’m awake, but when I’m asleep …’

‘The questions live on,’ Cal supplies.

‘They do. I’ve been out there once, now she’s all set up with her new husband and his kids from a previous marriage, and the two children they’ve had together.’

‘So you have siblings?’ Cal asks.

‘Half-siblings. I’ve met them once. My mum just has this whole new life, in the sun, as though me and Dad were her practice family and now she’s gets a do-over.

She was really young when she had me, only eighteen herself, so I guess she feels like she deserves another chance at life.

But. I find it all so baffling, really. We don’t talk much now.

Birthdays, around Christmas. That sort of thing. ’

‘Fuck,’ he laments. ‘You deserve better than that.’

‘Thank you. I agree.’

‘Good.’

‘Good.’

Cal yawns again, and it makes me yawn.

‘All right then,’ I say. ‘On that cheery note …’

‘No, I’m glad you told me. That’s what friends do, isn’t it? Tell each other things.’

‘You sound like you once read a book on friendship, but have never actually had one,’ I say, then I realise that sounds mean, considering he’s trying to let me know it’s all right to be vulnerable. ‘Sorry,’ I add. ‘I know you’re only trying to be nice.’

‘My book says friends make mistakes, but friends also forgive them. So don’t worry about it, pal.’

I give half a laugh. ‘Ha ha.’

‘I try,’ he says.

‘It works,’ I reply.

Another awkward pause.

‘Right,’ I say.

‘Yeah.’

And on it goes, until eventually I’m almost asleep and I have to say goodbye. I don’t want to, but I do.