Page 2 of The Love of Our Lives

Late morning light shines through the canopy of leaves above, dappling the pebbled pathway ahead of me. It should be beautiful, yet all I can think about is that letter in my pocket again.

Like a blow to the heart.

‘You OK?’ Jess says beside me as we walk along. I glance at her dark blonde hair and sunglasses, three yellow balloons bobbing up from her hand for today’s celebrations.

‘I’m doing absolutely fine,’ I say cheerfully, even as I recall the moment the post came a week ago.

But there’s no need to talk about it now, no need to get into it today.

I focus instead on my four-year-old nephews firing ahead in their matching navy shorts and white t-shirts, russet hair flapping as they go.

All around us are thick, aged trees and secret passages leading to hidden patches of grass, and I can’t help remembering how my sisters and I used to play here in the Botanics when we were kids too.

Cat would be shouting loudly and leading the game, while I would be going along with whatever she said, even though I was only eleven months younger.

And a three-years-younger Jess would be trailing somewhere behind, trying desperately to get involved.

‘Hunter, Sebs, don’t go where we can’t see you,’ Jess calls from beside me. ‘Graham, go after them.’

Obediently, my brother-in-law jogs ahead in his chino shorts and blue shirt, his geek-chic hair waving in the breeze. He growls and the boys screech with delight, scattering like rabbits as they try to escape his outstretched claws.

I hear our parents’ laughter from somewhere close behind and smile.

And then, in a rush of light, we come out from under the leafy awning again.

I feel the sun on my face and immediately put on my wide-brimmed sun hat.

On one side, the skyline of Edinburgh rolls majestically across the horizon, from the jut of Arthur’s Seat on the left, all the way along to the castle on the right.

On the other side, an apron of green is set in front of the sandstone Georgian house, the heart of the Botanics.

Children turn cartwheels in the late July sun, and families wander around, coffees in hand.

The air smells of warm pine and grass; rhododendrons from the bushes beyond.

‘So,’ I say mock-innocently, as we wander along, ‘did you get those fabulous silver trainers in the end?’

Jess shoots a guilty smile at me. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to. They matched with everything I had too well.’

I let out a laugh and point down at my feet. ‘Of course, they bloody do, I picked them first.’

She grins, and I give her a gentle nudge.

‘So,’ Jess says, in the same light note as mine, ‘are you excited about your big day?’

I glance up at the balloons in my favourite colour. ‘Yes, of course.’ I say brightly, even as my stomach contracts.

Because exactly one year ago today, I got a new heart. Due to a progressive genetic heart disorder.

‘More to the point—’ I say, pushing the anxiety away ‘—are you excited about your big adventure coming up?’

Jess pauses, her face unreadable behind her sunglasses.

‘I guess so,’ she says eventually, ‘but I’d be much happier if I knew you were coming to visit. You could come help us get settled in even, see the sights while you’re there?’

‘Come on, Jess,’ I try to say in an upbeat voice, ‘you know I can’t go anywhere yet. Maybe next year, though.’

She looks disappointed, her brow furrowed in that way she does, and I can’t help feeling bad.

It’s not like I’m not desperate to visit her when they move to Amsterdam in two weeks’ time for her teaching job.

Jess is my sister – my best friend too, these days – and I’d love to go away somewhere, anywhere, after not being able to for pretty much the whole of my life.

But there are consequences to pushing myself.

And she knows that better than anyone.

‘But how can you not come visit us in the house that you found us?’ she continues. ‘Which, by the way, is amazing. Did you see the open-plan space for the boys?’

I laugh as I catch a glimpse of them in the wooded area ahead. Hunter launches himself out of a tree he definitely shouldn’t be on. ‘I had them foremost in mind, if you can believe it.’

Jess puffs out air, looks ahead, and I get that weird sense again – the one I’ve had a lot recently – that she’s not telling me something.

At first, I put it down to the move, but more and more recently she’s felt sort of distant.

And we’re never distant from each other – argumentative sometimes, yes, but that’s different.

It’s not the same as it was with Cat, of course, where we finished each other’s sentences and called at the exact same time – I could tell Cat needed a packet of her favourite peanut M I come to an abrupt stop.

‘You all right, Maggie?’ Jess says, appearing beside me. She grips my arm, gives me a determined look. ‘Come on, I’ll do it with you.’

‘No, it’s OK,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘I’m just going to walk around the side.’

A flash of worry crosses Jess’s face, and I hate how pathetic I sound. But I don’t want to strain myself.

Not today of all days.

Footsteps crunch over the gravel behind us, and I turn around to see Mum running across.

Shit.

‘What’s happened? Are you OK?’ Mum’s voice is tense and breathless, and I realise now how that must have looked – me stopping dead in my tracks like that.

‘I’m absolutely fine,’ I say quickly, and walk back down the hill. ‘I was just saying I’m going to go around the other way, that’s all.’

‘All right,’ Mum says, ‘all right.’ She takes a deep breath herself. ‘I’ll come with you.’ Turning back, she yells, ‘Iain, she’s OK!’

With the picnic basket and chairs tossed somewhere behind him on the path, Dad nods, but I can see the strain and sweat on his face as he turns to go back for them.

Slightly deflated now, I head around the long way with Mum and Jess. We walk across the lawn, past picnic blankets and sunbathers, before Mum inevitably stops at a shady patch – I can’t be in the direct sun for long with my immune system the way it is these days.

‘Let’s set up camp here,’ she says, her voice that bit sharper now, and I feel bad for her – it’s her day out too. She’s even wearing her big straw hat and her favourite white dress with the poppies on it. She bought it for a holiday a few years back, which inevitably got cancelled.

‘I’ll go round up my brood if everything’s OK now,’ Jess says, bounding back off down the slope, and I watch her go wistfully. It’s not that I’m not used to being left with Mum and Dad – I’ve always lived at home, after all – it’s just I’d really like to be in her shoes for a moment.

In front of me now, Dad sorts the logistics as usual, laying out the tartan picnic blanket and a couple of deck chairs for ‘the oldies’, while Mum and I take out all the other stuff: I yum at the sandwiches and ooh at the nibbles from M&S – salami and cheese, fat olives and velvety hummus – before Mum takes a Tupperware box out and passes it to me.

‘Thanks,’ I say, smiling. Through the white plastic I can vaguely make out the shape of my brown bread sandwiches and I can’t help sighing as I look back up.

Pop .

I look up to see Dad holding an open champagne bottle. Fizz bubbles over the glass lip, and I feel warm at the sight of him in his favourite checked shirt today. His white hair is almost transparent in the sunlight but the big silly grin on his face makes him look years younger today.

‘Here you go, Small,’ he says, passing me the glass, and I light up briefly at the pet name. But in a flash, Mum is there.

‘Don’t be silly, Iain,’ she says, taking the glass from him. ‘I don’t even know why you brought this stuff anyway.’

Dad’s face immediately falls, and I feel annoyed on his behalf.

‘It was just a little sip,’ I try, but she’s not listening.

‘Exactly,’ Dad says, ‘a little half glass isn’t going to kill anyone.’

A horrible silence falls between the three of us, and I’m about to say something to ease the tension, when I see a couple strolling our way across the lawn.

And there’s something about the man that makes me stop.

He’s all shorts and t-shirt vibes, sunglasses on, but I would know that firm jawline anywhere, that sweep of dark hair. My stomach drops.

Nick.