Page 25 of The Love of Our Lives

We sing along to songs on the radio (Christmas already!) and chat about nothing much and everything at once.

When we get hungry, we stop at a roadside garage and pick up coffees and greasy cheese pasties, and when I see somewhere that looks great for photos – purple hills, or five-hundred-year-old castles stamped against the white skyline – we pull over and I take a few along the way.

We sweep up through it all and then, eventually, the sky ahead seems to loom higher and I see it – the huge expanse of North Sea to the right. It seems to go on and on forever, a million waves chopping white into the steel water. The enormity of it takes my breath away.

Eventually we hit the city of granite with its centuries-old grey buildings and stern spires against the sky. But despite the initial hardness of the place, I can’t help smiling at the way the sun glitters on the stone when pools of sunlight cascade through the clouds.

‘I love the way you do that,’ Adam murmurs.

I turn. ‘What?’

‘Act like everything is new to you, like it’s all fascinating.’

‘Well, maybe it sort of is.’ I say happily, before turning back to the window, and realise in that moment, how true those words are.

Even though I thought I’d experienced life before, lived in it every day even, I’d never actually witnessed the light changing on an unfamiliar hill, or smelt woodsmoke from a house in the middle of nowhere, or felt the subtle change in energy of a new town or city.

Even my holidays before Cat died were identical.

Everything was always the same, every rhythm, every scent, every feel.

And changing any of that is more fascinating – more invigorating – than I can say.

Arriving at the client’s enormous house in the West End, it’s all gothic windows and turrets.

We move the pieces out of the van together with some hilarity – it turns out I’m probably never going to be a removal worker, despite my new strength – and every time I catch Adam’s eye, I feel that charge from this morning still between us.

True to form, Daphne has us all sitting down for tea and scones in the Victorian orangerie soon after.

Turns out she was once a famous photographer, travelling all around the world to take pictures, and as we sit down to talk about all things art, I can see Adam glancing across, a contented smile on his face.

With a strange sort of giddiness, we head into town next, barely able to keep our hands off each other, as though we both know how close it was this morning to none of this happening; to everything ending between us.

Heading to the old part of the city, we wander hand in hand around the icy cobbled streets towards the university buildings.

We stand in the cold afternoon light and, as students mill around us, coffee cups in hand, I think about what it might have been like to leave home for art school after all, if I’d done things differently after Cat.

For lunch, we pop into a little bistro Magnus and Daphne said was good; linger over local oysters and fresh hake. Then, as we walk around town, I spy a leaflet. Turning it to him, I say, ‘Are you game?’

And he says, ‘Absolutely.’

Twenty minutes later and we’re walking into the fun fair on the seafront.

Rollercoasters loom high in the sky and lights flash all around us, but even though my heart is beating fast, I’m excited too.

It’s the sort of thing I’d never have been able to do before, not even as a teen.

But today, I feel as free as I’ve ever been and I want to make up for lost time. Right now.

As we sit on one of the rollercoaster carts minutes later, moving slowly up together into the ice-cold air, I can’t deny I feel a bit nervous – what if the ride breaks down?

What if we go flying on to the concrete below?

But then I look across at Adam, at the big smile on his face, and I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be in this moment.

The cart pauses at the top, and then in a rush of speed and light we’re dropping so fast, my hair is flying and Adam is whooping and I’m screaming, but it’s not with fear anymore, it’s with sheer bloody delight.

And I want to do it all over again.

After going on more rides and playing at the arcades together, shouting out loud every time I beat Adam, the sun starts to set in the heavy winter sky outside and I feel him take my hand.

‘Better get going before it snows,’ he says softly.

Sure enough, a few minutes after getting into the van, the heavens collapse in on themselves and snow falls lightly, then heavier and heavier as we speed back out of the city. The roads become thick with it in no time and even Adam’s robust van begins to swerve about.

‘It’s pretty bad out there,’ I say, looking ahead at the other few slow-moving cars, which veer precariously as well.

‘We’re all right,’ Adam says beside me, but even I can see the white of his knuckles as he grips the steering wheel, and my heart pounds lightly.

His eyes are focused hard on the road and I wonder just how long we can keep driving for.

But we’re back in the middle of nowhere and I can’t quite think what we passed on the way up.

We’re about half an hour outside the city when it comes into sight – a beacon of light away off the main road, a plume of smoke and a sign at the top of a long-wooded drive that says, ‘Eastwick House Hotel’.

Adam slows the van down and I can feel my heart quickening as we reach it, grateful for its presence, yet also excited about what this might mean. He turns to me.

‘I’m not trying to suggest anything,’ he says quickly, ‘I just think it’s safer to stay off the road tonight . . . what do you think?’ As snow rushes into the windscreen, I turn to him and say, ‘I think I agree.’

He sets off down the drive, which is now thickly white. The wheels are silent, as the quaintest hotel comes into view. With its big Victorian windows shining out, I only hope they have space for us.

We jog up the enormous stone steps to a huge old door.

Walking inside from the cold, we are immediately met by a wave of heat from a roaring fire.

Red tartan lines the floor and a light fixture made of antlers hangs from above.

At reception, we’re told there’s one room left, which makes me think of every bad romcom I’ve ever seen.

But I don’t really care – I reckon I’m due a few cliché moments.

And as we’re shown the way up to the second floor, I know instinctively what’s going to happen tonight, in this body which isn’t mine, and yet feels so much mine now it’s getting hard to distinguish Maggie from Emily.

I can feel that old anxiety still pulling at me, still trying to protect myself and everyone else from getting hurt, but this time, I’m not going to listen to it.

I’m not going to let it ruin this moment – this brilliant day we’ve had.

We’re shown into a comfortable double room, which is all tartan furnishings again and tweed chairs. And at the centre of it all is a crisp white bed, turned down already for the night.

As the girl tells us that breakfast is served from seven and politely leaves the room, I can feel Adam glance at me.

The tension from the day has built to an absolute crescendo and it takes us seconds after the door has shut for us to fall into each other again, kissing almost desperately now.

The strain of this morning, the uncertainty about where we actually stood, buried now by snow.

And as we fall on to the enormous bed, with flakes fluttering against the window, I feel myself floating up and up, leaving the two of us together.

Like how it always should be.