Page 39 of The Love of Our Lives

An announcement on the tinny speaker ahead; the iconic King’s Cross Station suddenly emerges outside.

The train pulls to a stop and, after collecting my suitcase from the luggage rack, I step down on to the bustling platform, in the heart of the country’s capital.

I feel a rush of anxiety at the prospect of what’s ahead of me, but also a buzz of excitement too, this sense of coming back to somewhere special.

And as I walk up the platform, I put all thoughts of my family, and of home, away again.

Sunlight glints through the blossom trees as I walk along the neatly kept pavement.

To both sides of me, beautiful white and sandstone houses sit back in closely cropped gardens, pastel flowers lined orderly up their driveways.

A mother and daughter dressed in matching white summer dresses and beige sunhats walk smartly past me.

Even the bus that goes by seems shinier somehow, and I try to swallow down my nerves.

Then I see it, the street number I scribbled on a piece of paper before I left Edinburgh.

I’d found Emily’s parents’ address eventually in a floral address book at the bottom of a box, and although I knew the area would be affluent, I’m not sure I really got how much.

Looking up at Emily’s pristine childhood home, behind wrought-iron gates, I feel incredibly intimidated.

It exudes money and power, in a way I’ve never really seen up close before, the name Morton House etched on a gold plate.

Going to press the fancy-looking buzzer beside the gates, my heart catches in my chest and I feel sick.

Because why the hell would I put myself through this again, after that awful argument at Christmas?

After Emily’s mum made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want to see me.

But then, I really am running out of time now – there’s only three and a half months left, and if there’s one thing Emily must have wanted, I’ve got to think it’s making peace with her mother.

But even though I know they never made up, I’ve still got to come here, so her mother always knows Emily tried.

A second later and the gates start to open.

As I walk up the perfectly paved red drive, I can’t help but feel like an imposter here.

It was one thing going about my business in Edinburgh but quite another actually coming down here to Emily’s world.

As I stand on the step of the grand entrance, all stone arches and golden door knockers, I tuck my hair behind my ear and smooth down my sky-blue blouse.

I thought jeans would be OK for today but after seeing that mother and daughter combo, I feel underdressed suddenly.

I’m about to knock again, when the door opens up, but instead of Emily’s mother, I’m surprised to see someone else, someone I don’t know initially, until I tilt my head to the side, and as the sensations wash up and over me again, I see it: strawberry hair now flecked with grey, beady green eyes that crinkle at the side from years of laughter.

‘Jackie,’ I say slowly, as the name falls from my mouth.

‘Darling, girl,’ she says, rushing to greet me, and as the familiar form of her presses against me and I smell lavender and peppermint around me, it all comes rushing back.

‘You came home,’ she whispers into my hair.

A little while later and I’m settled with a tea by a vast marble island in an extensive kitchen.

Everything in the open-plan room is white and cream and glass, a sort of New England look mixed with something shinier; harder.

And the rest of the house is largely the same, like it’s trying to be inviting but falls flat in its neatness.

As Jackie stirs a large vat of soup on the shining Aga, I recall how she always used to warm up the place somehow.

She was who I came home to every day, after all.

It didn’t take long to realise that no one else was here, and when I asked where Mum was, she told me they’d just left for one of their European social tours again – partly to do with the business and partly just to ‘schmooze’, as she put it.

They had obviously not been invited to Fran’s wedding, and I got the feeling that these trips were a fairly regular feature of life – a memory too of being left here with Jackie for long stints when I was a teenager.

I was always so alone , a voice says from somewhere within, and I shiver.

‘Here you are,’ she says, coming over with a bowl of something delicious smelling, and I look down to see a thick red-ish broth.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

She sits down with her own across from me, some buttery baguette slices on the plate in front of her.

‘Would you mind if I stole one of those?’ I say, without thinking.

Jackie stares at me quizzically for a moment, before pushing the plate across. ‘Of course. Edinburgh’s clearly been quite the change for you, then.’

I swallow nervously, before starting to eat.

‘This soup tastes . . . like I’m nine years old,’ I say eventually, and Jackie smiles.

‘You always did love minestrone.’

I take a breath. ‘Do you know when they’ll be back? Mum and Dad, I mean?’

‘In a few weeks, I’d imagine. That’s the usual really, as you well know.’

‘I see.’

‘So tell me,’ Jackie says, ‘what happened between you and your mother?’

I pause, as I remember the awfulness of it, those all-consuming feelings of anger and frustration. I don’t even have to lie.

‘She wanted me to go back to my old life but I wanted to stay,’ I say eventually.

‘So why are you back then?’

‘I told you,’ I say, not quite meeting her eye. ‘Fran’s wedding.’

‘Are you sure that’s it?’

‘Yes,’ I say, but my voice is wavering.

A silence settles.

‘You were always such a dreamer when you were younger, you know?’ Jackie says finally.

‘I’ve heard that before,’ I say wryly.

‘Yup, you were four years old when I started working here, after my Colin passed, and, oh boy, you were always in a world of your own. Always drawing and creating things. Always taking pictures with those—’

‘Disposables,’ I say softly.

‘That’s right. You said they captured real moments better, even as an adult.’

Her face falls slightly. ‘But then you started at that fancy school and everything became serious so quickly. Homework every day for hours, it was all work, work, work, even at the age of five. And suddenly, all those fun activities disappeared. That dreamer disappeared.’

‘But why?’ I say. ‘Why did Mum hate it so much?’

‘She didn’t hate it; she just thought it was frivolous,’ Jackie says steadily.

‘She wanted to give you the big life she never had – she was determined to. Poverty does strange things to people, and your mum really did come into a tough version of the world. Do you know that she used to work three jobs before she met your father? Including one in a fish factory, if you can possibly believe it.’

I shake my head. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘So, now you do,’ Jackie says firmly. Then softer. ‘She only ever wanted the best for you.’

‘Funny way of showing it,’ I say, as I fiddle with the spoon in the soup bowl. I pause. ‘Do you think I should come back then?’

I don’t know why exactly but I already feel I can trust this woman who I’ve technically just met, but feel insanely close to, in a way I just couldn’t with Emily’s mum. And if she says it’s better for me here, I think I have to listen.

‘It’s not my decision to make,’ she says eventually and her expression softens.

‘You know Colin and I always wanted kids . . . but it never quite happened for us. You were like a daughter to me, Emily, so all I want is for you to be happy. And if that’s here in London, then that’s lovely.

You achieved such an incredible amount in such a short space of time, and you have great friends too.

A great life. But if it’s Edinburgh, or anywhere else you pick, then that’s also wonderful.

The main thing is to make your own mind up about your life, whatever that may be, and stop doing what someone else thinks you should. ’

‘Even you.’ I say, mischievously.

‘Even me.’ Jackie grins, and if you do that, then you’ll never have anything to properly regret.

Things can go wrong – they will go wrong – but as long as we know we followed our heart, and weren’t just dictated by fear, we can rest easy.

Because this life goes by much quicker than you’d think .

. .’ She reaches for my hand now. ‘Your mother will get there eventually. Just give her time.’

I squeeze her hand back. ‘Thank you,’ I say, even though I want to say that we’re running out of time much quicker than she knows.

She looks at my hand, up at me, squints. ‘You seem different somehow.’

I swallow. ‘Well, I suppose I have been away for a while.’

She shakes her head. ‘No, it’s not that . . . oh, I’m just being silly, aren’t I? You’re still my darling Emily and always will be. Just maybe give me a call the next time you disappear, even if you can’t call your mum.’

I look up to see tears in her eyes now and realise in this moment, just how loved Emily was, by so many people. I can’t bear the idea of putting them through more grief.

But it’s not my choice.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I won’t do it again.’

‘Good.’ Jackie says, wiping a tear away. ‘Now, will you stay overnight then?’

‘Sure,’ I say, curious to spend a little more time here.

Jackie nods, pleased. ‘Well, your room’s all made up. I’m just popping out to meet a friend for coffee,’ she says, getting up, ‘but I’ll be back for tea later. Maybe we can watch one of those silly—’

‘Horror movies,’ I finish softly, as that new detail about Emily drifts back to me, and she smiles. ‘Sounds great.’

She gets up to clear the bowls away, before I stop her. ‘I’ll sort this out.’

Jackie cups my cheek with her papery hand. ‘You were always such a thoughtful girl.’

It feels odd once she’s gone, as though I’m a stranger in someone else’s home, but it doesn’t take long before it all comes back to me fully – the cream, untouchable drawing room to the right of the entrance hall; the shiny, mahogany dining room to the left; the study and the cold conservatory; the annex for Jackie at the back, and the six huge bedrooms upstairs, including Emily’s childhood bedroom.

When I walk in, I immediately feel her, not in the ivory walls or the perfectly neat white bed (both chosen by her mother, I can tell) but in the colourful jewellery still hanging off one of those branch things, in the butterfly cushion sitting on a beige chair and the turquoise rug by her bed; the general warmth in this room, which lingers on.

A solitary print hangs on the wall with a quote that says, ‘Every adventure requires a first step’, from Alice In Wonderland .

There’s a photo on the bedside table too, which I go to pick up now.

It’s of Emily with her parents when she was younger – maybe eleven or so – and she actually looks really happy in it; they all do.

Emily’s pulling a silly face and her mum has her head tipped back in laughter.

Her dad is grinning to the side, and just behind it, I see something I think I know.

The outline of a cobbled archway, and a sign.

Dunbar’s Close , I whisper, as the memories finally trickle back – coming up to Edinburgh and visiting the castle, skipping down the Royal Mile and going down all the little closes, until I found the one I loved the most. It was a rare weekend my parents weren’t working, so they let me choose any activity I wanted and eat wherever I pleased.

We grabbed pizza slices for lunch and waffles for tea.

We stayed up watching movies together at the hotel, and for just a moment in time, we slowed down.

It became my favourite place .

So that’s why you went up there, I think at the exact same time. Almost as though the two sets of thoughts are merging into one, and I shiver.

But did you stay?

Flopping down on the bed, I stare up at the ceiling, only to find a dreamcatcher floating gently above my head.

And as I look up at it, I get the sense that she once lay here, debating what to do too.