Page 55 of The Love of Our Lives

AFTER

It takes a day or two to be released from the hospital, even though I keep reassuring the doctors over and over that I’m absolutely fine.

I know I need to take it slow again, now that I’m in my old body, but at the same time, I don’t.

I’ve spent a whole year running around carefree, finally feeling intensely alive, and then being convinced that I’m about to die – that I have this endless feeling of wonder about the body I’m still in.

That I have more time – time to see the people I love, time to pursue my interests, time to enjoy pasta and cake and champagne, if it’s called for.

Because in whatever long, stretching years (because they are long when I really think about it now) I have left, it would be an insult to Emily and her unborn child to waste one moment – one second.

The first thing I do – the first thing I have to do – as soon as I’m discharged from the hospital, is go see her. Because the obituary also mentioned a remembrance spot and as I read where it was, it all made total sense.

Mum started fretting, of course, when I headed out alone into the sunny afternoon, talking about coats and medications and being careful.

But I simply turned to her and told her calmy, but firmly, that I would be absolutely fine.

And even though she didn’t look entirely convinced, I’m sure I saw a hint of smile when I walked away down the street.

I just hope she’s ready for everything I’ll do next.

Walking through the leafy Meadows as children play on the sun-soaked grass and runners pass me by, I can’t help thinking that, just over a year ago now, it was Emily running through these pathways.

It was me too.

And I wonder who came here a few days ago, on the actual anniversary of her death. Probably not her mum, as the official grave was in London.

But Adam?

Adam . Even his name makes me ache all over. Because it feels like only five minutes ago that I was lying beside him in bed as the sun rose on his skin, those lips I kissed a hundred times. I miss him every second of the day.

But I realised in the end I could never keep him. Never find what we had as me, Maggie in my own body, because he won’t remember a thing. And all those memories between us – as unique to us as they were – must surely all be gone, leaving nothing but his time with Emily.

The way it was always supposed to be.

I can’t help being grateful, though, that he’s still out there somewhere. I’ve looked up his upholstering website and it’s active at least, though it says he’s not taking orders over the summer. And I wonder what’s he doing instead.

It doesn’t take me long to find the bench, not too far from the children’s play park and with a view of Arthur’s Seat up to the side. Because it was here where I used to come running, where she must have run too.

I read the words on the inscription—

‘Every adventure requires a first step’

In Memory of Emily Isabella Perin, loving daughter, friend, and partner in life.

And I know, even if no one else does, that it all really did happen, some way, somehow. I lived that life, I was that daughter, that friend – that partner.

The happiest and most incredible year of my life.

‘Hello,’ a deep voice says beside me, and I turn sharply to see him – William, looking at me curiously.

A year older perhaps, but no older-looking somehow.

His eyes are still that pale-blue, his white hair tucked neatly back under a flat cap.

He’s wearing his chinos and trainers, a light-green jacket, and my heart floods with warmth at the sight of him.

My friend.

I want to hug him but I won’t. I can’t alarm him.

‘Hello,’ I say back instead, and smile.

‘Did you know her?’ he says, roughly, but with a strangely hopeful look in his eye. ‘Emily.’

I swallow. ‘I did . . . once. We were very close’

He nods at that. ‘Well, then you’re one of the lucky ones.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘She was inspirational.’

He lets out a small laugh. ‘Yes, she was, wasn’t she? We miss her terribly, but I still come here most days on my walk. Just to say hello to her, and we have a natter about what mischief her cat’s been up to, or what adventure I’ve had that day.’

‘That’s lovely,’ I say, trying to fight back the tears.

A beat.

‘You’re welcome to take a little memento from her flat if you like? Before the rest goes to charity, I mean.’

I turn to him sharply. ‘What do you mean, her flat? How could it still—’

‘Oh, it’s silly, really,’ William says, waving a hand at me.

‘I couldn’t bring myself to rent it again after it happened, and then I wanted to give her family the opportunity to come up and take a look around.

They did eventually, after quite a few months, took a few personal items of course, but her mum was a bit of a state at the time.

I’m not sure if she really knew what she was doing.

We’ve cleared most of her things into boxes and a young couple is taking the keys next week, but I could take you in for a quick look around, if you’d like? ’

My heart – her heart – skips with the idea. ‘I’d love that.’

‘Good, shall we walk?’ he says, offering me his arm, and breathing in that peppermint scent of him, I take it.

Ten minutes later and we’re back at the building I grew to love so very much and my heart thuds at the idea of going in again. As we go up each stone step slowly together, it all rushes up at me, a thousand moments and memories of happiness and sadness and everything in between.

‘Are you all right?’ William says, stopping briefly.

I nod silently. ‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’

At the top, I let William fiddle with his keys for a moment. Glancing around at Adam’s door, my eyes searching frantically for signs of him. There are no boots outside his door and the paintwork is slightly chipped – something he’d have always fixed if he were here.

‘Here we are,’ William says and I turn back to see him walking into the place I called home for a whole year.

Stepping inside the now quiet space, I take in the scent of it; find it’s still very faintly there, those roses and lemons, and shutting my eyes briefly, I drink it in.

William closes the door behind us now and walks into the living room.

Following behind him, I scan over everything quickly – a wall of colour, which is sort of like mine, but also not; her photos of Edinburgh, which line the walls – but from slightly different angles to mine; her little diving figurines, which were exactly the same, of course.

It is my home, and hers, and ours.

And I can’t help wondering what else was the same, or different? Did we really track the same course?

Perhaps I’ll never know what really happened in her version.

‘You can take a look around if you like,’ William says, sitting himself down on the little dining room chair near the window, through which I first smelt those intoxicating scents.

‘Thank you,’ I say softly, and walk slowly back through to the hallway.

A lot has clearly already been packed up and put away, her jackets and shoes for one, but the little mirror is still there and I look at myself in it now, half expecting to see the dark hair and kind eyes.

It’s just me and my red hair reflected back, of course, but for the briefest moment, I see her still, smiling out at me from somewhere.

In the bedroom, I stop, look around. There is the bed I first woke up in, the dreamcatcher against the window, the cupboard of colourful clothing, likely empty now, I assume.

All the same, I walk up and open it again, remember how it was just a week ago – when I’d wake up every day with an adventure ahead and wonder what I should wear to do it in.

It’s all gone now as I suspected, but then I see something.

Up on top of the wardrobe, a black case of some sort. Is it . . . no, it can’t be.

But as I reach up to take it down, I realise it really is – my camera.

Her camera.

Unzipping the case with trembling hands, a thousand thoughts flash through my head. How is it still here? Why didn’t her mum take it away with her? Why didn’t Adam take it?

And what’s on it?

Pulling the camera out of the bag, I brace myself for it to have no battery left after all this time. But then, who was the last person to touch it? Pressing the ‘on’ button, I’m amazed to find it flashes to life, and what I see makes me stop and stare in amazement.

Even as the tears are falling from my eyes, I head back through to William. He’ll be wondering what I’m doing.

When he sees me walk in with the camera, he gets up quickly.

‘Are you all right?’ he says, kindly. He looks down at the camera, ‘is that . . . we always wondered where it was. I assumed it was lost.’

I shake my head, trying to compose myself. ‘No,’ I say, ‘she just liked to keep it safe. It . . . meant a lot to her, these photos.’

‘You really did know her well, didn’t you?’

‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ I say, ‘would you mind if I showed this to someone who needs to see these?’

William pauses, then nods. ‘Of course. Please look after it though, for everyone’s sake.’

I smile. ‘Always.’

I take the train down to London again this time, not because I have any fear of flying anymore, but more because I need to start the process of sorting insurance with my condition first. I’m not sure who’s more shocked, Mum or Dad, and when they ask why I’m going, I simply tell them there’s someone I have to see – right now.

And Mum doesn’t fight it at all this time.

Walking along the pretty, pristine street later that day, I can’t help thinking about Simon and Fran again, wondering how they’re doing.

I looked them up online, of course, and while Simon seemed to be doing broadly the same as before, at least Fran had moved on – alone.

The latest picture was of her beside a blue-footed booby in the Galapagos Islands, a big smile on her face, and it made me smile too.

Eventually I come to Morton House again. I don’t know if anyone will be in this time around – it’s been almost two months since I received the letter but that’s also two months of her mum receiving nothing in return.

Ringing the buzzer on the huge gates, I hear a voice eventually say, ‘Can I help you?’

Jackie.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ I start, ‘but I’m here with something of Emily’s.’

Immediately, the gates open wide and I walk up to the grand entrance, and standing there waiting for me on the doorstep are both of them – Jackie, and Emily’s mum.

I’m led into the posh lounge I saw when I was last here, and surrounding the room are all the photos of Emily – Emily as a little girl with Jackie in the kitchen drinking milk, Emily spinning in circles in the garden, arms outstretched, staring up with wonder, Emily standing outside her school at eight, twelve, fifteen; Emily in her graduation photo, Emily in a restaurant in London somewhere.

Then nothing.

‘Coffee?’ Jackie says, her anxious eyes on mine.

And I know that this is just as important a visit to Jackie as to Emily’s mum.

‘Yes, please,’ I say reassuringly, ‘that would be lovely.’

Should I really have just dropped in like this? With absolutely no warning? God, maybe I should have written back first – taken my time.

Then I recall the letter again – I wish I could connect those final missing pieces of my only child’s life. But more than anything, I wish I could hold my Stella one more time and tell her I love her – tell her how she was my whole world, and always will be.

After we’re all settled in the room, Emily’s mum sits forwards.

‘So, what is it you have of Emily’s exactly?’

And in that moment, all I can do is tell the truth.

‘I got your letter,’ I say slowly, simply.

And I can see the dawning realisation on both their faces, the tears as they start to flood down their cheeks, and mine now, because I know in this moment that this was the right call, coming here like this. Doing things now, and not later.

Then suddenly we’re embracing, first her mum, and then Jackie.

Her dad appears with his rumple of grey hair, clearly disturbed from all the noise, and Emily’s mum is saying, ‘It’s her, it’s the one with Emily’s heart.

’ And then he is embracing me too, and it’s the worst, yet most lovely, moment of my life.

Then after everyone has settled down again, I show them the camera.

‘But . . . how did you find us? How did you get this?’ her mum is saying, her pale cheeks stained pink.

I don’t reply immediately because what can I say really? How can any of it be explained?

I have to try though.

‘I went to her flat,’ I try finally, hoping they don’t ask me how I knew where it was, or who she was, ‘and I found it there – I just knew she’d want you to see it.’

The three of them crowd around it, the camera with the missing pieces of her life.

Hurriedly I go to the latest pictures and immediately it’s like I’m there again, all of it, except it’s her unique version and not mine – that first selfie of her smiling on the grass with an ice cream, the first pictures she took around the city when she was just feeling her way, trying to find that slower pace she’d always wanted, those walks with Adam and evenings with friends where their love began to blossom; a date with Adam in Glasgow, one on the Isle of Arran, too, it seems. A lot of fun with Charlie as well – dancing, driving, playing instruments and things I’d not thought of, like disco bowling.

Then Christmas at Adam’s flat and a ski trip up north, in a different lodge, in a different place and likely with no Charlie accident, and no trip to the hospital.

And then it merges again on the train to London, just like I felt on the train tracks that day, when she went down to Fran’s wedding, when she found out the truth about her fiancé and her best friend.

She did some travelling too after that it appears, largely to New Zealand from what I’ve been able to tell. Then finally to Canada, where she went to meet him and take a chance on love again.

Adam and Emily are holding hands in the next photo, their matching grins infectious, then Hope’s birth at the hospital, a party in the Purple Pineapple with everyone the week before Emily died.

It’s all there, her life in a year, slightly different to mine, of course, but still with the same outcome. Because that was the point of it all. That was why I was there I realise now.

It was a gift to me.

And now it’s my gift to them.