‘That song you wrote,’ I said. ‘For Amy. How long ago did you write it?’
Still frowning, Joe asked, ‘I don’t . . . which song?’
‘The one you were playing in Whitby. If you could just feel me / If you could just touch me. That one.’
‘Oh,’ Joe said. ‘Oh, right. You heard that then, did you?’
I nodded. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But yes, I kind of did. So, when did you write it?’
Joe shrugged. ‘This is kind of embarrassing,’ he said.
‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘Tell me anyway. I think I need to know.’
‘Well, the thing is, I actually . . . um . . . Well, I wrote it there and then. I came up with it that morning. Like I said, it was just a ditty.’
‘I see,’ I said, my heart sinking. ‘So the feelings, they were fresh. Even that recently.’
‘But the thing is, I didn’t write it for Amy,’ he said. ‘I didn’t write it for anyone, really.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Actually, that’s a lie,’ Joe said. ‘If I was thinking about anyone, well . . . that would have been you.’
‘Me?’
Joe laughed then. ‘Oh, come on, Heather!’ he said. ‘We’d just shared a bed for the first time ever. Of course it was about you.’
I started to cry, then – silly, happy tears – because once again, I’d been stupid and got it all wrong, only this time, that was good news.
Joe stood and wrapped me in his arms. ‘I can’t believe you thought that was about Amy,’ he said softly. ‘Jesus.’
I allowed myself to be hugged for a few minutes, and then unexpectedly, even to me, I said, ‘Is this real, Joe?’ The words came from nowhere.
He leaned back far enough to focus on me and looked confused, so I added, ‘I’m scared. I need to hear you tell me that this, you, us, that it’s real?’
He grinned broadly and laughed. ‘Yeah, it’s real,’ he said. ‘Can’t you tell?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I can.’
‘Well, it is,’ he said. ‘It is for me, anyway.’
‘It is for me, too,’ I said.
‘It’s a shame the kids are here, though.’
‘Why’s it a shame?’ I asked. His comment had confused me.
He grinned at me lasciviously and winked. ‘Let’s just say that if they weren’t here, I could show you just how real it is.’
‘Oh!’ I said, breaking into a silly grin and, I suspect, blushing. ‘Oh, of course.’ I let myself imagine the scene and wished that the kids were elsewhere too.
Joe shrugged. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘I guess there’s a time and a place for everything.’
‘I think they might need an early night tonight,’ I said softly.
Joe winked at me. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I think I might too. Way too much excitement for one day.’
Epilogue
Heather
It’s a beautiful July morning in Whitby, and we are busy painting the hall. I always hated saying ‘we’ when I was with Ant. The concept of ‘we’ always made me feel a bit nauseous, but these days, I revel in it.
Now Reg has moved out to live at Emma’s place – a seafront bungalow on the far side of town – we’re on a frantic drive to renovate. In our more optimistic moments, we discuss reopening to paying guests by August. Running The Waves is going to be my new career, and I’m as excited about it as I’ve ever been about anything. Encouraged by Joe, I’ve even started driving lessons again, and as they’re going pretty well I’ll soon be able to drive out for supplies and pick people up at the station and what have you. Imagine that!
At the top of a ladder, above me, Joe is whistling while he paints. My job is to sand the skirting boards, a task Joe insists he can’t bear.
From upstairs I can hear the sound of gunfire, so no doubt Ben and Lucy are waging war on the PlayStation. I’ll kick them off it pretty soon and force them outdoors into the sunshine.
A drip of paint lands on my arm, so I look up at Joe and shout, ‘Oi, you!’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘But if you will insist on working right beneath me . . .’
‘This is the last bit,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t work anywhere else.’ Then, naughtily, I add, ‘Anyway, maybe I like being beneath you.’
‘Yeah,’ Joe says, with a snort. ‘Sounds about right.’
I’m so happy here, sanding away – so happy, here in this house, with my man above me sloshing paint around. I remember all those dark days living with Ant and think that they would have been so much easier to bear if I’d just known that so much happiness was coming my way.
‘I’m pretty much done here, actually,’ I tell Joe. I give a final, frantic rub at a bump in the old paintwork, and then edge back and stand to admire our handiwork. ‘It’s so much brighter,’ I declare. ‘It’s going to look bloody gorgeous.’
‘Hello!’ a voice says, and I turn to see Amy standing in the porch. We’ve left the front door open because of the fumes, so we’ve not had a second of warning.
‘Christ!’ Joe says, from above. ‘She lives!’
‘Indeed,’ Amy says, stepping forward. ‘Of course, I could say, “Christ! You’ve moved!”’
‘I, um, just need to finish this last tiny bit,’ Joe tells her, brandishing the paint roller. ‘And then I’ll be with you, OK?’
‘Come through,’ I tell Amy. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
As I lead the way through to the kitchen, I’m feeling stressed. I wish Joe would hurry up and join us. Amy’s mental health hasn’t been all that good since her split with Ant, and if she wants to discuss the rights and wrongs of our move north, then I’d really prefer she did that with Joe.
‘So, normal tea, or something herbal?’ I ask her, peering into a cupboard.
‘Herbal would be better if you have it,’ Amy says. ‘Or green tea, maybe?’
‘I’ve got this,’ I say, showing her a box of vervain. It’s supposed to calm people down.
‘That’d
