Page 139 of How We Began

We stayed like that, kissing, touching, and drinking champagne, until the shadows were creeping in, bringing the evening chill along with them. We scared the life out of an old woman with a Scottie dog who didn’t expect to find two people making out underneath a bush. Giggling like teenagers, we packed up our stuff and ran back to the car.

What a perfect day. When we got home we just went straight back into bed, strangely tired, even though we’d done nothing the whole day.

“Thank you for my date,” he’s just whispered to me in the darkness. “I think I owe you one more.”

I am trying not to think that. If he doesn’t hurry up, there won’t be much more time for dates.

22nd April

I’m sure there is something I am supposed to be doing. I know I’m supposed to be studying, which I’m not. I know I’m supposed to be helping Tristan look for the perfect furniture for our Victorian conversion, which I’m not.

But there’s something else niggling around the back of my mind, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Not that I’m trying that hard, I’m too busy living my little idyllic fantasy which I know will end in eight short weeks.

Eight weeks. Sixty-three days.

Sixty-three very short days.

27th April

Today I did something that I’m sure is frowned upon in many circles.

Ben had wanted to come with me, wherever I was going. I just told him that he should take some time to practice his guitar before he has another row with his band mates for getting really shitty at playing. Like that could ever happen. But it was the only excuse I could think of.

After work, I drove the five minutes around the corner from Putney to Barnes and our new perfect little house that sits there. I then helped Mrs. Morgan pack. I found out that she is by herself, her children living away, and I can only imagine the way she feels packing up her home after sixty-six years of living there.

“Would you like a cup of tea, dear?” she asked, bringing a tray through to the lounge from the kitchen.

Her hands shook with age and it made my eyes prickle with tears. I’m not good with age. It’s the one thing I’m scared of, the one thing I’m not able to hide from. Well, that and Ben leaving—both are inevitable.

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” I said, hoping that I didn’t look like I was trying too hard.

“Where is your young man today? We could do with some strong arms.”

“Oh, Ben is busy practising his music. He’s going away soon to make a record, so he needs to put some effort in.”

Why is it when you speak to old people you adapt the way you speak? Record? When did someone last say that in reference to an album? 1992?

“He looks like the artistic type.” She sighed into her teacup and my eyebrows went to live in my hairline.

“Yeah, he is,” I agreed.

And he so is, with his dishevelled style, tall, slim build, and long fingers. That boy was built to stand behind a microphone and play guitar. I made a mental note to ask him what he wanted to be when he was young before he first picked up an instrument.

“I bet he is good at sex,” she said completely straight faced.

I spurted my mouthful of tea all over the place.

“Oh God!” I cried, leaping up to grab a cloth from the tea tray.

Mrs Morgan gave my red cheeks a knowing look. “He is, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he really is.” I admitted. “Come on, Mrs Morgan. What do you want me to help you with?”

I spent the next two hours helping her pack most of her possessions. A heart-warming experience, and I tried really hard to do a good job, even though packing isn’t my forte. When we were nearly finished, she turned to me. I was in the lounge and sliding my hand over the worn desk with its green leather top.

“You can have that if you like. I don’t think I’ll have room for it in the Sunrise Home for the Nearly Departed.”

“Mrs Morgan! Please don’t say things like that. You’ll have a great time there. It sounds fun.”