Page 103 of One Night With You

‘Lovely service, wasn’t it?’ Harry says, and he looks between Nic and me pointedly, knowing full well that in the foot between us there’s a whole history waiting to be properly acknowledged – or totally ignored. I don’t know which way the conversation will fall, yet.

‘Where’s baby Mirabelle today?’ I ask Beau, as Harry and Nic talk about the architecture of the church and how muchmoney has been poured into the region’s waterside redevelopments. I hear Nic say he’s been following the projects we’ve done, too, giving him a big congratulations.

‘With my mum,’ Beau says. ‘Overnight, too. So if we want to drown our sorrows, we’re able to.’ He makes a little ‘drink’ sign with his hand, and Harry catches it, interrupting himself to say, ‘Beau! It’s not a fucking party, Jesus!’

I smile. ‘I think JP would have actively encouraged partying, to be fair. He wouldn’t want us maudlin.’

‘“Good innings, me,”’ Harry says, mimicking what JP had taken to saying after the documentary came out, referring to his age, the fact that he had a bigger spring in his step than ever, that he kept on keeping on. They played some of his footage in the service, clips of him telling his story, and the minister referred to JP’s last-minute claim to fame in his eulogy. He loved the attention he got after it was properly released. He was on the news a couple of times, and we were all interviewed byThe Timesfor a Saturday supplement piece too. He ended up raising a hundred and fifty thousand pounds for the cancer charity that took his eldest son. They said that in the eulogy too: a hundred-and-one-year-old man raising thousands for charity and getting national press to boot.

William had quoted another thing JP liked to say over these past few years, as well:It ain’t over til it’s over, sunshine.I look at Nic again. Snapshots of everything flash through my mind, a hundred different touches and smiles and moments that meant something in the blink of an eye. Looking at him, I know that to be true. That what we had was real. The magnitude of it. It’s funny how a stranger can come out of nowhere and affect so much of your life in only a few months.

We all hear the pub door open at the same time, turning in unison as the giant creaking wooden door shifts and a tiled hallway floor is revealed, a gilded mirror on the wall reflecting the light of a coloured glass ceiling lamp that hangs down in pride of place.

‘So – the pub?’ I repeat.

‘Yeah, I’ll come,’ says Nic, and we walk in loaded silence behind Harry and Beau, filing into the building along with everyone else.

We find a small table in the corner, Harry and Beau on the banquette, Nic and I on small stools, impossible to sit on with any kind of elegance. I feel self-conscious in my dress. It’s mid-calf and sleeveless, very Audrey Hepburn inBreakfast at Tiffany’s. I got it through one of those dress loan websites in a panic. It’s so much more demure than anything I’d usually buy.

Ostensibly we’re all talking together, catching up, swapping stories about JP, but Nic keeps looking at me, and I keep looking at Nic, and I know, now, that we really are going to capital-T Talk, later. Maybe not before we’ve had the buffet, and probably not until somebody has spilled a pint, or one relative has yelled at another, but at some point, we’ll have our moment. He reaches out and lightly touches my knee when he asks if I want another drink. He may as well have doused me in petrol and lit a match: I flush with heat as everything comes flooding back.

JP’s niece is playing the piano, performing any and all requests that we give her as we squish into the back room and sing loudly and out of tune, drunkenly celebrating the time that we all had with the cheeky, loveable, full-of-life JP. I slip out to the loo, and when I return rest against the doorframe, gazinginto the back room right as a rousing chorus of ‘Wonderwall’ reaches its crescendo. I feel him before I see him.

‘Another drink?’ he says, waving an empty bottle at me.

‘Sure,’ I say, and we walk through to the back part of the bar, where there’s fewer people. The barman nods, signalling we’re next.

‘How’s your little girl?’ I say, resting my forearms on the bar. He mirrors me.

‘Not so little,’ he says. ‘She starts school in September. Wipes her own arse now and everything.’

I laugh. ‘You surplus to requirements then?’

‘Something like that. She’s brilliant, though,’ he says. ‘Good value. Two nights ago, I was getting cross that she wouldn’t go to sleep. Most nights I lie with her until she’s fast on, and it’s nice, you know, feeling like you’re sending her off into sweet dreams or whatever. But she’d had sweets, and was high as a kite, and I said, “Lila, come on. Close your eyes and go to sleep.” And she sat upright, looked at me, and said, “Daddy. I just don’t think that’s going to happen.”’ He shakes his head at the memory.

‘Oh, she’s got you wrapped around her little finger,’ I say.

‘She did from day one,’ he replies, looking at me. My whole body responds to that look.

‘What can I get you?’ the barman asks, and Nic gestures, letting me go first.

‘Pint of water,’ I say, ‘And double gin and slim. Lime as well as lemon, if you can.’

‘Beer for me,’ Nic says, tapping the rim of his empty and fishing in his suit jacket for his wallet. When we’re served, we stay standing, right where we are, taking long pulls of our drinks. Then he says: ‘You did everything you said you were going to do.’

‘Me?’ I ask.

‘You,’ he says. ‘Making your mark on the world.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yeah. It’s good. I’ve been lucky.’

‘Funny how lucky hardworking people can get,’ he says, and I smile.

‘That’s very generous of you. Cheers.’

We clink glasses, a nod to two old friends.

‘What are you working on now?’ he asks.

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