Page 81 of Not Moving Out
‘She’s gone, Freya. Our baby girl is gone, and she might not ever come back again, and I’m going to miss her so much.’
‘I know, Joe, I know,’ I said, placing a hand on his back and rubbing it.
‘I’m just… I’m just so sad.’
‘Me, too,’ I said, and Joe looked at me, stopped crying for a moment, and then he fell into me and cried even harder into my shoulder. Apparently, it was going to be me who had to keep themselves together today.
We sat like that for about fifteen minutes until eventually he relented and stopped sobbing. We had a hotel booked for the night in York because it was only a short drive away, and it was supposed to be a beautiful city, full of lovely old buildings and, of course, the thirteenth-century Gothic cathedral. We were going to spend the night in York, and then drive back to Brighton in the morning. When it was clear Joe had finished crying, but was in no fit state to drive, we switched seats so I could drive, and we started off towards York.
The last week since I had got home from New York had been a bit of a blur. After watching Joe’s incredible film, everyone made themselves scarce, and we sat in bed and just talked. We spoke about all the things that had gone wrong in our marriage, and all the things we wanted to fix going forwards. We agreed to see a marriage counsellor together for as long as it took, and perhaps beyond that. I had told Joe he definitely needed to continue makingHouse Sharedwith the BBC, and how it could be something of a historical document of our marriage, and also perhaps a warning sign for the future. We were one hundred per cent open and honest with each other, and we told each other everything – the good, the bad and decidedly fucking ugly – and then after about three hours of that, we had sex, and it was by far the best sex we’d had in many years.
Since then it felt like we were back in the honeymoon period of our relationship, although overshadowed slightly by Dolly packing up her room and leaving for university. Now she was gone, and after we had picked ourselves up, it was time for us to begin the next chapter of our lives together. Act two was officially underway.
I met with Sam over coffee and explained everything. I felt awful for him, but he had taken my news with genuine good grace and been nothing but kind and supportive. He had said that despite being sad for himself, he was happy we had managed to work things out. Somewhere out there was a very lucky lady, who was going to get a brilliant boyfriend one day.
With Joe getting his show commissioned at the BBC, we had decided to splurge, and we were staying at The Grand hotel in York, which was sumptuous and lovely. Over a full English breakfast at the hotel the following morning, we both spoke about what we wanted to do next.
‘I’m in no rush to get back,’ said Joe. ‘Carl said it will be at least another few weeks before we get into meetings with the BBC.’
‘I could take a few days off work. I mean, I only just had a week off for New York, but they won’t miss me for a couple of days.’
‘Right then,’ said Joe. ‘Where do you fancy going?’
‘Anywhere?’
‘Within reason. Anywhere in England.’
‘Or Wales?’
‘Or Wales.’
‘Let me think,’ I said, and then I took a sip of my coffee and a bite of toast. ‘You know somewhere I’ve never been?’
‘Hull? Bradford? Aberystwyth?’
‘Yes, I mean, I haven’t been to any of those places, but also, I’ve never been to Liverpool.’
‘Liverpool? That’s where you want to go?’
‘Why not? The birthplace of The Beatles. I think at least once in your life, you should probably go to Liverpool, and then maybe Stratford-upon-Avon to see where William Shakespeare was born. Have you ever been?’
‘Actually, I haven’t.’
‘That’s settled then. Liverpool and then Stratford-upon-Avon.’
‘Okay,’ said Joe with a smile, popping some bacon in his mouth.
After breakfast we wandered around York, which was lovely, spoke with Dolly on the phone to see how her first night had gone, and she was fine, if not slightly hungover. After seeing the sights, we returned to our hotel and had sex because it was such a lovely room, and it felt wrong not to, before we packed up the car, and got ready to hit the road to Liverpool. It was about a two-and-a-half-hour drive to Liverpool, and while Joe was driving, I booked us into the Hard Day’s Night Beatles-themed hotel.
‘Right, all booked in,’ I said, putting my phone down.
Joe reached a hand across and placed it on my leg.
‘Love you, Mrs Wallace.’
‘Love you, too, Mr Wallace. So, when is the big day?’
‘Our re-wedding?’
