Page 8 of How Much Wine Will Fix My Broken Heart?
‘There’s some production company interested in making a film about his life.’
‘Oh, like a film or a documentary?’ I ask.
‘I wasn’t quite sure. I’m meeting them next week.’
‘If it’s a film, make sure they cast…’
‘Jason Momoa. But first check he can do accents,’ she says, laughing to herself.
That was in Tom’s will, the idiot. He looked nothing like him. That would take some serious prosthetics and a dramatic haircut.
‘My editor also had a question for you. Given the success of the book, they were wondering if you were interested in talking to them. They were thinking about a sequel, from his widow’s perspective? I know you both wrote letters to each other when he travelled.’
I pause for a moment, standing over the kitchen counter. We did. They’re all under my bed in a box. I sometimes get them out and have a moment, usually accompanied by a vat of wine. Sometimes I think about doing something sensible like scanning them into a hard drive or borrowing the PTA laminator to preserve them all, but what I love is that those letters are part of our story. At times in our relationship, I felt like I shared him with so many people, but those secret letters are just about us. Do I want to share them?
‘They’d raise money for charity,’ Joyce adds, sensing my hesitation. ‘I mean, it’s just an idea. Think about it.’
‘I will. Leave me a website. I’ll look them up.’
Maya’s head pops around the door and she runs into Joyce’s arms when she sees her.
‘Aunty Joyce!’ she shrieks.
‘Little pickle!’
‘There’s a bird outside! I’ve made friends with a bird and he’s eating my toast.’
We crane our heads out the window to see the biggest effing crow I’ve ever seen in my life glaring at us. That thing looks like he lives in the Tower of London at the weekends.
‘I’m calling him Colin!’ Maya says. ‘Do we have anything else we can feed him?’
* * *
I moved to Bristol six months after we returned to England. I thought we’d live in London nearer family and where I’d been raised, but Bristol was Tom. I needed to come back and be near him. It was where we’d met and lived before he passed away and it felt manageable when faced with the daunting task of being a mother to two little people, a place to rebuild a life with him watching over us. He’d have liked that we’re back here. He’d have approved of the school I chose for the girls, with the big leafy grounds and the commitment to international links, and I’d have got a high five for choosing a house with character that was a fifteen-minute walk to the zoo. He’d have had huge respect for the fact I have a zoo membership card too.
‘Stay for dinner, Aunty Joyce. We’re having Macaroni Monday tonight,’ Maya says, skipping along the street as we walk them to school.
‘You are?’
‘Yes.’ Maya adds, ‘Mummy puts the menu on the fridge at the weekend so we can plan ahead.’
‘Well, she is your mummy. I wouldn’t expect any less. It’s why your coats match and you’re both covered in fluorescent strips.’
I smile. The sisters also mock me for those but have we been run over yet? I rest my case.
‘I will see what I can do,’ Joyce replies.
As we approach the gates to The Downs, Cleo says her hasty goodbyes and runs in to greet friends but I feel the familiar grasp of Maya’s fingers around mine. I chose the school for the trees. You can hardly see the building for all the greenery and, for that reason, it felt safe, it felt like a nest. I mean, I wouldn’t be me if I hadn’t scoured the internet for reviews and OFSTED reports, but I was a sucker for the landscape too. Today, the sounds of the morning hang in the air, excitable children being herded like naughty cats.Now is not the time for the climbing frame. Remember to select lunch B otherwise you’ll get the pizza and you don’t like the pizza. Do up your coat. What do you mean, it’s a school trip today? You need wellies? Where’s your brother gone? What do you mean, he’s on the roof?
Joyce looks at Maya clinging to me and bends down to her level, putting a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t get this out at school but it’s for afterwards, yes?’
She slips a candy necklace in the pocket of her red puffa coat and beams, winking at her. The tension in Maya’s shoulders seems to melt away and I lead her across the threshold of the school. Has Maya settled in here? Not as much as Cleo. Cleo has more confidence, more chat, but Maya is wary of people. She has a crow for a friend, she builds worlds around her that are creative and fantastical, but she lets few people in, instead sitting in her class and observing, taking it all in, quietly.
There’s a queue for the classroom today and we all know why that is. Carrie Cantello is at the front with a reading diary out, giving the teacher, Miss Loveday, a hard time about something. She raised merry hell last week when her daughter’s cardigan went missing. She even made flyers for it.Have You Seen This Cardigan?Check your car boot and washing basket like the rest of us, Carrie.
‘Every. Morning,’ mutters a mum behind me. ‘I have to get to work,’ she says, looking at her watch. In front of me, one of Maya’s classmates, the one with the fetching bowl-cut, shivers. The line snakes right to the back of the playground and I feel the tension again in Maya’s grip. We are a term into their first year at school but there are residual nerves which mean hanging around, prolonging our goodbyes, doesn’t help.
‘Excuse me, the children are freezing. Please can we let them into the classroom?’ I say. Two parents in front of me don’t hesitate and push their little ones past. Carrie stands there clutching a red book bag as the children all file in, looking aggrieved at the interruption, the rudeness of not waiting our turn. She turns to glare at Miss Loveday.
