Page 26 of The Art of Loving You

‘Nauseous pretty much all of the time. I don’t know why it’s called morning sickness. It never goes away. God, I want to chuck just talking about it. Speak later?’

She hung up.

I spent the next few hours cleaning. Unpacking. Taking it slowly, my energy still low. Focusing on one room at a time. Firstly the snug. We already knew this would be one of the last rooms we fixed up, our private quarters secondary to getting the art centre up and running. The house creaked its delight as I rested ornaments on the mantelpiece, hung a mixture of my black-and-white photos and Jack’s oil paintings on the hooks that remained, Sid’s painting of Whisky, the ginger cat, in the centre of the wall. I draped my faux-fur throw over the sofa and heaped on pink and turquoise cushions. Unrolled my patchwork rug.

Intermittently, I checked on Jack. It was almost teatime before he woke.

‘Are you hungry?’ I asked.

‘Not really,’ he muttered.

‘You need to keep your strength up and it isn’t good to take painkillers on an empty stomach. I’ll bring you some soup.’

‘I’ll come down. I’ve been here all day. Sorry, Libby, some anniversary dinner.’ He needn’t have looked so dejected, I had a plan.

The dining room flickered with the flames of every tealight I had been able to find. Candles lined the mantelpiece, the fire surround, the top of the bookcase which I had filled with Jack’s beloved art books. The rich mahogany table shone with polish and pride. The room looked the way it was always supposed to, warm and inviting. Ready for an intimate dinner for two. I wondered how many meals Sid and Norma had shared here. Had they made plans for their future? Believed that they would fill the four spare chairs with children? For a moment I let my mind travel to the future. Pouring too-thick gravy into the dip of a Yorkshire pudding. Our kids who would have Jack’s unruly brown hair and my green eyes, chomping on roast potatoes. Jack and I making chicken wishbone wishes that we’d always be this happy. Socks, the cat, curled up in a patch of sunlight beaming through the French doors. A chocolate spaniel under the table, nudging knees with her forehead, desperate for scraps.

Jack’s footfall on the stairs startled me from my daydreams. Quickly I slipped his favourite album,Rubber Soul, from its inner sleeve, the faces of John, Paul, George and Ringo encouraging me from the cover.

‘Wow!’ Jack spun around the room taking everything in. ‘I wish I’d dressed up.’ He was wearing a white T-shirt and navy joggers. ‘You’re a proper miracle worker, Elizabeth Emerson.’

‘The mood lighting is making things appear cleaner than they actually are but I’ve made a good start today.’

‘You’re feeling better then? I can’t believe I haven’t asked you how you are.’

‘Crab.’ I smiled.

‘Shellfish.’ he nodded.

‘Sir.’ I pulled out a chair and gestured with flourish for him to sit. In front of him was a silver cloche I’d found in the pantry. ‘Ta-da!’ I lifted it, revealing his dinner.

‘Libby it’s … perfect.’ Jack’s face lit up.

His plate was piled with cream crackers topped with peanut butter and banana. I sat down opposite him. Revealed my own plate bearing the same.

‘I will make this up to you—’ he began.

‘Shh. This is exactly what I wanted for an anniversary meal. It’s my favourite,’ I said.

‘It is not.’

‘Hey. Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it. Let’s make a toast.’

Our wine glasses were full of Ribena.

‘May all of our dreams come true,’ said Jack. I took a sip of my drink, not saying that all of my dreams had already come true. This. Jack. The house. His expanding business, my entry into The Hawley Foundation Prize. All of it made my heart sing.

‘I love you, Elizabeth Emerson. I’m sorry tonight isn’t … it isn’t what I’d imagined but—’

‘No need to apologise.’ Understanding the meaning behind his words I lowered my eyes so he couldn’t see the tears I knew coated my lashes. He wasn’t going to propose tonight,of coursehe wasn’t going to propose here, now. It was all wrong, he was in pain, this wasn’t what he’d planned and yet … my optimistic heart had clung on to a smidgen of belief that, perhaps, he would.

‘Are you okay?’ Jack’s voice gently asked and I smiled at him.

‘Yes. I am.’ And that was the truth. As disappointed as I was, I knew that there was no rush; we had the rest of our lives.

From the record player John Lennon sung about people he had known before.‘In My Life’ had been our song since that very first date.

I could see the monumental effort it took Jack to stand and walk to me but I could also see how much it meant to him. I took his hand. We stood, feet barely moving, his arms wrapped around my waist, mine around his neck.

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