The Time of Our Lives (24 page)

And everything I learn about him endears him to me. He was raised by a single mother after his father disappeared with another woman when he was seven, moved to Canada and has not shown the
slightest interest in his son since. His mum never met anyone else – ‘and never will, she’s too set in her ways’ – which is clearly why he’s felt an increasing
sense of responsibility towards her as he’s grown older.

He is certain he wants to be a parent himself – ‘partly to prove I’d do everything differently from my own dad’ – but hasn’t met the right woman.

‘Nobody’s ever come close?’

He thinks for a second. ‘It’s been a long time since I felt close to being in love.’

‘Who was she?’

‘There were two people. Samia Wallace, a fiery, clever psychotherapy student who introduced me to Moroccan food, F. Scott Fitzgerald and generally rocked my world. She was an older woman
– nineteen when I was seventeen.’

‘Hardly Mrs Robinson,’ I say with a smile. ‘What happened to her?’

‘We had this intense, nine-month relationship, then I went to university in London, while she stayed in Aberdeen to continue studying.’

‘So you met lots of attractive and clever bright young things and no longer had eyes for her?’

‘No, I pined pitifully, wrote to her three times a day, then returned home to discover that she’d dumped me for her lecturer.’

‘Oh, no!’

‘A tale of woe, I know. And the second one, when I was twenty-two, isn’t much better. Her name was Naomi Gillespie. She was without question the most beautiful woman I’ve ever
been out with, if not set eyes on, before or since. We were together for three years before she left me for a Portuguese photographer and moved to Lisbon. They have two children now, and are
sickeningly happy.’

‘Shit.’

‘I know. Still, I’m over it now. It’s only taken ten years.’ He grins.

‘It’s her loss. You’re lovely,’ I blurt out, regretting it instantly. ‘Sorry, but I felt obliged to say that.’

He laughs. ‘Well, it means a lot that you think so, so thank you. Although you don’t really know me. I could be a brute.’

‘True.’ I mock-sigh. ‘Are you?’

‘No, you were right first time – I
am
lovely. My girlfriends just don’t seem to realise it.’

‘So, nobody since then?’

‘I’ve dated lots of people but never had anyone serious. I have this . . . problem.’

‘Do I want to know this?’ I mutter.

He laughs. ‘It’s nothing contagious, don’t worry. I just mean . . . I would absolutely love to meet someone and fall head over heels love. Someone I can’t stop thinking
about, someone who could blow my mind like when I was a teenager.

I smile. ‘Have you ever read
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin
?’ I ask.

‘Oh, that’s a great book,’ he says.

‘There’s a line in it, something like: “love is a temporary madness that erupts like volcanoes then subsides . . . and when it subsides you have to work out whether your roots
are so entwined that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.”

‘Now that is a brilliant quote,’ he says. ‘And it perfectly sums up my problem.’

‘Your volcano won’t erupt?’

He bursts out laughing again. ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but that’s essentially it. And we’re not talking about a
physical
malfunction here,
incidentally. Just to be clear.’

‘Of course not. I’m sure that’s all functioning perfectly.’

‘It is. Can we please end this metaphor now?’ He grins. ‘The point I’m making is this – any fool is supposed to be able to fall in love, it’s
staying
in love that’s meant to be the hard part. Well, I can’t even manage the bit that any fool can. As much as I want that to happen, it never does. I’m starting to think I’ve
become incapable of it.’

‘How old are you again?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘If you were ninety-two I might not argue with you, but come on. I’m sure you’re totally capable. Perhaps you just want it so badly that it’s affecting your
judgment.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, maybe every time you meet someone you’re not just asking yourself, “Do I like this person enough to go out with her on another date?”, so that you then simply
relax and see where it goes. Instead, you’re asking yourself, “Do I like this person enough to spend the rest of my life with her?” Nobody’s ever that good. Falling in love
instantly is just not possible. You have to let someone grow on you.’

‘I’m not totally unrealistic. I agree that love at first sight is “just not possible”.’ He flashes me a look. ‘But, fair enough, maybe there’s something
in the idea that I’m expecting too much, too soon. When did you become good at this stuff? Relationships, I mean?’

‘Ironic, really,’ I reply.

‘Oh? What’s the deal with your daughter’s dad? Are you still together?’

‘Oh, he and I . . .’ I’m about to come out with my usual vague stuff that negates the requirement to reveal the complicated and hideous truth. Only I stop. And hear myself
saying something that I’ve never confessed to a stranger before. ‘No, we’re not. Although I was completely in love with him.’

‘So what happened?’

I close my eyes and in that split second of darkness, it comes back to me in a nauseating flash. The day that’s a constant battle not to think about, a battle I usually lose.

I’d never seen Roberto in such a sharp state of excitement and anticipation. In all the time we’d been together, there was no gig we’d attended or football
match he’d shouted at that had brought alive his face so much.

‘You’re sure you want to find out if it’s a girl or boy?’ he asked.

‘Yes. No. Maybe. Oh . . . sod it, yes. If I walk out of here without knowing, I’ll be kicking myself for the next four and a half months.’

‘Good. Because I need to know – yesterday.’ He grinned, clutching my hand as we arrived at the hospital for my 20-week antenatal scan.

By the halfway point, my pregnancy had been going like a dream. I’d had minimal morning sickness, with little more than mild heartburn at the end of the day, and, despite Roberto and I
trying to put a lid on our excitement until further along, we’d already procured sufficient amounts of baby paraphernalia to open a branch of Mothercare.

There was the traditional sleigh cot, the coordinating wardrobe and the urban 4x4 pram, the one with the suspension of a Lamborghini. That’s before we got on to the bath, the thermometer,
the bath thermometer . . . and the endless other bits and bobs I’d never dreamt a tiny human being could require.

Roberto had even splashed out on a car – nothing fancy, just a runabout – on the grounds that, even in London, life with a newborn wouldn’t be practical without one. The only
thing we hadn’t done was to decorate the nursery. We’d had the go-ahead from the landlord, but had reserved that job for after the scan.

My pregnancy had cemented my love for Roberto in ways I’d never predicted. I’d worried about whether he’d fancy me with a swollen belly, but he answered those fears by
lavishing me with love and attention. Barely a week went by without him turning up with flowers and another gift for our growing baby.

He rubbed my feet when they were sore. He put me to bed when I was tired. He kissed my bump with such tenderness it sometimes made my heart want to burst out of my chest.

In those momentous twenty weeks, we’d gone from a state of elated shock to the most excited future parents possible. We made plans together. We dreamt together. Our future as a little
family was all mapped out, and it couldn’t have been brighter.

‘How much did you have to drink before this scan?’ he asked as I waddled in extreme discomfort towards the antenatal department.

‘A litre of water. It helps them get a clear view of the baby. They won’t keep us waiting for too long,’ I said, as they proceeded to keep us waiting for forty-five minutes,
during which time my bladder expanded to the size of a blue whale, I came desperately close to peeing myself and had to hobble into the appointment room like a woman who’d taken a gunshot
wound to both kneecaps. At which point I was informed that it was only the twelve-week scan for which I needed to drink that much and that, actually, my bladder was way too full to see anything
anyway.

After I’d relieved myself and returned, the midwife got down to business. I’ll never forget that ominous silence as the scanner slid across my belly and Roberto and I exchanged
looks.

Her face gave away nothing as she scrutinised the image, examining every millimetre of our baby.

Eventually, Roberto couldn’t stop himself from clearing his throat. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh! Sorry, yes . . . everything’s fine,’ said the midwife. ‘I was concentrating on these measurements. Sorry if I went quiet. We have to get it exactly right,
that’s all. But, from this scan it appears you have a beautifully healthy baby.’

I didn’t need to know what we were having after that. I’d forgotten all about that issue. All that mattered was that our child was okay.

‘Do you want to know what the sex is?’ she asked.

Roberto nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

She looked up and smiled. ‘We can never be one hundred per cent sure, but from what I can see, you’re having a baby girl.’

I did a double take at Roberto as a small tear swam down his cheek. I’d never seen him crying before and the sight was as strange as it was beautiful.

As we walked to the car he repeated the same sentence, laughing, about five times. ‘We’re having a girl. We’re having a little girl!’

The theme continued in the car as we drove home. I remember that much. The rest, however, is fuzzy.

They say shock can do that to you: you recall snippets of information about what happened immediately before, but lots of pieces of the jigsaw don’t fit together.

The snippets I have retained are these: Norah Jones on the radio. Sunshine streaming through the clouds. A dog barking on the pavement. Two teenagers kissing at the bus stop. Roberto’s
fingers reaching for mine. A motorbike. A lorry. Screams.

Then nothing.

I’ve learned not to dwell
incessantly
on that day, simply because it slows everything down and makes life near-impossible; something I can’t afford with a
job, daughter and endless other responsibilities. It’s still there all the time, of course, hovering in the background and ready to leap out on me every so often. But, most of the time,
it’s vaguely under control.

In the early days, though, I couldn’t get it out of my head
at all
. It was all I thought about – to the detriment of everything else – all day, all night, while I was
awake, and in my dreams.

My immediate priority when I woke in hospital was the baby. Because, as my eyes flickered open, I immediately knew something was wrong.

It was dark outside. The bright lights above me made my head throb. My right leg was twisted – fractured in three places as I was informed later – my skin stung, and pain penetrated
deep into my bones. I was battered and broken and I panicked.

In a clammy sweat, I tried and failed to sit up as I registered that Dad was next to me – I discovered later that Mum had popped out to get some tea. He looked pale and shaky and older
than usual, but seeing me stir sent a wave of relief across his face.

My hands shot to my bump. ‘The baby . . .’

‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ he told me, through trembling lips. ‘Your baby’s fine. The doctors checked while you were asleep. The baby’s fine. You’re
fine.’

I didn’t bloody feel fine, that was for sure.

He swallowed slowly and reached for my hand. ‘Do you remember what happened?’

My head rushed with broken thoughts. ‘I . . . I think so . . . I don’t know. There was a lorry – it swerved to avoid a motorbike. I . . . don’t know.’

‘It overturned,’ he told me.

‘Was the driver hurt?’

Dad nodded. ‘The motorbike rider died.’

I filtered this fact, just about. ‘God. We’re lucky to be alive then.’

He nodded again. I looked around the room. ‘Is Roberto on a different ward? I need to see him. Does he know the baby’s okay? He’ll be worried sick.’

I continued to talk. And talk. You know, sometimes, when you carry on talking even though you can tell from the look on someone’s face that they’re not listening and none of it
matters anyway? Suddenly I could tell.

When I stopped speaking I realised I was crying, and so was Dad.

I struggle to describe the feeling I experienced in that moment, except to say that it was as if a great, big fist plunged into my chest and ripped out every tiny part of my heart.

‘He’s gone, isn’t he?’

Dad looked down at his hands and it took all his strength to answer. ‘He is.’ He paused, trying to find the right words. ‘It happened straight away. He didn’t
suffer.’

Later, in the months after Roberto’s death, I would grieve quietly, but at that moment something primeval overtook me. My lungs expelled a sound that was terrible in every way: pure, loud
pain
; pain that was worse than anything physical I’ve experienced before or since.

Just thinking about it now, that raw disbelief and despair, makes my insides burn. I think it always will, whether it’s five years on or fifty years on. Forgetting
doesn’t seem to be an option. And I don’t think I want it to be.

Harry realises he’s asked a difficult question – he knows it the second I lower my eyes. Yet, for some rare reason, I
want
to tell him about Roberto. I don’t want to
brush it under the carpet, not this time. ‘He died.’

‘Oh God,’ he whispers. Only he doesn’t do what other people do in this situation, the thing that’s always made me reluctant to reveal this too quickly. He doesn’t
fall to pieces and start rabbiting about something else and make his excuses to leave. He doesn’t squirm and bring up the weather and pray that I’ll oblige by agreeing wholeheartedly
that it’s way too hot. He simply touches my arm. His hand feels nice there, and I’m glad of its presence. ‘I’m so sorry, Imogen.’

I wonder for a second if he’s going to ask any questions, then it strikes me that I don’t actually need him to. ‘It happened when I was pregnant with Florence. It was a car
crash.’