Written in the Stars (11 page)

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It’s our last night in Paris and we have stumbled across a lovely little bistro in the heart of Montmartre to celebrate the end of our honeymoon.

‘What a perfect week,’ Adam says in satisfaction as he finishes the last of his gratin of crayfish tails and sits back in his chair. His face is illuminated in the candlelight, his dark stubble enhancing his prominent cheekbones, his eyes the colour of rain-soaked Paris streets. He looks so happy. I love that I’ve made him that way.

I nod. ‘I wish it didn’t have to end.’ He leans forward and takes my hand.

‘It doesn’t have to, you know . . .’ He smiles at me, the corners of his mouth turned up teasingly. He looks so sexy in his crisp white shirt, the top few buttons undone, hair artfully ruffled. Paris suits him, holidays suit him. He rubs his chin and his wedding ring glimmers. He stares at me and I see my husband, the Adam I know and love, looking as he always does, handsome, together, strong – but also, more unusually, completely relaxed. I wish I could freeze time and keep him like this.

‘Of course it does, Ad, holidays can’t go on forever, no matter how much we want them to. Ugh,’ I sigh, ‘I’m
dreading
going back to temping. I don’t know why but I don’t think I can face flitting from one place to another any more . . . I want to be more . . .’

‘Permanent?’ Adam grins. ‘I knew it, marriage has changed you already!’

‘I was
going
to say fulfilled, inspired, challenged . . .’

‘So do something else,’ he says with a teasing smile. ‘Jack in your job and do something you really love.’

‘Ad, you know I’m not qualified for anything.’

‘You’ve always wanted to be a garden designer – and you have real talent,’ Adam says, leaning forward, his eyes sparkling with encouragement. ‘Just look what you did with our roof terrace. Everyone always says how amazing it is and that you could be a professional.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ I protest bashfully.

‘Why not?’

‘I never finished my degree, for a start.’

‘So go back to university! You don’t have to be a temp for the rest of your life, Bea, you know I’d support you every step of the way.’

He always makes everything seem so easy.

‘Look,’ he says, taking my hands. ‘I know not finishing your degree really knocked your confidence. I know you’re scared of . . . you know . . .’ He trails off. He’s never sure how to refer to my ‘blips’. I see him scrabbling around for an appropriate phrase. ‘what happened to you . . .’

‘My breakdowns,’ I state firmly. He twizzles his wine glass, clearly discomfited by my choice of words. As hard as he tries, Adam doesn’t know how to refer to my ‘lost’ years. He says it upsets him to think of me so unhappy, so unable to cope with the stress and pressure of my A levels and then my degree. It’s why he’s always tried to make my life so easy, make decisions for me.

‘But that won’t happen again,’ he says. ‘You know I’ll support you in anything you want to do.’

‘I know, Ad. I just don’t want to think about it right now, OK? I don’t want to think about going back to London, or going back to work. I don’t want to think about any big decisions I may have to make. I don’t want to think abut anything other than being here now with you.’ I close my eyes and take a deep, satisfied, yogic breath through my nose. Loni would be impressed. I open my eyes and see Adam has pulled something out from under the table. ‘What’s that?’ I ask, peering at the sheet of paper he’s holding up.

‘It’s our wedding in the “Celebrating” section of the
Tribunal
,’ he says proudly. ‘Mum faxed it to me. I thought if he saw it your dad might get in touch. I’ve even told the journalist at the paper to give out my details if a Len Bishop contacts them . . .’

I reach across the table and take his hand. ‘It’s so thoughtful of you, Adam, but I’ve decided the wedding was his last chance. I’m not interested in him now. I want it to be all about the future now – our future.’

Adam squeezes my hand and I smile at him.

‘OK, well, as long as you’re sure,’ he says slowly. ‘I just hate the idea of you always feeling there’s something missing.’ His jaw muscle flickers in frustration as he rubs his hand through his hair. It’s so typical of Adam to try and fix everything. I think he feels guilty that he has never had to deal with big life problems himself, so he feels duty bound to solve everyone else’s. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what attracted him to me in the first place – he wanted to fix me.

‘It
was
perfect because you were there, standing at the end of the aisle, looking so handsome in your morning suit and waiting for me so patiently . . .’

‘
Very
patiently,’ Adam points out with a sly wink.

‘Even when I wiped out walking down the aisle! But it was worth the wait, right?’

He laughs into my lips before kissing me.

‘Here’s to our future, Mrs Hudson,’ he says as we pull apart. ‘I know it’s going to be such a happy one.’

‘Me too,’ I say. And for the first time in my life I believe it.

Chapter 17

Bea Bishop feels like she’s gone back in time . . .

I tentatively lift the blackout blind, blinking as a bright shard of early morning sunshine pierces my eyes. I peer out of the spare-bedroom window – a room that used to be mine when Milly and I lived together – at the view of Greenwich Park, waiting until I hear the front door slam and I know that Milly and Jay have gone to work. I look at the pom-poms of blossom, the bright coats of spring leaves, and spot the Royal Observatory, just visible over the tops of the trees, up on the hill. I feel like I can almost see the famous Shepherd Gate twenty-four-hour clock. Part of me believes that the Observatory’s time ball dropped the moment I ran away from my wedding, and since then I’m sure the hands have been slowly going into reverse, sending my life the same way.

Sighing, I lift my laptop from the floor, hop onto the bed and click open Facebook, typing Adam’s name into the search box. My heart constricts as his face appears on my screen. It’s a picture from
Campaign
when he first joined Hudson & Grey as Account Director five years ago. He’s wearing a charcoal-grey suit and a crisp white shirt with the top button open and is looking directly into the camera. I lean my chin on my hand, staring at his dark hair that’s been carefully styled. He’s clean-shaven and looks every inch the successful businessman that 512 of his Facebook friends, family and colleagues know and love. But I know this isn’t Adam. This serious ‘suit’ isn’t the guy I woke up to every day for seven years who was tender and loving, who could make me roar with laughter, who would do naked karaoke for me on demand, who can’t drink red wine because it brings him out in a rash, who makes amazing fish finger sandwiches. The guy who, when we met, acted like I was the most important thing in his life. The guy who always made me feel like, even if I didn’t know where I was going, he could carry me to wherever I wanted to be.

I go into my message folder and open up a new message. I have an urge to write to Adam, to try and explain my actions better than I did at the church. He deserves that. I hate the thought that I have hurt him and I need to give him some clarity so that he is able to move on. I start typing, the words flowing as freely as my emotions.

Dear Adam

I don’t expect you to reply to this message – I wouldn’t be surprised if you immediately deleted it after what I’ve done. I just hope you can find it within yourself to read it because I want you to know, again, how sorry I am. That word seems so empty, doesn’t it? Sorry. You can be sorry for bumping into someone, sorry for missing a phone call – but how can it possibly be enough to convey how I feel about destroying our relationship, our future?

From the moment we met, you made me happier than I ever thought possible. Happier than I deserved. But that has always been the problem. I don’t believe I deserve you. You are an amazing, loving, kind, thoughtful man. You are so together, so capable and you have always made me feel so safe, Adam, so loved. I loved being loved by you – and being looked after. You made me feel that nothing else mattered as long as I was with you. For seven wonderful years you made sure I never had to worry about a thing. But walking down that aisle I realised that it isn’t right to piggy-back along someone else’s well-plotted path. We get one life, Ad, one chance to get it right, and I’ve hidden behind you for too long. You made my present so perfect I haven’t dealt with my past – or worked out who I want to be in the future. I know now that I need to take responsibility for who I am and who I want to be before I can give myself to anyone else.

I know I can’t ask you to wait for me but I want you to know that I am better, stronger, happier than I could have been because I’ve been loved by you. And because of that, a piece of my heart will forever be yours.

Bea xx

I am sobbing as I press send. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing and I stare longingly at his picture for a moment more. I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. I wish he was on here more often, but his profile and status have stayed stubbornly the same ever since he changed his relationship status to ‘Engaged’ and wrote a status update that said, ‘Bea Bishop finally said yes!’ No macho pretence or crude jokes about putting a ring on it. The comments underneath are all so happy; from the people who love Adam. Who loved
us
together.

And then I click on my timeline. I scroll back, back, back, watching my life flash before my eyes, until finally I reach it.

17 September 2006

My very first update. I remember it because it was the week after I’d moved in here. Milly had assured me that the social networking website was going to be the biggest thing to happen to our generation. Obviously it took me ages to decide what the hell to put as my very first status. After nearly an hour of ruminating, I’d typed:

Bea Bishop is ON.

Once I’d posted it, Milly had cracked up laughing because she said it sounded like I was talking about my period. I tried to delete it, but I couldn’t work out how and Milly wouldn’t do it for me – she said it was too funny to change.

I met Adam that same night.

I look at my page with that first update and think of how the date and the memory of meeting Adam and my being back in this flat are all now inextricably entwined.

I start going through my status updates from then on. There must be a clue here somewhere, some reason why Adam and I weren’t meant to be.

I look at the one the morning after I met him:

Bea Bishop has just had the best night ever – with
Milly Singh
.

There are three comments underneath:

Milly Singh: I didn’t fancy yours much. Tall, dark, handsome, clever . . .
yeuch
.

Bea Bishop: And that’s why we’re best friends – we’ve always had entirely different taste in men! Cute and quirky and cool works for you. Speaking of which, when are you seeing Jay again?

Milly Singh: Now! ;-)

I still find it amazing that I’d even gone out that night at all. I hadn’t wanted to but despite my protestations Milly had dragged me out to the Greenwich Tavern. The pub was opposite Greenwich Park and had a cute little outdoor area where the walls had been whitewashed and painted with brightly coloured tulips.

‘It’s not far, Bea. You have to get back out there sometime. You’re almost twenty-three years old. You can’t hide away from the world forever. It’s not healthy . . .’

She’d promised me she wouldn’t leave me, but had abandoned me to go and get drinks from the bar. I’d sat there alone, trying to keep my panic attack at bay, breathing through the dark tunnel that I was trapped in, trying to tell myself that it was OK. I could do this. I was in a pub, no big deal. But still the waves of fear and nausea had come. I didn’t deserve to be out, I told myself. Not after what happened. What right did I have to be building a new life now?

Despite my introspection, I noticed Adam immediately – it was hard not to. It was a balmy September evening and he was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt that emphasised his coal-black hair. He smoothed back the curls that were threatening to fall into his eyes and I couldn’t help but gaze at the tanned sinews of his arms, momentarily blinded by his watch that glittered in the evening sun. He looked up at me then and silver sparkles lit up his eyes as he smiled a sweet, lopsided smile that belied his heroic good looks and seemed to give me an insight into his soul. I looked away immediately, heart pounding, pretending to busy myself by searching through my bag. When I looked up he was standing by my table. I found I could barely breathe. Let alone speak.

‘Hi,’ he said simply.

I didn’t answer.

‘Can I get you a—’

‘I’m not interested,’ I replied curtly, finding my voice at last.

He seemed taken aback before a wide, unapologetic smile had appeared on his face, a smile that turned into a laugh which somehow made me laugh too. But then I caught myself, clasped my hands together on the table primly and looked away.

At that moment Milly came back out from the bar, talking and laughing easily with a short male companion. He had messy ginger hair, dark rimmed glasses, was wearing a hoodie and jeans and they looked like the odd couple, what with her in her designer work suit and sleek dark hair.

‘Bea! You have to hear this! I’ve just been saved by this
man
. . .’ She purred the word and Jay blushed profusely ‘. . . from a fate worse than chat-up death . . . oh,
hello
!’ She looked startled when she spotted Adam hovering over our table. She looked at me and then at him and then gave me this horribly obvious thumbs-up. Then she leaned forward and whispered, ‘Bea Bishop is ON!’ before introducing me to Jay.

‘Bea meet Jay, Jay meet Bea. And who, may I ask, are you?’ she said, turning to Adam.