She looks out past me to where George has just crossed the finishing line in a race. I turn and look where she does. I suspect this isn’t the first race George has won, as there’s halfhearted applause from the onlookers. I feel a bit sorry for him at their lack of enthusiasm. It’s probably because he’s trying too hard to win, to impress. The sun is beating down. I could really use a drink, and George never brought one back for me.
“The one that got away,” Cindy says.
I spin back around to look at her. “Sorry?”
“The chap in the US. The one that got away?”
I give a nervous, embarrassed laugh that doesn’t even sound like me. “Perhaps.”
“Right,” Cindy says, inhaling the last drag of her cigarette. She looks baffled, as if I’ve duped her on purpose. But she leaves it there, puts a motherly hand on my shoulder, heads back out into the fray.
Chapter 26
July
“It’s so prettyhere,” George says as we walk through Whitstable high street toward the beach. His hand is in mine, as it always is when we walk anywhere together. The crowds of tourists have descended as the school summer holidays are in full force, and kids in swimsuits pick their way across the pebbles, climbing their way delicately toward the shoreline, buckets in hand, ready to carry towers of pebbles.
I smile, wonder slowly what’s next for me; for George, for us. His grip tightens on mine as we walk. My parents have set up a picnic and some deck chairs and we’re meeting them there. Our dog, Andrex, is at home in the shady garden and I can’t wait to see him, throw a ball for him, watch as he skirmishes up and down the patio trying to smell its location.
“So this is where you grew up, Gallagher,” he says. “Quaint.”
“Mmm,” I say. “I love it here. I’d love to move back one day,” I say far too casually, waiting for a response I’m not sure I’m going to get.
But he surprises me by answering. “Here?”
“Yeah. You don’t like it?”
“Only been off the train five minutes, Gallagher, give me a while to make up my mind. Want to move here with me?” he asks, but it’s not a genuine question. He’s teasing me.
“Maybe. You, me, our five kids,” I tease back.
He avoids answering by saying, “Bit different from Dagenham, where I grew up.”
“Yeah, probably is. You’ll have to take me back to meet your parents soon,” I say.
“Let’s see how today goes first, shall we?” he suggests.
I laugh. “How would you meeting my parents affect me meeting yours?”
He shrugs. “Just would.”
“Why?”
“Dunno. Just would.”
I stare ahead. I see my folks and I wave at them. George tightens his grip. “Here we go,” he says.
“You nervous?” I ask.
“Dads always hate me,” he reminds me. “Your dad will hate me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m shagging his daughter.”
I don’t know whether to be stunned or to laugh at this comment.
—
