“Hallelujah,” Joan says when I tell her this.
She does that trick of dunking her Hobnob and saving it from drowning at the last second. So impressive. I’ve still not masteredit.
“And I notice you’ve put a bit of weight on,” Joan says.
I pause, munching my biscuit. “What? But I’m going to the gym three times a week,” I protest.
“In a good way,” she says hurriedly. “In a good way. You were getting scrawny and unhealthy-looking. All that running.”
“All that kale,” I say. “I’m not missing that.”
“Not missinghimthen?” she asks.
“George? No,” I say emphatically.
“Of course George,” Joan says. “Who did you think I meant?”
I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or testing me. I don’t take the bait. Instead I stealthily change the subject. “So, tell me about the honeymoon.”
I listen to Joan tell me about the beautiful old buildings of Mauritius, the national park, the snorkeling in crystal-clear waters, the sunbathing and reading novels, and then she shocks me by telling me she’s leaving Wanstead.
My mouth drops. “Are you serious?”
She nods. “Geoff’s home is in Hertfordshire, has a lot more green space, and we’re married now.”
Of course. It’s so obvious that I don’t know how I didn’t work this out before.
“We thought about keeping this as our London crash pad, but the trains from Hertfordshire mean we can pop in and out of the city for the day when, and if, we want. I’ll rent this place out. Geoff’s been making all the effort, traveling here and…well, I don’t think we’ll be in Hertfordshire much anyway. Geoff loves to travel, and I must admit I could get quite used to the Upper Class cabin on Virgin Atlantic. They have a bar on board, Hannah.”
I laugh and take hold of her cold hand, perched on top of the dividing fence. “I’m really pleased for you, Joan. Honestly. I’m so happy for you both.”
“Thank you,” she says, giving me a squeeze back.
A movement inside Joan’s kitchen catches my eye and Geoff, resplendent in one of Joan’s spare dressing gowns, looks out, giving me a wave and a warm smile. I reciprocate both readily.
I sigh. “I love it when love finds love.”
Joan winks. “Me too. No word about your…um…” She blows out a puff of air.
I’m not used to Joan being stuck for words and I narrow my eyes, waiting.
“The American,” she says eventually.
I inhale deeply. “Oh…no. No word.” This is the truth. “Although…I saw him,” I tell Joan.
She opens her mouth to speak and then closes it.
“On your wedding day, actually,” I explain. “In real life. I saw him. Here. In London. On the train.” I’m talking in clipped sentences, but every time I think about it, which is about every three minutes, clipped thoughts are all I can conjure.
“Did you speak to him?” she asks.
“No. He was on the Underground. Going the other way.”
She nods and then, “Shit!”
I chuckle, hearing Joan swear. She usually only ever does this when she’s drunk, which doesn’t happen often. “Shit indeed. I ran. I ran to get to him. And he saw me. And I saw him. And George ran after me. But Davey had gone. The train doors closed and…well, that was it. He was gone. And we got through the whole of your wedding without George mentioning it. And then when we got home…” It’s my turn to blow out a puff of air and then, because I don’t know how to finish the sentence, I shrug. “And among many reasons why George and I weren’t right for each other, that was the catalyst that brought it all to an end.”
Joan has a look of concern about her now, but she’s not speaking and, because I don’t like an awkward silence, I continue.
