Читать книгу A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 11

I’m not the best at being sensible, or doing paperwork, or generally behaving like a grown-up. Whatever elements of those things I do possess, I need to use for my work, and for my mum. For those two, I have to be good – I have to keep up to date on appointments, and qualifications, and news, and fill in forms, and respond to queries.

In my own life, though, there is something of a more relaxed attitude. Like I have no idea where my birth certificate is, and I don’t have a lawyer, and I’m not registered with a dentist, and I keep all my important papers crammed into a plastic carrier bag so old it’s starting to disintegrate. I’ve even let my passport expire – although I think that might be accidentally on purpose, to remove the temptation to ever do a runner.

None of this helps when attempting to navigate a tricky legal situation involving ending a marriage carried out in a foreign country. Luckily, what I do have is Tom – Willow’s boyf and the owner of Briarwood.

Tom is a tech geek, and it was him who tracked me and Van down last year so Willow could tell us about Lynnie’s situation. He’s quiet and shy until you know him, super clever, and absolutely 100 per cent the shizz when it comes to stuff like this.

With his help, I take the first steps towards doing something I should have done years ago – getting out of a long-dead marriage. He helps me find out what I need to do, and he sets me up with a solicitor to help me do it, and he basically stands over me until I’ve started the first raft of paperwork.

When it’s done – when those first tentative steps are taken – I feel really weird. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d buried the whole thing. I’d trained myself not to give it much head space – because, given half a chance, Seb and my time with him would sneak right into that head space, and take it over, like some evil alien virus in a space station lab.

Don’t get me wrong, I think about him every day. But I’ve developed the astonishing ability to derail that particular train of thought every single time it appears on the tracks. It’s one of the reasons why I’m so twitchy all the time – I’m never still, and I know it drives people mad. I’m always biting my nails or tapping my toes or smoking or waving my hands or moving around in some way.

It’s like I’m entirely made of nervous tics and mental self-defence mechanisms that allow me to function, and the way they show up to the outside world is through this constant jigging about.

After Tom has helped me, after I’m forced to re-engage with the whole thing, I feel some kind of strange meltdown going on inside me. It’s like all my internal organs and my brain start to liquefy. I can barely move, or think, or do anything other than lie on my bed in the cottage I share with Lynnie and Willow and Van, and stare at the ceiling.

I don’t suppose it helps that I’m staring at a ceiling I’m already familiar with, in the cottage where I spent most of my childhood. It’s like I’ve come full circle, and everything in between leaving here in my late teens and being back in my early thirties never happened. Like there’s this whole part of my life that I maybe dreamt, or imagined, or read in a book.

After almost an hour of tossing and turning and kicking the duvet and running a marathon while stationary, I glance at my phone, and see that it’s just after 8p.m. Not late enough to go to sleep, even if I was capable of shutting down my brain long enough for that to happen.

I chew my lip for a minute to fill in time, and allow myself a moment to rethink, before calling Finn. When he answers, I can hear whooping and cheering in the background.

‘What happened?’ I ask, genuinely interested. The boffins at Briarwood are working on all kinds of interesting projects. ‘Did they invent a new kind of jet engine? Cure for cancer? Phone that doesn’t let you dial when drunk?’

‘No,’ he replies, sounding amused. ‘They built a whack-a-mole where Star Wars characters pop up out of the holes. They’re busy smashing Darth Vader up with mallets.’

‘Oh,’ I reply, slightly disappointed.

‘Well, to be fair, the whack-a-mole heads are interchangeable – so you could have Marvel, or Disney, or whatever, depending on what licensing you could get. The marketing plan is to sell them as customised – so you could buy one with the faces of your enemies on, like your boss or your ex or your little brother.’

‘That could definitely work,’ I say. ‘The possibilities are endless. It could be a very useful tool in anger-management classes, don’t you think? They should pitch it to psychiatrists. And head teachers! I bet it’d be a great thing to have in a school for letting out some pent-up rage.’

‘I’ll pass on your very valid suggestions to the team. There’s a long way to go yet, they need to check if they can patent it or if anyone else already has, that kind of thing. Anyway. What can I do for you, my tiny pickled herring?’

‘Erm … I’m not sure. Some stuff’s happened. Feel a bit weird. Feel a bit trapped in the cottage. Just wanted to talk to someone in the outside world to prove it still exists.’

‘You do sound weird. Weirder than usual. Have you had anything to eat today?’ ‘Yes, of course!’ I reply, outraged but also doing a silent recount of my calorific intake and finding it lacking.

‘Anything other than a whistle pop?’

‘Well … not much more, to be honest. Lynnie insisted on cooking tonight, and made a lentil pie with sugar instead of salt. We all had to pretend to like it and secretly throw it away afterwards. Except Van – I think he actually liked it, the freak.’

The background noise has died down, and I can tell he’s walked outside. I picture him standing there, by the fountain outside the main house, in the rapidly fading light.

‘I’ll come and get you,’ he says, ‘in about an hour. I’ll make sure the kids are all right, and I’ll see you then. Wrap up warm.’

I agree, blow some kisses down the phone, and flop back down onto the bed. Obviously, being the very definition of contrary, my body decides that it’s now very very tired, and would quite like to go to sleep.

I drag myself up, and into the shower, and into jeans and a T-shirt and a thick fluffy jumper with red and black horizontal stripes on it. It makes me look like a bumblebee that’s gone over to the dark side.

When I wander through to the living room, Mum and Willow are both crashed out watching Wizards of Waverley Place. Mum’s developed this strange taste for teen TV shows since she’s been ill, and sadly she’s sucked us all into her evil world of cute kids who live on boats and sweetly dysfunctional families and cheerleaders and nerds.

Lynnie looks up at me as I enter, and I see the quick momentary confusion flicker across her face. I reach up and touch my hair, pretending I’m tucking it behind my ears, and tonight at least, it’s enough. She sees and registers the red hair. She smiles, her eyes lighting up as she recognises me. It’s heartbreaking and lovely at the same time.

‘You look like Dennis the Menace, Auburn,’ she says, pointing at my sweater. ‘If he was transgender.’

‘Why thank you, Mother,’ I reply, giving her a little twirl. ‘That’s exactly what I was aiming for. I’m popping out for a bit with Finn, is that okay with you two?’

Of course, what I actually mean is ‘Is that okay with you, Willow’, as she’ll be the one left with Mum. Van’s outside, in the VW camper van man-cave he calls home, so she’ll have help if she needs it – but it’s polite to ask. See how hard I’m working on being a good girl?

Willow grins at me and nods. She looks bushed after a long day at the café, her slender limbs sprawled over both arms of the floral-printed chair, her pink hair gusting around her face. Bella Swan, her Border terrier, is curled up in a small wiry ball on her lap.

‘As long as you’re home before midnight,’ she says, stifling a yawn. ‘In case you turn into a pumpkin.’

‘Terrible story, that,’ interjects Lynnie, frowning in contempt. ‘Completely anti-feminist. What kind of a message does it send out to young girls, telling them they need a Prince Charming to rescue them, and that their sisters are ugly and evil? Patriarchal nonsense …’

Willow and I share an amused look, and nod. Every now and then, the old Lynnie pops up and gives us a rant, the kind we grew up listening to, and it’s somehow very comforting. Our bedtime stories were never the bedtime stories that other little girls listened to.

There’s a knock on the door, and I feel a quick surge in my heart rate. I’m like a giddy schoolgirl, which Lynnie wouldn’t approve of.

She looks a bit surprised at the sound – visitors can be unnerving for her – and Willow quickly says: ‘Auburn, that must be Finn. Your poor boyfriend. Off you go, have fun!’

We’ve got used to doing these subtle recaps for Lynnie’s benefit, finding ways to gently remind of her what’s happening around her so she doesn’t get frightened, without making her feel stupid.

‘Yes, have fun!’she adds, reassured that the knock on the door doesn’t represent any kind of threat to her or her loved ones. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’

As Lynnie has spent most of her life living on various artists’ communes, having affairs with much younger men, and raising three kids on her own, she’s something of a rule-breaker. I’m not sure there’s much I could do that Lynnie hasn’t done already.

I sprint to the front door and unlock it. We have to keep everything locked in case Lynnie goes walkabout, which she did last year and almost died. It’s a pain, but not as much of a pain as searching the clifftops at four o’clock in the morning, looking for your mother.

Finn is standing in the porch, all tall and gorgeous, and I fight to keep down a little squeal. Mine, all mine. Just seeing him knocks some of the strangeness of the day out of me, and makes me feel more human again.

He’s wearing jeans and a black chunky-knit sweater, and looks like he could throw me in his longboat and take me away for a good ravishing and a smorgasbord.

‘Your carriage awaits,’ he says, pointing at his four-wheel drive. Huh. Weird – it’s almost as though he heard us earlier.

‘Patriarchal nonsense …’ I mutter, leaning up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

‘Nope,’ he replies, evenly, ‘a Toyota Land Cruiser.’

I climb in and buckle up as he sits beside me and starts the engine.

‘Everything okay at home?’ he asks, glancing at me through his mirrors. Lynnie, when she knows who he is, adores Finn. She calls him her Angel of Light, and clearly imbues him with all kinds of spiritual goodness. When she doesn’t know him, though, it’s a different matter entirely.

‘Yes, fine,’ I reply quickly to reassure him. ‘I needed an escape route, that’s all. Thank you, Star Lord.’

Star Lord was Tom’s nickname for the person he was recruiting to manage Briarwood, and it’s kind of stuck.

‘You do know, don’t you,’ I say, as he pulls out onto the road and heads off to destination unknown, ‘that you only got the job because of your name?’

‘What? Being called Finn was part of the job description, was it?’

‘No. I mean you got your job because your name has one syllable. Only men whose names have one syllable are allowed to live in Budbury.’

I see him running through the men he knows here – Joe, Matt, Cal, Sam, Tom – and realising that it’s true.

‘But some of their names are shortened versions,’ he points out. ‘Wasn’t the other guy shortlisted called Simon? He could have been called Si.’

‘Ah yes, but you’re missing one very important point – I couldn’t have given the job to someone I had to call Si.’

‘Why’s that?’ he asks, his smile telling me he knows he has fallen into an evil trap but he doesn’t mind.

‘Because every time I was in a room with him, I’d have to dance around Gangam Style …’

He pauses, then replies: ‘You do know that’s spelled P-S-Y, don’t you?’

Huh. I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Bastard.

‘Thank you, Admiral of the Pedantic Fleet,’ I say, in a minor huff with myself for my lack of pop culture spelling knowledge. ‘Where are we off to, anyway?’

‘The cliffs near Durdle Door,’ he says. ‘For a picnic.’

‘Did you bring whistle pops?’

‘No. I brought salad.’

‘Uggh. Why would you do that to me?’

‘Because I’m me,’ he says, grinning. ‘And your body’s a temple. If it’s any consolation, I also brought Scotch eggs and blueberry muffins from the café.’

‘That’s all right then,’ I answer, already figuring out ways to pretend to eat salad without actually eating it.

As it turns out, the salad was also from the café – Finn had been there earlier in the day and brought home some treats – and therefore it was delicious as well as healthy. Chunks of feta cheese and lots of olive oil and pine nuts make everything taste better.

He’s spread out two zipped together sleeping bags on the ground, and laid various items of bodily sustenance across them. He’s found a spot a mile or so away from the famous Durdle, and the view is amazing. It’s properly dark now, the sky studded with stars, the only sound that of the sea rolling across the sand and the occasional rummaging of wildlife around us.

We eat, and chat, and all seems well with the world. I feel blessed to live in such a beautiful place, and to be with such a beautiful man, and to eat such beautiful muffins.

After we’ve had the picnic, he clears up, and we climb into the sleeping bags. It’s been another warm day, but it’s still spring and the night-time temperatures are not as friendly as they could be. I don’t mind – I’m only human and, aware as I am of patriarchal nonsense, being crammed into a sleeping bag with Finn is not my idea of oppression.

He wraps me up in his arms, my head resting on his chest, and strokes my hair as we gaze up at the night sky.

‘This is nice,’ I say, burrowing into him even more. ‘We’re snuggling.’

He laughs, and replies: ‘Snuggling. That’s not a word I associate with you, Auburn.’

‘Me neither! I don’t think I’ve ever used it before in a non-ironic way. Maybe I’ve used it to incorrectly describe the illegal activities of those who import goods while also bypassing customs tax …’

‘Would you call those trunks Daniel Craig wears in Casino Royale budgie snugglers then?’

‘I’d call them heavenly. You should get some. We could role-play Bond together. I could be your Pussy Galore.’

He’s silent for a moment, and I know he’s thinking it through.

‘Yes,’ he says eventually. ‘I’d definitely be up for that. I’ve got a tux. We could flirt and drink martinis. Could I persuade you to be a sexy secretary with your hair up and glasses on, and call you Miss Moneypenny?’

‘Of course you could. I always thought she was very under-rated, Miss Moneypenny …’

‘Good. Now we’ve planned that out, how about you tell your very own 007 what’s bothering you? You sounded really off on the phone.’

‘Ah,’ I say, taking a deep breath and preparing to bare all. ‘That’s because I asked Tom to help me start divorce proceedings. Hopefully, I’ll soon be a single woman again. Well, not a married woman with a boyfriend, anyway. So, not single, but half as much more single again …’

He stays silent when I say this, possibly waiting until I run out of steam, and I try not to freak out and over-react. It’s a big thing, and I know the way Finn works – he’ll process it before he speaks. He’s the anti-me.

I feel his arms tighten around me, and he says: ‘That’s good. I’m pleased. Not just for me, but … for you. It seems like something you should do. You can’t leave the past behind if you’re still legally married to it.’

‘That’s exactly right. Plus, then you can start shopping for diamonds for me … kidding!’

‘I know you’re kidding. I wouldn’t get diamonds anyway. I’d get something unusual, like an emerald. If I was, in fact, planning on getting you anything at all.’

We’re both feeling our way through this, keeping it light, both making the effort not to put a foot wrong. I kind of preferred it when we were snuggling and staring at the stars, but I had to tell him. It was stupid of me to hide the fact that I was married from him in the first place – and it’d be even stupider to hide the fact that I’m now in the process of becoming unmarried.

‘I’m glad you told me,’ he says, kissing the top of my head. ‘Are you ready to tell me about him? About what happened? Because I’m not thick, Auburn – you go pale and shaky every time the subject comes up, so I can see it still affects you. Maybe it’d be good to talk about it.’

I’m not all together sure he’s right. I’ve survived perfectly well without talking about it for years now. Or … okay, not well. Kind of unwell, in many ways. It’s only this last year that I’ve started to feel okay again – thanks to Finn, and Willow, and the Budbury crew. Even though the reason for me coming home was a sad one, turns out it’s had some pretty good side effects.

‘I’ll try,’ I say, deciding that he is right after all. As usual. ‘But I might get lost halfway through, okay?’

‘Okay,’ he replies firmly. ‘Whatever you want. No pressure.’

‘Okay,’ I repeat, feeling him wrap one of his legs over me. ‘Well … I met Seb in a bar, which is not an unusual thing, I suppose. I mean, lots of people meet their partners in a bar, don’t they? But the difference with us was that we never left the bar. That bar, or other bars, or nightclubs, or parties. We were … wild. It felt like fun at the time – until it didn’t. Until I realised that all we did was drink, or go mad, or sleep. Literally everything we did together involved some kind of booze or stimulant, or a hangover. There was no in between. No normal.’

‘Right. I’ve had flings like that. Where once the adrenaline wears off, there’s not much left.’

‘You whack-a-moled the nail on the head there. Except this wasn’t a fling – I was married to him, and living with him, and we were really, really bad for each other. I mean, I think living like that even on your own would be bad. But if you had an other half who saw that, and helped you rein it in, or occasionally suggested going to the cinema instead of a rave, maybe it would level out. But with us, there was no levelling out – we were living 100 per cent switched on, all the time.’

‘So when did that start being a problem?’ he asks, gently. ‘Because I assume it did.’

My mind is time-travelling me back to a time and a place I don’t want to go to: to Barcelona, all those years ago. To the time when I found out he was doing more than ecstasy and cocaine, and had started on heroin. To the time he locked me out of the flat for two days because he had friends around and forgot I existed. To the time his mother called me, saying he’d been taken to hospital with a suspected overdose. To the time – times, plural – he promised to clean up his act, always so convincing, but never managed.

To all the highs and lows and big losses and tiny paper cuts of disappointment, and the slow, dripping erosion of respect – for him, and for myself.

‘Well, it was a lot of things,’ I tell Finn. ‘Lots and lots of things that happened. Bad things. He needed someone who wasn’t me in his life – someone more mature, less insane. Someone who could have helped him with his problems. But I was a borderline basket case myself – I was never as into drugs as he was, but let’s say I never went anywhere without an emergency hip flask of vodka, just in case.

‘I don’t blame him entirely. He was basically a nice guy with a lot of demons. He needed me to be his exorcist, and I was too busy trying to stop my own head from spinning around. So, things got worse and worse and worse … complete recklessness, punctuated by these cycles of attempts to live well. Except in our case, living well meant drinking our vodka with orange juice instead of straight. His parents hated me because they thought I was dragging him down … and maybe I was. Maybe he needed another mother, not a wife. He certainly didn’t need me. I did him no good at all.’

I pause for a breather, and realise that I’m crying. Crying real tears of wetness, which is something I rarely do.

‘I don’t know why I’m crying!’ I say, frustrated with myself. ‘It was years ago, and it’s all over now!’

Finn wipes away the tears, and replies: ‘Because it’s emotional. Because it still makes you feel sad, no matter how long ago it was. There’s no sell-by date on sadness.’

It sounds so simple when he says it – and maybe it is. Maybe I should allow myself to be sad. For me, for Seb, for everything that happened.

‘No, there isn’t. And it does make me sad. It’s why I pretended it never happened, I’m such a coward. So, anyway … we were trapped in this spiral for ages. Then, I don’t know why, I started to notice that I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy with my life, with my husband, with the whole messy thing. I’ve always liked messy – but this was too much, even for me. So I started to try and control myself a bit. Now, this isn’t a Hollywood movie, so it’s not like I went along to AA and met some inspirational bloke who would’ve been played by Tom Hanks in the film or anything. I just … cut down on the drinking.

‘Of course, the less drunk I was, the more messy things looked. It’s like when you’re the designated driver on a night out. By the end of it, it’s quite funny watching all the drunk people repeating themselves and slurring their words and trying to pretend they’re sober.’

‘Oh yes. I know it well. And it is funny – every now and then.’

‘Right. Every now and then. Except this was all the time. Twenty-four hours a day. And the less I joined in with our usual games, the more annoyed he got – I think maybe I wasn’t as much fun, but also it was a bit like holding up a mirror to him. He didn’t like what he saw, and it made him feel bad about himself, and feeling bad about himself made him drink more and do more drugs and look for even more ways to escape.’

‘So you recovering made him worse?’

‘Yep – really healthy relationship, wasn’t it? And then …’

I pause, not wanting to carry on – but compelled to. Not only because he wants to know, but because I need to get some of this out of my system. Maybe it’s been silently poisoning me for all these years, strangling me from the inside out.

So I breathe deep, and I tell him, in fits and starts and snuffles. Eventually, I get to the part where things crashed out of control. I tell him about the weekend that everything changed for good.

I’d managed to persuade Seb, with the help of his mother, to come away with me. To get out of the city, away from his so-called friends and his easy supplies and his barfly life. To come with me down to the coast, to spend some time together. Together, without the ever-present third parties.

It started well. He seemed to accept that what I was saying to him made sense – he seemed to mean it when he said he wanted to change. Then again, he always was convincing. His mum lent us her car, and we took off to a little village in the Costa Brava.

It was a beautiful place, all rocky coves and small sandy bays – not completely unlike home. We stayed in a small guesthouse, away from any tourists or commercial zones, and at the beginning I was hopeful. We ate good food. We took long walks. We talked and talked and talked.

I’d say it was like going back to the beginning of our courtship, but it wasn’t – it was like two people meeting each other for the first time, because we were both sober. I was excited by that – by the potential to discover my husband all over again, to start afresh. We even talked about maybe starting a family one day, and although I knew there was a long way to go until we could consider doing something so reckless, I didn’t rule it out. I even, in a fantasy future kind of way, liked the thought of it.

On the third night, though, things started to go wrong. We were out for dinner, and he seemed brighter than usual. More animated. He was talking too quickly, his hands were waving with every word, he was laughing at things that weren’t funny, he was treating the waiting staff like they were long-lost friends.

I suppose part of me knew what was going on. Part of me spotted the signs, and understood that the previous days had been an illusion. We’d both been play-acting. None of it was real – we’d never live happily ever after. We’d never move to a new life by the sea. We’d never have a baby together.

But I ignored that part of me – I just wasn’t ready to give up. I wasn’t ready to abandon him, and us, and our future. I wanted to cling onto that hope for a few more hours, to give the seeds a chance to grow. He was so beautiful, Seb – dark like his mother, but with the vivid hazel eyes of his father. He was like a sculpture, all hard planes and angles. I wanted to hang on to the fiction for a while longer.

That’s why I got into the car with him. That’s why I let him drive. That’s why we ended up crashing straight into the back of a parked van as we drove to the guest house.

Nobody was hurt, thank God – I’d never have forgiven myself if they had been. The van was empty, and we had our seat belts on, and all we suffered was a few bumps and scrapes and in his case a couple of broken ribs and a concussion.

His injuries didn’t stop him jumping out of the car as soon as we regained our senses, though, yelling at me to get into the driver’s seat before anybody came. We could see the lights coming on in the houses nearby, and the sounds of doors opening and people calling out to us, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the police were called.

And if the police were called, and he was caught driving, he’d be in a world of hurt. They’d find the cocaine in his system, and he’d be arrested.

Maybe I was an idiot, but I agreed – I pretended I’d been the one driving. My breath was clear, my blood was clean. Everything else about me, though, felt dirty – soiled and used and squalid. I sat beside him in the ambulance that had been called, holding his hand and telling him he’d be okay, but all the time I was on the edge of a meltdown.

I called his mum, and his parents drove straight down to meet us there. By the time they arrived, he was enjoying a morphine buzz, I’d been questioned by the police, and his mother and father were furious. With me.

From their perspective, I’d been my usual crazy self – crashed a car while carrying their precious son in the passenger seat. I suppose that was the last straw – getting blamed in his mother’s rapid-fire Catalan, the words pinging towards me like bullets, his dad laying one hand on her shoulder to try and calm her down.

I can’t blame them for thinking the worst. I’d not exactly been the model wife, and I’m guessing they were as disappointed as I was – like me, they’d seen this trip as some kind of fresh start. Now, in their eyes, I’d messed it all up, and almost killed Seb in the process.

I didn’t have the energy to argue, or defend myself, or tell them what had really happened. My own self-esteem was in the toilet by that stage in my life anyway – I’d wasted years, made so many mistakes, let Seb reach this stage of self-destruction. I hated myself, and I was past caring whether they hated me too. There was plenty of room in that lifeboat.

So I let them rant and rave and take out all their anxieties and fears on me – it seemed easier than stopping them. I also knew that it might be the last kind thing I could do for them – because there was no way I could stick around and carry on living this life. There was no way I could get straight if I was around him, and no way I could trust him any more.

I stayed for the rest of the night, to make sure he was definitely all right and there wouldn’t be any complications, and then I left. I didn’t tell any of them – I just went to the police station to make sure it was okay and then got the first train back to the city.

I packed my bags, such as they were, and decided to leave. It’s not like a minor crash into the back of a van was going to result in Interpol being alerted, and I’d given the police my details – the insurance would cover the damage. To the van at least.

The damage to me was a bit more serious. I sat there in our flat, and saw it for what it was – nothing more than a squat. The cheap art posters tacked to the wall that I’d once thought were bohemian and charming now looked yellow and faded. The unmade bed we’d shared looked like a rat’s nest. The empty bottles from Seb’s last party with his pals were littering the room, making the whole place smell like tequila.

Everything I cared about fitted into my backpack – the same backpack I’d left England with all those years earlier. Over a decade of travelling and living; so many different countries, so many different friends and jobs and even a marriage – and I could still cram everything I needed into a backpack.

I left on the next flight to London, and that was the beginning of what I like to think of as my new life. I barely spoke on that flight, and I desperately wanted to buy every single one of those little bottles of booze the ladies with the trolleys wheel around. But I didn’t, which is maybe what saved me – I wasn’t an alcoholic in the physical sense, but I was addicted to using it as a crutch. If I’d turned to it then, I might never have stopped.

‘And what happened when you got back to the UK?’ Finn asks, his voice a whisper, barely heard over the clamour of all these memories.

‘I bummed around for a bit. Stayed on sofas, worked crappy jobs. Eventually got my shit together enough to decide to go back to college.’

‘And you never saw him again, after that?’

‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘Although I briefly spoke to his dad, a few months later, to make sure he was alive and all right. His dad was quite English about it all, didn’t scream or shout or anything – I suspect he knew the truth, and didn’t want to push me into telling him more than he wanted to know.

‘Once I was studying, things changed – life calmed down. I had something to do, and a reason for doing it, and I started to live again. I knew I’d got enough balance to go on a night out, to go and see a band, to have a few glasses of wine – I started to trust myself again, I suppose.’

‘What about now? Do you trust yourself now?’

‘Up to a point,’ I say, looking up to meet his eyes. ‘If we’re doing this whole honesty thing, I trust myself up to a point. I’m happy here. I’m happy with you. I’m happy I can have a drink and a laugh and for it to enhance my life rather than rule it. But … well, I’m probably never going to be entirely normal, Finn.’

He leans down to kiss me softly, and replies: ‘I think we’ve had this conversation before, Miss Moneypenny. I never signed on for normal. I signed on for you, in all your crazy glory.’