doesn’t talk much on the way. She had wanted me to sit in the back of the car with her but Jack told her he would feel as if he was a taxi driver.
When we arrive at the restaurant, Jack finds a parking space and, as we walk up the path he takes our hands, so that we’re on either side of him. The staff greets us like old friends because we often bring Millie here. They show us to the round table in the corner, the one that Jack likes, by the window. We sit as we always do, Jack facing the window and Millie and I sitting on either side of him. As we study our menus, I stretch my leg out under the table and find hers, my secret sign to her.
Jack chats away to Millie during the meal, encouraging her to talk, asking her what she did during the weekends when we didn’t come to see her. She tells us that once Janice took her back to hers for lunch, once they went out for afternoon tea, and once they were both invited to her friend Paige’s house, and not for the first time I thank God that Millie has someone like Janice to step in whenever I can’t be with her.
‘Grace come walk?’ Millie asks once lunch is over. ‘Round lake.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I fold my napkin neatly and place it on the table, my movements deliberately unhurried. ‘Shall we go now?’
Jack pushes back his chair. ‘I’ll come too.’
Even though I didn’t expect anything less, there is still a feeling of crushing disappointment.
‘We go all way round,’ Millie warns.
‘Not all the way around,’ protests Jack. ‘It’s too cold to be outside for long.’
‘Then Jack stay here,’ Millie tells him. ‘I go with Grace.’
‘No,’ says Jack. ‘We’ll all go.’
Millie looks solemnly at Jack from across the table. ‘I like you, Jack,’ she says. ‘But I don’t like Jorj Koony.’
‘I know.’ Jack nods. ‘I don’t like him either.’
‘He ugly,’ says Millie.
‘Yes, he’s very ugly,’ agrees Jack.
And Millie bursts into fits of laughter.
We walk a little way around the lake, Jack walking between me and Millie. Jack tells Millie that he’s busy getting her room ready for when she comes to live with us and when she asks if it’s going to be yellow, he says that of course it is.
He was right; it is too cold to be outside for very long and after about twenty minutes we head back to the car. Millie is even quieter on the way back to her school and I know she feels the same frustration that I feel. When we say goodbye, she asks if we’ll be back to see her the following weekend and when Jack says he’s sure we will be, I’m glad that Janice is within earshot.
PAST
When Jack and I told Millie that we were getting married, the first thing she asked was if she could be our bridesmaid.
‘Of course you can!’ I said, hugging her. ‘That is all right, isn’t it, Jack?’ I added, dismayed to see a frown on his face.
‘I thought we were having a simple wedding,’ he said pointedly.
‘We are, but I’ll still need a bridesmaid.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, yes,’ I said, feeling flustered. ‘It’s traditional. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Don’t you think it’ll be a bit much for Millie?’ he asked, lowering his voice. ‘If you really need a bridesmaid, why not ask Kate or Emily?’
‘Because I want Millie,’ I insisted, aware of her watching us anxiously.
There was a moment’s awkward silence. ‘Then Millie you shall have,’ he said, smiling and holding his arm out to her. ‘Come on, let’s go and tell your headmistress the good news.’
Mrs Goodrich and Janice were delighted to hear we were getting married. After sending Millie off to wash her hands in preparation for dinner, Mrs Goodrich agreed that it would be best if Millie stayed at school for another fifteen months, until she turned eighteen, as had been planned all along, despite Jack reiterating that he would be quite happy to have Millie move in with us at once. I was glad when Mrs Goodrich suggested it would be nice for us to have some time on our own and I wondered if maybe she’d guessed that we hoped to start a family straight away.
Soon after, we were on our way to Hecclescombe, where Cranleigh Park was every bit as beautiful as Jack had told me it was. It was the perfect setting for a wedding and I was grateful to Giles and Moira, Jack’s friends, for allowing us to use their beautiful home. We didn’t think any of our guests would mind the forty-minute drive from London to be able to spend the afternoon and evening in such a lovely setting, especially as Giles and Moira kindly offered to put up anyone who couldn’t face the drive back to London once dinner was over. After a couple of hours spent deciding on a menu for fifty, which would be cooked and served by a catering company from London, we left for the hotel Jack had booked while I’d been in Argentina.
I couldn’t wait for Jack to take me to bed at last, but dinner had to be got through first, because we only arrived in time for our reservation. The meal was delicious but I was impatient to be back in our room.
I went off to have a shower and, when I came out of the bathroom, eager to make love, I was dismayed to find Jack sound asleep on the bed. I didn’t have the heart to wake him as I knew he was exhausted—he had confessed to me during dinner that he had almost cancelled our weekend away because of the amount of work he had on but hadn’t wanted to let me down. When he eventually stirred a couple of hours later, he was mortified that he had fallen asleep and, gathering me in his arms, he made love to me.
We stayed in bed for most of the next morning and, after a lazy lunch, we headed back to London. Even though it meant that I didn’t see Jack for the whole of the following week, I was glad we’d managed to take some time out from the frenzy our imminent wedding had precipitated us into. And not being able to see Jack gave me the chance to finish the painting I had started for him two months previously. Because I rarely had time to work on it I had resigned myself to giving it to him as a wedding present rather than for Christmas, as I had wanted to do, but with Jack busy in the evenings and my suitcases consigned indefinitely to the back of the cupboard, I managed to complete it in time for Christmas Day. I hoped that if he liked it, it would grace the walls of our new home—I could easily imagine it hanging above the fireplace we’d talked about having.
It was a large painting and, at first glance, it seemed to be an abstract design of different shades of red with tiny shots of silver running through it. It was only on closer inspection that one could distinguish the mass of red as hundreds of tiny fireflies—and only Jack and I would know that the mass of red had been created, not from paint, but from lipstick, which I had then sealed with a clear varnish before completing the painting.
I had never told Jack that I enjoyed painting, and even when he had admired one of the canvases that hung in my kitchen I hadn’t mentioned that I was the artist. So when I told him on Christmas Day—once I was certain he liked the painting I’d given him—that not only had I painted Fireflies myself but that I had created it by kissing the canvas hundreds of times wearing different
