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I don’t look at any more pictures. Instead, I snap the album closed and stare at the wood of the cabinet. It’s Billy’s twenty-ninth birthday tomorrow. Maybe I’m stupid, I don’t know. Maybe I’m naïve. Or perhaps there’s still a teeny scrap of hope left inside me.
His birthday is tomorrow. And that means he’s lived another year. But not lived at all, only suffered. I don’t cry at that thought. Instead, I go to the kitchen and send out a group text to four of the people in the group picture at our wedding, inviting them to dinner tomorrow evening to celebrate. Our friends, Lewis and Helen, and Gareth and Penny. The six of us used to do everything together. Now, I’m lucky if I hear from them from one month to the next. I don’t hold out much hope, it’s short notice, so I’m surprised when I get two replies—one from Helen and one from Penny, both saying how good it is to hear from me and they’d love to see us, babysitters pending. I don’t care if they are guilt-induced acceptances. They’re coming.
For the first time in two years, Billy will have a proper birthday. I fiercely ignore the fact that I’m doing this because it’ll be his last.
They managed to get babysitters, and my Tuesday is spent preparing a superb meal on my limited budget, as well as a huge chocolate cake. Billy loves chocolate cake. I don’t tell him about the plans, keeping it a surprise, and I disregard the part of my brain that’s yelling at me that he’ll insist I cancel if he knows. He seemed brighter this morning, more with it, and definitely steadier on his feet as I watched him walk to the bathroom.
I manage to keep my plans for this evening from his parents when they pop over to wish him happy birthday. I don’t want Linda inviting herself, which I know she will. We’ve never been the best of friends, but it’s particularly strained since our clash that resulted in her slapping my face. But for Billy, I’ll tolerate her.
By six o’clock, I’m all done, and I quickly run upstairs to make myself look presentable, brushing my hair, throwing on a simple shirt dress, and applying a little makeup.
Everyone arrives at seven, and I hush them at the door when they pile into the hallway. It’s so good to see them, and I embrace each of them before ushering them down the hall into the kitchen. They might all be guilty of avoiding Billy and me, but it’s now I realize that a simple message from me would have remedied that.
“It’s a surprise?” Penny asks, placing a bottle of red on the worktop as I nod and shoot over to the hob to stir the bolognaise. “How fabulous.”
“How is he, Lo?” Lewis asks, taking Helen’s coat from her shoulders and laying it over the back of a chair.
“Perkier today.” I smile when he nods, happy, and everyone says how good that is to hear. Not that they can appreciate that perkier than yesterday doesn’t really mean anything.
I set Penny the task of pouring drinks, chatting with her while I show her where to find the glasses. She looks as lovely as always, pristine in an oversized jumper dress and heeled boots. “How are the kids?” I ask, handing her the corkscrew.
She laughs. “Keeping me busy, you know.”
I nod and get pulled away from Penny by her husband, Gareth. “I bought Billy this.” He holds up a bottle of double malt Scotch whiskey, grinning. “You think he’ll be up for a few after dinner?”
“I hope so. I better go fetch him.” I usher Boris into his basket and shut the kitchen door behind me, jogging up the stairs to Billy’s room. I poke my head around the door to find him making his way back to the bed. “Perfect,” I declare, pushing my way into the room. “You’re up.”
“I’ve just been to the toilet.”
“I have a surprise for you.” I go to his wardrobe and pull out the first thing I set my hands on, which happens to be a striped shirt. I select some jeans too, and hand them to him.
Billy eyes me doubtfully, and I know why. My last surprise didn’t go down too well. But this is different. The lasagna wasn’t even really a surprise. This is definitely a surprise. “What are you up to?” he asks.
“Just put these on and come,” I say, pleading with my eyes.
I can see the doubt on his face, and the urge to refuse, but he finally takes the clothes and heads back to the bathroom.
He won’t get dressed in front of me.
He won’t let me see his body anymore.
I’ve come to terms with that, but it still stings so much. He’s withdrawn in so many ways. I guess I should simply be grateful he’s not protesting and is humoring me.
