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She could have made a really sarcastic comment there but fought it, let him continue.
Bruce wiped a slick of nervous sweat from his forehead. ‘It was exciting at first, new, strange, bit naughty. She made me feel like a man, not a dad or a husband. It was only meant to be a fling, then she won that money and we got a bit drunk with it all.’ He sighed. ‘Then the hangover happened. When I saw you with Morton, it made me realise it’s you I love.You looked so… so beautiful. Youareso beautiful. I know I’m asking a lot, but can’t we pretend this madness never happened? I’ll do anything to put it right. You’re everything I could ever want.’
It would be so much easier to fall back into the familiar rather than forge forward into the unknown, she thought.
‘I’ve stayed away because I was ashamed. We could get that villa in the sun now, just take off, wherever you want to go – you choose. I want to look after you, like a proper husband. It’ll be easier now there’s just you and me.’ Then he said decisively, ‘I’m going to pull out of the divorce.’
‘Wow,’ was all she said to that.
‘Is that a yes?’ The corners of Bruce’s mouth twitched upwards with expectancy.
They could grow old together and the family would stay intact, the easy choice like her mum and dad had taken. She knew what she’d get with him, no need to worry about the unknown that presently shimmered in front of her with rainbow colours but offered no sureties…
‘It’s a no, I’m sorry,’ replied Shay, not really taking any pleasure in popping his balloon. ‘If only you’d put as much effort into your family as you did into your affair.’ It was what stung more than anything, when she’d had time to process it, the energy he’d never spent on them when he’d so obviously had it to give.
‘I know, I know. But I can change,’ he pleaded.
‘I’ve already changed, Bruce, and I don’t fit in this marriage any more.’
She was so much bigger than it now, it was a too-tight skin she had shed. She had grown, flowered, strengthened, walked out of the shadows where she had hidden for so long and into the sunshine and it felt flipping marvellous. She hadstood up for her loved ones, fought for what was right and was doing a fine job of looking after herself without anyone needing to do it for her. She hadn’t a clue what going forwards entailed, but she was heading in that direction only, not backwards.
‘Wouldn’t you at least give it some thought?’ he tried. ‘Please.’
She shook her head slowly. Then she stood, indicating their meeting was at an end.
At the door, Bruce bent, kissed her cheek and it would have been churlish of her not to let him hold her, one last time, the person he had thrown away. The person who had been outweighed on the scales by a brand new Audi and a row of Armani shirts, the trappings of luxury that had turned out to be a Farrow and Ball-painted prison.
Bruce looked up at the ‘sold’ sign.
‘Where will you go?’ he asked her.
‘Home,’ she replied.
When her car pulled up in front of the barn that night, Jonah was waiting for her. He’d been on tenterhooks since she rang to say she was coming over and could they talk? He ran out into the dark November air, sparkly with the first snow of winter, Christmas come early to his heart.
‘Here you are,’ he said, his lips aching with the smile that stretched them.
‘Here I am,’ she replied, fear fluttering like a trapped bird inside her. She’d been driving around for the best part of an hour, scared that the magic between them would have melted like these snow flurries in the air, that nostalgia had blinded him, that the rose-coloured euphoria spun by their reunion had, in the space he had granted her, faded; that toomany years had passed by for them to be bridged by anything other than fond friendship. But the look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ said Jonah. ‘And I’ve spent too long missing you. No more, Shay Corrigan, no more.’
He held out his hand and she took it, feeling the same thrill she had so many years ago when she was a schoolgirl madly in love with a schoolboy, and together they walked into his house to pick up the past and mould it into a future.
EPILOGUE
Ella Smith died at Christmas and Shay had kept her word. After Ella was buried, she went to the police with the diary that she said had been bequeathed to her. The bones of old Bradley Smith were exhumed and committed to a proper resting place, though no one went to the funeral. The local newspaper did a piece about the historic story which the nationals picked up. It couldn’t bring Denny back, but it could right the injustice that had been done to his two young friends. It highlighted the new charity, ‘Denny’s Circle’, which would grow and go on to help many teenagers who felt they had nowhere to turn for help and support. Denny’s name would live on, because his friends valued him as too precious to be forgotten.
Les and Bruce didn’t last the course. He bought a small villa and moved to Spain to test out a slower pace of life and be king of his own one-bedroomed castle rather than being a slave in someone else’s country pile. He Zoomed his children regularly, amazed at their mature capacity for forgiveness. He couldn’t make up for the years he’d been there with them but notforthem, but going forward, he wasdetermined to strengthen their relationship and he realised, not too late, what a brilliant pair of kids he had. He gave their mother full credit for that.
Sandwich went from strength to strength. The brother and sister power combo earned their stripes and took over from JoMint for Colin Parks-Davis’s company, managed some very lucrative influencer contracts and handled all the social media and design needs for Yorkshire Crumble cheese. They were busy as Terri and Amanda’s bees – and loving it.
Morton wasn’t greedy in his divorce settlement, he was quite happy keeping his farmhouse and his savings and he left Les to bathe in asses’ milk and buy even bigger lips because he’d discovered the sort of happiness that money couldn’t buy. Armed with his new silky-smooth dating skills, Morton Jagger found a cracking woman on Tinder. An owner of twelve bodegas in the north of England, she had plenty of money of her own, so she didn’t need his. She had been about to give up trawling for love when Morton landed on her radar. She liked his kind heart and his gentlemanly manners, and she hooted at his anecdotes and repertoire of fart jokes. Also she loved sex. Morton was as happy as a cat in a bath of clotted cream. And when Les texted him asking if he’d be interested in some no-strings fun for old times’ sake, he didn’t even dignify it with a response.
Paula took umbrage that her father had left the family cuckoo in the nest a portion of inheritance equal to that which he’d left her – his true and only daughter. She wrote to tell Shay she was cutting her and hers out of her life for good. Courtney volunteered to deliver a response, but her mother told her to leave well alone.
Little Mort proposed to Courtney in Bran Castle in Transylvania; he thought she’d appreciate it more than if he did it at the top of the Eiffel tower or the Empire State Building – he knew his girl so well. Shay knew she wouldn’t need to take her daughter aside before the wedding and ask if she wanted to run off, no questions asked, but she did joke that she might pull Mort to one side and ask him instead.
Sunny went to a school reunion and met up with a girl he’d fancied from afar in his teenage years. It turned out that she’d fancied him from afar too. So they started fancying each other from much nearer. Courtney had no desire to smash her face in, which was considered the ultimate seal of approval.
The pensioners of Merriment Close were delighted with the new additions – a bit of young blood, Errol and wife in number 2, and Errol was renting out 1A to a young couple with twin toddlers. They joined the residents’ association and the neighbourhood watch, sent Christmas cards and said hello in passing. Order was restored.
As for Shay, she would always be integral to the family sandwich, even if it was more of an open construction these days. Her children were flying happily and high, they didn’t need her but she’d always be there for them if that changed. And as much as she sometimes, in wistful moments, missed the manic days of eleventh-hour fancy dress costume-making, homework-helping, fish finger-frying and bridegroom-rescuing, she was enjoying the peace and contentment she’d found in the future she should always have had. Life, as Morton Jagger had once wisely said, was for grabbing with both hands when the good bits came along and making up for lost time, and that’s exactly what she and Jonah Wells were doing.
She knew who she was and that made her strong. She never had to choose between being the daughter of Harry Corrigan or Ammon Habib because she was both. Her identity was the sum of her experiences and her values, her battles and achievements; she was made of everything she had been and thought she was: Italian throwback, Egyptian love-child, worker, wrecker of weddings, estranged sister, daughter, mother, wife, friend, lover, survivor, fighter, sandwich filling. But more than the labels, she belonged to the people she loved, and they belonged to her and that, above it all, made her everything she wanted to be.
