The Pieces of You and Me. Rachel Burton

a week as soon as I had been able to again. It was a long journey from Highgate to Kew but it was worth it for an afternoon in the Botanical Gardens. There had always been something magical about this place.

      We sat on the first bench we came to, side by side, our thighs touching as they had done in the pub in York.

      ‘I used to look for your by-line in the Observer,’ he said, the corners of his mouth turning up.

      I told him I was a freelance writer, that my articles rarely had a by-line. I told him that working on a paper hadn’t suited me.

      ‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’ he asked then.

      ‘Nothing,’ I replied. I’d been enjoying myself. I hadn’t thought anything was wrong.

      He sighed, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

      ‘You’ve been ill, haven’t you?’ he said.

      I didn’t reply. I hadn’t thought that this was the reason he’d brought me outside. I wondered for a moment if Mum had said something.

      He turned his head to look at me. ‘You’re so pale, Jessie, and so tired all the time. I’ve seen the way Gemma and Caitlin worry about you – even on her own hen night Gemma was concerned about you. What’s going on?’

      Even after all these years he still knew me as well as I knew myself. I couldn’t lie to him, but I couldn’t tell him either. I couldn’t stand the questions, the cynicism. I couldn’t bear it if Rupert turned out to be one of those people who didn’t believe me. So I told him half the story.

      ‘I had glandular fever a few years ago,’ I said. ‘It took a long time to clear up, much longer than normal and it left me exhausted and not really able to work.’ I stopped, unable to work out the look on his face.

      ‘Is that why you went freelance?’ he asked.

      ‘I’m doing much better now,’ I replied, not really answering his question, not sure if I was trying to convince him or myself.

      ‘Glandular fever,’ he repeated slowly to himself. ‘But you’re OK now? Honestly?’

      I nodded. ‘Honestly. I still get tired easily and Gemma hasn’t been the easiest bride to handle.’

      ‘I can imagine.’ He smiled.

      ‘She’s worn me out.’

      He laughed softly and looked away again sitting back up, leaning against the back of the bench.

      ‘There is something else,’ I said.

      He didn’t reply, waiting instead for me to speak.

      ‘I told you Mum lived near me but that’s not true. I live with her. I moved in with her when I got sick and I haven’t moved out yet. I know that’s a bit sad …’ I wasn’t sure why I was so embarrassed about it.

      ‘It’s not sad, Jessie, it’s lovely.’ As he looked at me, I remembered the fractured relationship he always had with his family, how much time he spent with my mum and dad and how he had always wished he could be closer to his own parents. I was lucky and sometimes it’s hard to see ourselves from other people’s perspectives. Sometimes it’s hard to forget about how things used to be and concentrate on how they are now.

      I let my gaze linger on his profile, the line of his nose, the fall of his hair, the shadow of his stubble. How much had he changed? What did he see when he looked at me? He was the same but different, as though he was carrying a heavy weight that hadn’t been there ten years before. We all carried baggage that hadn’t been there a decade ago though; it was what we were like underneath it all that counted. Did any of us ever change?

       9

       RUPERT

      She looked so beautiful when he saw her walking down the aisle in front of Gemma at the wedding ceremony. He couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to have been given this second chance.

      But he had known there was something wrong; she hadn’t seemed as pleased to see him again as he had to see her. And later, outside the Orangery, she had seemed distant as though she hadn’t heard what he was saying.

      He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her for years. Being here at the wedding with her felt like a daydream. It didn’t seem real. Caro had kept him occupied during the wedding, full of jokes and stories and anecdotes from his childhood that he had forgotten, blanked from his mind during the lonely years he’d spent at Harvard; but he was delighted to remember, now that he was back here amongst people who he had used to love, people who he had forgotten to love.

      When Jess had danced with him after dinner to Stevie Wonder’s ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ he felt that it was a turning point, a significant moment in his life – like the day he first kissed her on the bench by the River Cam or the day he asked her to marry him. He wanted those days back and he was determined that this weekend he was going to make that happen, determined that he was going to take a risk.

      But he knew there was something wrong and when he asked her to get some fresh air with him he wanted to find out what it was, to help her if he could. But he was still sure that she wasn’t telling him the whole story.

      When he turned to look at her again, she was staring at him. When their eyes met he felt the wave of heat that had washed over him when he saw her in the pub in York. He didn’t know what to say or do. He wanted the easy banter of their youth to return, the secret smiles, the in-jokes. He wanted it not to feel awkward. But it did. Ten years had passed and there was nothing he could do to bring them back, to turn back the clock. They used to know everything about one another, but they knew nothing now about the people they had each become. Part of him wanted to tell her everything but another part of him wanted to hold back, as she was holding back from him.

      ‘What tempted you back to England?’ she asked, breaking the silence that hung between them. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you would ever have wanted to leave Harvard?’

      ‘I missed England,’ he replied. ‘I was lonely out there, I never really fitted in and I just wanted to come home.’ It sounded like a poor explanation even to him.

      ‘But York?’ she persisted. ‘Why didn’t you just go back to Cambridge?’

      He looked away from her. ‘It was a good opportunity,’ he said.

      ‘A long way from the Arsenal stadium though,’ she joked, nudging him gently, reminding him of the obsession he had shared with her father. Her light-heartedness sounded forced to him, as though she knew he had just lied to her.

      ‘Nearer than Harvard was,’ he replied. ‘The first thing I did when I got back to England was a tour of the Emirates Stadium.’

      She smiled next to him. ‘I wonder what Dad would have made of it?’

      Jess’s father, Ed Clarke, had been everything to Rupert, everything that his own father had never been. It was Ed who taught him to play football, to stay loyal to Arsenal even during the bad seasons. Ed had taught him to swim, to fly a kite and Ed had always encouraged his wild side, his freedom. Rupert’s father never seemed to believe in kids being allowed to be free.

      As Rupert got older it was Ed who bought him his first legal pint on his eighteenth birthday – even though he knew Rupert had had his fair share of illegal pints before that – and it was Ed who Rupert met up with in the week to watch the football with in the pub, after Jess had moved to London. They would sit in the corner, always at the same table, and chat amiably as they watched the match.

      ‘For what it’s worth,’ Ed had said one night. ‘I think you made the right decision about staying in Cambridge and not going to one of those Ivy League universities. I think you’ll be much happier here. I