Page 31 of The Key to My Heart

A bird tweets rhythmically, like a distant alarm, in the tree above us.

‘He did. And he was Russ. Tired and confused and in pain, unable to move his legs, but –him.I will never forget that smile when he woke up. The relief was … I felt like someone had looked down and had mercy on me, or something. I couldn’t believe he was there. And that’s when I started playing piano for him. They had this donated piano and … it’s good therapy, you know? Not just for him, but other people in the ward too.’

Tom nods.

‘And he was doing really well. They started talking about physio and everything and then – he got an infection. And … it was so fast. I went home that night, packed him some more clothes, his favourite book, and by the time I got there the next morning, they told me to … prepare. And an hour later.’ I swallow. ‘Gone.’

Tom’s chest rises, and falls. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says.

‘I always felt like he was waiting for me. They say that, don’t they? That they wait, people who are dying. For people to leave, or to arrive, or …anyway.’ I dab at my eyes, at tears I had no idea were even coming, and Tom intercepts with a packet of pocket tissues. ‘Thanks,’ I laugh. ‘Happy birthday to me.’

Tom smiles softly. ‘You certainly know how to celebrate.’

I laugh through my tears. ‘Come on. Let’s see this cake.’

‘Right,’ says Tom, ‘cake. Of course,’ and between his feet, on the ground, he unzips his bag and pulls out a small cake box. He’d made me wait outside Paul Express on the way out of the station, and strolled in, beforecoming out, hand at the thick strap of his rucksack over his shoulder, and saying, ‘An old lady in there just stopped me and told me I had lovely, sturdy legs. She actually saidsturdy,’ and I’d laughed when she’d floated out a moment later in a fur stole and smiled at him. ‘Here,’ he says now, placing a white, glossy box on the bench between us. ‘Birthday cake – well, tarts, apparently. Still counts though. I checked.’

Warmth spreads beneath my skin, like syrup, the tears on my cheeks drying in the sun.God.Who’d have ever seen this coming? Me and Tom the Target from the bar, on a bench, either side of two strawberry tarts, in a nature reserve on my birthday. But then it’s life, isn’t it? Weird and unexpected and unknown. It’s all it ever used to be for me, once upon a time. Even though Russ and I, like most people, lived a relatively routine-y, same-things-on-the-same-day sort of life, and as much as we planned to cram so much into our lives together, spontaneity still ran through it, like a vein. Random dinners out, in restaurants, on a Wednesday night after work, an impromptu last-minute weekend away, unplanned nights and other people’s pyjamas when staying over at a friend’s after a barbecue went on for too long. And I’ve missed it, this feeling. I’ve missed it a lot.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For the birthday tarts.’

Tom nods, crosses his arms. ‘No worries.’

‘Seriously. They’re officially my favourite thirty-third birthday gift.’

Tom gives a laugh, and looks up, squinting at the sun streaming in through the trees. ‘Ah, well, I reckon youshould raise your standards a bit, Natalie, to be honest.’ Then he turns to me and says, ‘But then – you did get an open mic night you didn’t want and a big ol’ Judas stab in the back so …’

‘The tarts win.’

‘By a landslide,’ he laughs.

A duck skirts across the water, three tiny chicks lagging behind, and someone on a neighbouring narrowboat steps out from inside and hangs a towel on an old-looking wooden airer.

‘I actually used to want to live on a narrowboat,’ says Tom. ‘I used to sometimes pretend I did. When I was a kid. Used to sit on my bed, like …’ Tom holds a hand to his face, like a visor, a sailor looking to sea, and laughs.

‘That’s quite adorable.’

‘Think it was envy. My best mate, Ben, in school used to go on boating holidays with his dad and stuff. They were one of those families, you know? Dad comes home at night with a briefcase, kisses his wife on the head, tells them all he’s missed them, waffles about quality time together and means it. Brady Bunch level shit.’

‘Nah, those people are too perfect.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ says Tom. ‘But I always wanted to do the same. Though… my dad.Nota boating holiday, head-kissing sort of guy.’

‘Don,’ I say, with a nod.

‘Don,’ repeats Tom.

‘I can’t actually believe your dad is Don. Actual Shauna’s Don …’

Tom raises his eyebrows and sighs. ‘Yup. Me either, sometimes.’

Behind us, the class of schoolchildren, in high-vis vests and welly boots, trundle past.

‘Well, if it makes you feel any better, I used to pretend I lived in an apartment, in California,’ I say, ‘with floor-to-ceiling windows and this amazing view, and … with Christian Slater actually. He used to make linguine and hang the washing out.’

‘Christian Slater.’ Tom laughs. ‘You said you live in – Bournebridge, right?’

‘Yep. Life had other plans for me. No Christian Slater or floor-to-ceiling windows as yet. I live in a cottage. But it’s a proper project. Totally falling down, needs a new kitchen, new bathroom, new fuckingeverythingreally.That was our plan. To fix it up.’

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