You Me Everything Read online

  “You say there’s no cure, but are they working on one? Medical advances are happening all the time, so surely you might never get to the stage your mum’s at?”

  It’s the single hope I cling to, one I read about constantly. But the science that might one day end all this remains elusive. “It’s possible. There’s work being done all over the world. I read about breakthroughs all the time.”

  Still, I realize I can’t leave him on this hopeful note. “At the moment though, Adam, there isn’t even a drug out there that can slow it down. Only drugs that can manage the symptoms. Not the disease itself.”

  There will be dozens of questions, I know, but for the moment, the only thing left in Adam’s eyes is a desire to comfort me, to touch me and hug me, to make it all as much better as he can. But now is the time to be straight with him about everything. “This was why we came here, Adam.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mum has always wanted you and William to have more of a relationship, but when I tested positive a few months ago, it became a practical matter, as well as an emotional one.”

  He swallows silently.

  “My mum’s symptoms started only a few years from the age I am now, Adam. And, although this is a long disease—it lasts ten, sometimes twenty years—there will inevitably be a stage when I can’t be the parent I want to be to William.”

  It’s at this point that the tears start coming for the first time, making the rims of my eyes hot, stinging my skin. “And if that happens, he will need you.”

  To my endless relief, Adam doesn’t cry. His face is simply gaunt with devastation. Then he takes my hand and gently rubs his fingers back and forth over my knuckles. “He’s got me, Jess. I promise. Whatever happens, he’s got me.”

  Chapter 75

  I’ve spent so long thinking about how I’d tell Adam about the HD that now it’s happened, I almost don’t know what to do with myself.

  Still, I feel lighter on my feet in our final few days in France, as if the burden of my secret is no longer making me stagger under its weight. I can finally get on with injecting a sliver of certainty into my uncertain future.

  It helps that he’s forgiven me for not being open about it until now, and that I finally know the truth about what happened on the night of William’s birth. But most of all, it helps that we both understand the need to be grown-up about what happened this summer. Between the two of us, I mean.

  The knowledge that it can’t continue won’t stop me reliving every sweet bit of it. The way my skin tingled when I watched him laugh. The way I felt on fire from his touch. The way he did beautiful, bittersweet things to me and, for the first time in as long as I can remember, made me stop thinking of my body as my enemy.

  But the fairy tale stops there. It has become one more thing that HD has taken from me. Adam and I cannot be together, and any ideas that we can have been stopped dead in their tracks. Because there is quite simply no happy ending that involves both of us.

  Not one where Adam and I grow old together, salsa dancing our way into our nineties and going on the kind of world cruises where they have onboard yoga teachers.

  I fell in love with Adam again this summer. And it must have been real love, because what I feel for him is also unselfish enough to want him to still have all those things with someone. Not Simone—I wouldn’t go that far—but someone.

  I still smile every time I think about his proposal though.

  It reminded me of everything that’s good about Adam. It was funny and unorthodox, sweet and passionate. All of which was possible before bitter reality set in.

  In Adam’s case, that reality is still setting in. Sometimes I catch him looking into space, tormented as to how all of this happened. It’s as if he’s spent the last few weeks hurtling towards something bigger and better in life, only for all of that to disappear overnight.

  Still, the way we withdraw from each other is quietly decisive.

  The kissing is over. The flirting is over. The double-orgasm sex is over.

  The summer of second chances is drawing to a close in the best way someone with my future could expect, knowing that, whatever happens to me, William will be loved and protected by his father. He’s a better man than I ever gave him credit for.

  I am optimistic that Adam and I will end up being something wondrous: parents who are also friends. I think we could be bloody good at that, a winning team, until I can’t win any longer.

  When that point comes, I at least have this: I know William will be looked after. Not just when he’s little, but beyond that. And although Adam’s advice to our grown son may not ever be the same as mine would’ve been, I know he’s in the hands of a man who loves him and will do his best. No parent is perfect. Mine weren’t, and I’m not.

  But if a father loves his child with every bit of himself, that’s all anyone can ask.

  Of course, there are dozens of practicalities to discuss, which we do repeatedly over coffee, but I know we’ll get there. We discuss Adam moving back to Manchester in October and him looking to rent somewhere in Castlefield initially, not far from us. We discuss William staying overnight at his place on Wednesdays and Saturdays, an arrangement that both of us are happy can be flexible. We decide Adam’s welcome to pop over for a cup of tea sometimes, and we have an open invitation to Sunday lunch every week at his place.

  He keeps saying things like, “I’m looking forward to it, Jess. Life’s going to be good,” and it comes out with such conviction that I believe him. Almost.

  Whatever happens, I can’t wait to get home. I’ve been away from Mum too long, and suddenly, all I can think about is returning to her. Natasha, however, does not seem to share my enthusiasm for our imminent departure.

  “I thought you’d be looking forward to getting back to work.” To anyone else, this would sound sarcastic, but I actually mean it with her.

  “Well, I am, but . . .” I wait for her to finish, but she squirms, embarrassed to be confessing something. “I really like Ben.”

  “I’m not surprised; he’s gorgeous.”

  “Yes, but you’re not meant to get overemotional about holiday romances at my age. The last time I did that I was fourteen years old.”

  “Have you two talked about keeping in touch?”

  “We’ve deliberately avoided the issue, though we did become Facebook friends. All that seemed to do was expose the massive age gap.”

  “Nobody would flinch at nine years if it were the other way round,” I argue. “Besides, you don’t look like you’re in your late thirties.”

  “Thanks, Jess. It’s all down to yoga.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, that and the Botox.”

  Chapter 76

  Natasha, William and I head to the games area to meet up with the others and watch the kids play soccer. The sun is setting on the sandy pitch as we find a spot that’s a safe distance from stray balls. Natasha pulls up a chair and sits down, stretching out her legs under a pair of pale shorts, her slim, bronzed feet peeping out from leather sandals.

  I notice quickly that William is hanging round at the side of the pitch, looking shifty as their numbers swell.

  “Come on, you lot. It’s like herding cats!” Becky and her clan emerge from the woodland in the same way they always do when they travel as a group: loudly, haphazardly—with one child ahead and a couple behind as both parents attempt to keep them moving vaguely in the same direction. Poppy spots us and, with a surge of energy, runs into my arms and plops onto my knee.

  William taps me on the shoulder. “I might go for a swim instead.”

  I groan. “We’ve walked all the way over here now, and you’ve left your swimming kit back at the cottage.”

  “Okay, then I might just have a go of my iPad and—”

  “But James and Rufus have come to play too. You’re not going to sit here
with your . . . my iPad for the next hour.”

  He starts chewing his lip as James appears next to him. “I don’t want to play soccer either.”

  The penny drops. “Is it those mean boys again? I can come over and say something to them if you’d like.”

  “NO!” they reply, so appalled you’d think I’d threatened to distract them by streaking across the pitch. They reluctantly slink off towards the other kids, muttering that they can handle it, before joining in the game. The rest of us edge forward to make our imposing presence clear by fixing our sternest parental gaze on them.

  “Not with Ben today?” Becky asks Natasha.

  “Not until after he’s finished work. Then he’s decided he wants to cook for me, so we’re—”

  A huge cheer erupts, and when I look at the pitch, William is running round, his arms aloft in the kind of Messiah pose you might reserve for scoring at the last minute in a World Cup final.

  “What a brilliant goal!” Seb grins.

  I stand up and glare over, wishing I had a rewind button. “Was that William?”

  He chuckles. “Don’t tell me you missed it.”

  “Did you see that, Mum?” My son’s face is a vision of unmitigated happiness.

  I leap to my feet, clapping my hands so hard my palms sting. “AMAZING, son. Brilliant!”

  Then I sink back into my seat as Becky smirks at me. “Never apply for Equity membership with acting skills like that.”

  “Don’t say that. I might get away with it,” I reply from the side of my mouth.

  “What on earth’s going on now?” My eyes dart to the pitch in case I miss another miraculous example of sporting excellence from my son. Only her focus is not on William. It’s on one of the bigger boys, who appears to be saying something to James that’s upsetting him.

  “Oh God . . . I wonder if that’s the kid who was being horrible to them the other day? I thought it’d all blown over.”

  “It doesn’t look that way.” Fury simmers in Becky as she rises to her feet. But she can’t get there quick enough. Before she’s even close, someone else has stepped in.

  “DON’T BE MEAN TO MY BROTHER OR ELSE.” Rufus’s threat might be fairly nonspecific, but what it lacks in definition it makes up in force. Which is nearly coming out of his ears. Unfortunately, Rufus is about a foot shorter and two stones lighter than his adversary.

  He responds by pushing Rufus in the chest with both hands, so hard that he stumbles back and ends up thumping on the ground on his bum.

  “RUFUS!” Becky shouts.

  But Rufus is quickly back on his feet, retaliating with a swipe to the kid’s stomach that makes his eyes bulge.

  “Arrgh, don’t fight! This isn’t the Wild West!” Becky shrieks, and she tears Rufus back as the boy hobbles off and runs away. She grabs her son by the hand and marches him back to us.

  “What on earth was that?” Becky asks him.

  “They were being nasty to James, and I told them to shut up.”

  James appears beside us, nodding breathlessly. “He did, Mum. He was just sticking up for me. Don’t tell him off.”

  Becky glances between the two of them. “Look, Rufus, well done for defending your brother. But next time, don’t hit, okay?”

  Then they both run off to reclaim the soccer pitch as Becky returns to Seb. “It’s at times like this I think our kids might actually turn out okay.”

  “Course they will. Remember that when they start fighting again in ten minutes though.”

  She slides her hand into his, lifting it to kiss the skin on his knuckles.

  He glances at her. “What was that for?”

  “Just blotting my lipstick.”

  “You’re not wearing any.”

  She looks up at him and smiles. “Must be because I love you then.”

  Chapter 77

  On our second-to-last evening in France, William kicks his feet along the dusty road next to his father, as we approach a vineyard covered in plump purple grapes.

  “Did you know that if you ate the liver of a polar bear you would die of a vitamin A overdose?” William says.

  “Everybody knows that.” Adam smirks.

  William’s mouth opens.

  “I’m kidding. What other facts do you know?”

  “Hmm. I know where snot comes from.”

  I groan.

  “Okay, what facts do you know?” William grins at me.

  The sky has delivered a luminescent curtain call tonight, the horizon bathed in pink and orange swirls of light, with whispers of white in between. “Shakespeare’s parents were illiterate,” I tell him. “Caracas is the capital of Venezuela. Um . . . and I know how to do a split.”

  “Go on then,” William suggests.

  “I don’t think so. We’re here now, and I don’t want to put anyone off their starters.”

  We arrive on the edge of the tiny hamlet and follow Adam to the bistro. He’s booked a table outside that overlooks a stony courtyard flanked by a Byzantine church and pretty houses overflowing with honeysuckle. The restaurant is busy already. Adam pulls out the chair for me, and I edge into the seat.

  “Why did you do that?” William asks.

  “That’s what you’re meant to do for a lady,” Adam replies.

  William looks momentarily perplexed, as if it’d never occurred to him that I might be one of those. A waiter comes and takes our wine and food order from the menu, before inquiring if we’d like anything else.

  “Je voudrais L’EAU, s’il vous plaît.”

  He nods and writes it down on his notepad, just like that, as I look at Adam in amazement. “I can leave a happy woman now.”

  “You’re almost fluent.”

  William excuses himself to go to the toilet, and I’m left temporarily alone in Adam’s presence. I feel awkward, as though we’re faltering for conversation, unsure of what to say. Partly because we’ve only got a minute until William returns, partly because neither of us wants to discuss anything too difficult right now. Both of us have had enough with difficult.

  “Well, Natasha’s certainly going to miss it around here when she leaves,” I say.

  “It takes everyone a while to reacclimatize to the British weather and food—”

  “And in Natasha’s case, Ben,” I add.

  His eyes crease at the sides as he smiles, slightly more than they used to. “I’m sure he’ll show her a good time back in London.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I assume they’re going to see each other back home?” he asks.

  “But Ben’s staying here.”

  “His contract runs out in October, so he’s going home to try and get a proper job,” Adam says.

  I frown. “I don’t think he’s mentioned this to Natasha.”

  “Strange. Maybe he’s gone cool on her. It does happen, even to the best.”

  When William appears again and sits down, Adam nudges him in the side, ruffling his hair as his son ducks away, giggling. “I’m going to miss you, you know.”

  William looks up anxiously. “You are still moving to Manchester, aren’t you?”

  “Yep. I’ll be home in three months, then there’ll be no stopping me. You’ll be fed up with me by Christmas.”

  “Does that mean you can spend Christmas with us?”

  We’d never got this far in the practicalities discussion. “We’ll talk about that closer to the time, eh?” Adam says.

  “But I’m sure we’ll do something together,” I reassure him. “And with Grandma and Granddad too, of course.”

  He looks down at the tablecloth. “Will Grandma still be alive by then?”

  The question makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “Of course she will. Grandma’s sick, but she’s not going to be . . . going anywhere by Christmas.” I finish the sentenc
e with a half laugh as if the very thought is preposterous.

  “Okay,” he says quietly. “But the thing she’s got will kill her, won’t it?”

  “I hope that Grandma will be with us for a good while,” I tell him lamely.

  He doesn’t answer at first. “It’s Huntings disease, isn’t it? That’s what Grandma’s got.” He looks at me starkly, his eyes blinking as he waits for an answer, and my heart starts thumping through my chest.

  “Huntington’s,” I correct him numbly. “How did you know that?”

  “It was on your search history on the iPad. I know that’s why you’ve been so upset lately. I Googled it.”

  I feel the color drain from my face. This was exactly what I feared, but I’d convinced myself I’d got away with it and he was still none the wiser. I can’t actually believe that after all the heinous stuff I’ve worried about him seeing on the Internet over the years, the worst thing he’s found was probably on the New Scientist website.

  Adam looks as unprepared for this conversation as I am. And at least he’s got an excuse: he only found out about it this week. I’ve had ten years to prepare a speech for William and have completely failed to do so.

  “Have you got it too, Mum?”

  My mouth goes numb as I try to form the words. “I haven’t got it, sweetheart, no. At the moment, I’m completely fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “But . . . I have got the faulty gene that causes it,” I add. “So one day, yes, I will have it.”

  I scan his face for every nuance of his reaction. “I might have it too, mightn’t I?”

  I swallow, trying to force my mouth to start working again properly. “The faulty gene? Yes, you might. But you might not. And even if you do, the likelihood is that you wouldn’t develop HD for many, many years.”

  “I know. The average age is, like, forty. Really old.” I chew the side of my mouth as he continues. “I don’t think I’ve got it anyway.”

  I nod, feeling tears prick at the back of my eyes. “Why’s that?”