MEG CAME TO LONDON. September 2017. We were in Nott Cott. In the kitchen. Preparing dinner.
The whole cottage was filled with…love. Filled to overflowing. It even seemed to spill out the open door, into the garden outside, a scrubby little patch of ground that no one had wanted, for a very long time, but which Meg and I had slowly reclaimed. We’d raked and mown, planted and watered, and many evenings we sat out there on a blanket, listening to classical music concerts wafting over from the park. I told Meg about the garden just on the other side of our wall: Mummy’s garden. Where Willy and I played as kids. It was now sealed off from us forever.
As my memories had once been.
Whose garden is it now? she asked.
It belongs to Princess Michael of Kent. And her Siamese cats. Mummy despised those cats.
As I smelt the garden, and considered this new life, cherished this new life, Meg was sitting on the other side of the kitchen, scooping Wagamama from cartons into bowls. Without thinking I blurted out: I don’t know, I just…
I had my back to her. I froze, mid-sentence, hesitant to go on, hesitant to turn around.
You don’t know what, Haz? I just…
Yes?
I love you.
I listened for a response. There was none.
Now I could hear her, or feel her, walking towards me. I turned and there she was, right before me.
I love you too, Haz.
The words had been on the tip of my tongue almost from the start, so in one sense they didn’t feel particularly revelatory, or even necessary. Of course I loved her. Meg knew that, Meg could see it, the whole world could. I loved her with all my heart as I’d never loved anyone before. And yet saying it made
everything real. Saying it set things in motion, automatically. Saying it was a step.
It meant we now had a few more very big steps ahead. Like…moving in together?
I asked if she’d consider moving to Britain, moving into Nott Cott with me.
We talked about all that would mean, and how it would work, and what she’d be giving up. We talked about the logistics of winding down her life in Toronto. When, and how, and above all…for what? Exactly?
I can’t just leave my show and quit my job to give it a shot. Would moving to Britain mean a forever commitment?
Yes, I said. It would.
In that case, she said with a smile, yes.
We kissed, hugged, sat down to our supper. I sighed. On the road, I thought.
But later, after she’d fallen asleep, I analyzed myself. A holdover from therapy, perhaps. I realized that, mixed in with all my roiling emotions, there was a big streak of relief. She’d said it back, the actual words, I love you, and it hadn’t been inevitable, it hadn’t been a formality. Part of me, I couldn’t deny, had been braced for the worst case. Haz, I’m sorry but I just don’t know if I can do this…Part of me feared she’d bolt. Go back to Toronto, change her number. Heed the advice of her girlfriends.
Is anyone worth this?
Part of me thought she’d be smart to do so.
