The Things We Need to Say: An emotional, uplifting story of hope from bestselling author Rachel Burton. Rachel Burton
he says. Fran feels herself blushing, her stomach flipping over, and turns away towards the toaster.
‘Thanks for last night,’ Jamie goes on. ‘I needed that.’ Recently separated from his wife, living apart from his children, Jamie is lonely. Last night wasn’t the first Saturday night he’d spent with them. Fran knows Will has been throwing himself into cheering his brother up. She doesn’t mind. Jamie makes Will smile and it’s good to see him smile again.
As Will and Jamie start talking about the cricket, she feels her husband’s hand on her thigh, the warm, solid sensation of him right there next to her. They have been given a second chance, and they have grabbed it with both hands. She isn’t naive enough to think everything is going to go back to the way it used to be, but she knows that they can move on; they can talk and heal together. They can take another chance on living, find a new kind of normal.
Will stretches, draining his coffee cup. ‘This weather isn’t going to let up is it?’ he says looking out of the window where the rain is rattling against the frames like beads in a jar. ‘I’m going to have to cancel the cricket.’ As captain of the village team it is up to him to reschedule this afternoon’s match. Fran is quietly delighted that the weather means she doesn’t have to spend her last afternoon with her husband before she goes away watching him play cricket. Will gets up and walks into his study, shutting the door behind him.
‘How are you feeling about tomorrow?’ Jamie asks.
‘Nervous,’ Fran replies. ‘It’s the first time I’ve been on a plane on my own, which is pathetic at my age, I know.’
‘It’s OK to be nervous.’
‘It’s the first time Will and I have been apart since …’ She trails off. Jamie knows what she’s talking about. ‘I’m worried about him too.’
Jamie smiles. ‘I’ll look after him,’ he says.
After a moment Jamie gets up and follows Will into his study. He doesn’t knock; he just opens the door and walks in. As Fran starts to clear the breakfast dishes she hears raised voices but can’t quite make out what they are saying. She rolls her eyes to herself. As an only child she has long since given up on understanding Will and Jamie’s relationship: best friends one minute, bickering the next. She just hopes Jamie doesn’t stay too long – she wants her husband to herself for the day.
It rains all day, the sky grey and waterlogged and heavy with cloud. After Jamie leaves, Will pulls Fran towards him, his hands at the back of her head where her skull meets her neck, where her hair is cut so short.
‘No cricket,’ he says. ‘I’m all yours.’
She smiles, standing on tiptoe to kiss him.
‘Can we just watch a film or something?’ she says. ‘I’m tired and I have to pack for Spain later.’ His stomach drops at the thought of her going away. He wishes he’d never encouraged her to do it.
‘I’d forgotten about Spain,’ he says.
‘No you hadn’t. It’s the only thing we’ve talked about for ages.’
Will had watched Fran spend the last few weeks flipping back and forth between excitement and terror at the thought of going to Spain on her own. He knew she was strong enough to do it; he knew she was stronger than anyone realised. But he also knew that she wondered if she was ready. When she first mentioned Spain to him he had seen it as a perfect opportunity to help her begin to put herself back together again after what had been the worst year of both their lives. He tried to believe that everything life threw at him was an opportunity.
Fran had been teaching at a studio in central Cambridge for six years and had been asked to teach for a week on a retreat in Spain. Will had always supported her teaching, always tried to put her career on a level par with his own and had done everything he could to help her find the strength to go back to work in January. None of it had felt as though it was enough. None of it would make up for the last year, the things he had said, the things he had done. Suddenly he is terrified about being on his own. Neither of them have been alone for months.
‘What do you want to watch?’ he asks, squatting down in front of the TV.
‘Can we watch Some Like it Hot?’ Fran replies.
Will rolls his eyes. He must have seen it a hundred times, but puts it in the DVD player anyway and goes to settle himself on the sofa. ‘Come here,’ he says, and she sits with him, leaning back against his chest.
‘Are you OK about Spain?’ he asks quietly.
‘I think so,’ she says. ‘I’m nervous, but I’m excited as well.’
‘Elizabeth will be there with you, won’t she?’
‘Yes, and Constance. In fact, I already know most of the other people who are going. I’ll be fine.’ She pauses. ‘Are you going to be OK?’ she asks quietly.
‘I’m going to miss you,’ he says, lying back on the sofa, wrapping his arms around her. He doesn’t know how to answer the question. He wants to tell her everything but knows that now is not the right time.
‘I’m going to miss you too,’ she replies.
He kisses the top of her head as she presses ‘play’ on the remote control. He watches her as she watches her favourite film, her lips moving along with the characters – she still knows every word by heart. They used to spend rainy Sundays like this when they were younger, when life seemed easier.
Halfway through the film he realises that Fran is crying – fat, salty tears running down her cheeks.
‘Fran?’ he asks quietly, pressing pause on the remote.
Fran doesn’t reply, she just turns around and he takes her in his arms. He feels her body against his. She clings to him as though her life depends on it and he holds her close as she cries and cries. He can’t remember the last time he saw her cry like this. They had both done their grieving in private over the last year but to Will it feels as though Fran has been holding all this in for months, shutting herself down. He’s relieved that she finally seems ready to let go.
‘I want my old life back,’ she sobs. ‘I want to be happy again.’
‘So do I,’ Will whispers. ‘And we will, in time. I promise.’
‘I wish we’d never bought this house – we had so much hope.’
‘Shhh …’ Will says softly, stroking her hair as she weeps against him.
He always claimed it was love at first sight. I would laugh, telling him I didn’t believe in love at first sight. He said he didn’t either until I came along. He said he’d known on his first day at the firm when he was introduced to me, his secretary. All I know is that when he shook my hand he held on for a little bit longer than he needed to and I noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
I’d been working at the firm for two years when Will started. He was ten years’ qualified by the time I met him, the eldest of two boys, privately educated, married and divorced by the time he was thirty. I already knew the firm had poached him from rival lawyers and made him partner to head up the Family Law department. He had a penchant for divorce law apparently, which I suppose must have come in handy.
I showed him the ropes, helped him understand the office politics, who to trust, who not to. We grew close, Will and I, over those first few weeks. Closer than we should have done. I’d gently rib him about his big posh family. He’d tease me for always having my nose in a book or for being back late from my lunchtime yoga class, for not concentrating on my job, not taking it seriously. Occasionally, as often as he thought he could get away with it, he’d take me out to