Forgiveness, Trust & Forever

Emily

By the time the world opened properly, Eleanora could run.
Not well.
Not gracefully.
Not in a way that suggested survival instincts.
But run.
She ran down the private driveway of the flat above Clara-Bellas with her yellow bee blanket trailing behind her like a cape, one shoe on, one shoe missing, curls bouncing, shouting, "Boo fast!"
Hero stood at the top of the steps with his coffee halfway to his mouth.
"She is not fast."
"She thinks she is," I said.
"She has one shoe."
"She's committed."
"She's going towards the gate."
"Which is locked."
"She has confidence."
"She gets that from you."
I looked at him.
He lifted his coffee like a shield.
"Lovingly."
"Careful."
"Always."
That was new.
He actually meant it.
The driveway had become one of Eleanora's favourite places because it gave her the illusion of freedom while keeping her safely inside the gates. Beyond it, the world existed again.
Properly.
Not through lockdown briefings.
Not through carefully spaced park visits.
Not through rules about gardens and bubbles and outdoor cafés.
The world had opened in stages, and somehow, while it did, we had opened too.
Slowly.
Awkwardly.
With panic attacks in supermarket car parks.
With Hero's first in-person brand meeting making me want to throw his phone into the nearest body of water.
With my first full day back teaching at Clara-Bellas leaving me crying in the studio office because eight tiny dancers in pink leotards had shouted, "Miss Emily!" like I was something ordinary and beloved.
With Eleanora learning the word "again" and using it as emotional terrorism.
With family coming into the garden first.
Then the kitchen.
Then, eventually, the living room.
Dad and Melinda came often now.
Not too often.
Not without asking.
Never without asking.
Teddy and Sammy were Eleanora's favourite chaos consultants. Sammy taught her dinosaur roars. Teddy taught her how to say "tap shoes" with enormous seriousness. Melinda still texted before every visit, even when she had been coming every Tuesday for months.
Bridge, not push?
Always that.
And sometimes now, I replied:
Bridge open. Bring biscuits.
Mimi came slower.
Outside first.
Then the studio.
Then the kitchen one afternoon when rain ruined every careful boundary and I found her standing awkwardly by the back door, soaked, refusing to step over the threshold until I rolled my eyes and said, "Come in before you get trench foot."
She cried third that day.
Progress.
The Bella Regazza reopened before I was ready and exactly when I needed it.
Not downstairs.
Not behind Clara-Bellas.
London.
Always London.
A velvet-and-gold burlesque lounge tucked beneath a converted townhouse in Soho, with a private entrance, red silk walls, jewel-coloured lighting, dressing rooms that smelled of hairspray and perfume, and a stage Mimi and I had once stood on at midnight, holding glasses of champagne, pretending not to be terrified of owning something so gloriously ours.
The Bella Regazza had been closed through lockdown.
Dust on the bar.
Empty chairs.
Costumes sealed in garment bags.
Mimi used to send me photos of the silent stage when I still wasn't speaking to her properly.
I deleted most of them.
Then one day, I didn't.
That was how healing seemed to work.
Not forgiveness arriving with music.
Just one less deleted photo.
The reopening night had been invitation-only.
No press.
No phones inside.
No exceptions.
Women who had danced there before lockdown came back in sequins and nerves, laughing too loudly, hugging carefully, crying in dressing rooms because being seen again felt like standing naked even when fully dressed in feathers.
Mimi wore black velvet and red lipstick and did not say, "We did it," until after the last act, when the lights dropped and the applause went through the walls.
Then she grabbed my hand backstage.
Not too hard.
Never too hard now.
"We did it," she whispered.
And I let her say it.
Because we had.
Clara-Bellas in Winchester.
The Bella Regazza in London.
Two businesses.
Two versions of me.
The one who taught little girls how to point their toes and trust their balance.
The one who stood in a burlesque lounge and watched grown women reclaim the parts of themselves the world had told them to hide.
For a while, I thought motherhood would shrink me.
Instead, when I finally stopped running from it, it made me harder to erase.
Eleanora reached the end of the driveway and slapped the locked gate.
"Out!"
Hero called, "No!"
She turned with her whole body.
"Da no!"
"Yes. Daddy said no."
"Mean Da."
Hero clutched his chest.
"Wounded."
"She's not wrong," I said.
He turned to me.
"You're meant to be on my side."
"I am on the side of truth."
"Cruel woman."
"Accurate man."
He smiled over his coffee.
Sunlight caught in his hair.
He had a brand shoot later.
Something expensive and ridiculous with watches, black tailoring, and a campaign brief that used the words timeless masculinity without irony.
I had laughed for six minutes when he showed me.
He had taken the job anyway because the money was obscene, the brand had agreed to all privacy clauses, and Hero, infuriatingly, looked very good in watches.
He was acting again too.
Not as frantically as before.
More carefully.
A film wrapped in Prague.
A streaming drama about a musician, which made him learn guitar badly for six weeks and nearly ended our relationship when he practised the same chord during Eleanora's nap every day.
A modelling campaign.
A brand ambassador role with a luxury fashion house that had absolutely tried to pry into his personal life until Jen sent one email and the entire marketing team remembered boundaries existed.
Hero still belonged to the world in some ways.
But he came home to us.
Not hidden.
Not pretending.
Home.
Eleanora found her missing shoe beside a plant pot and lifted it like treasure.
"Boo shoe!"
I clapped.
"Excellent work."
Hero murmured, "She has solved her own crime."
The gate intercom buzzed.
Once.
Both of us looked.
Not with fear now.
Habit, maybe.
Memory.
But not fear.
Hero checked the screen.
His face changed.
Soft first.
Then amused.
"Oh God."
"What?"
He turned the screen so I could see.
Natalie stood outside the gate wearing sunglasses too large for her face, a white blazer, and the expression of a woman about to enter dramatically whether invited or not.
Beside her stood Freddie.
Hero's best mate.
Natalie's fiancé.
Nearly husband.
Though if Natalie had anything to do with it, the wedding was less a ceremony and more a military operation with flowers.
They had been together since they were eighteen.
Same as us, almost.
Except Natalie and Freddie had somehow managed to love each other without destroying multiple families, becoming a legal case, and requiring security upgrades.
Show-offs.
Behind them, Kelly leaned against the car with one hip out, scrolling her phone, sunglasses on top of her head, looking exactly as unimpressed by the world as she had at nineteen.
Anton stood beside her, holding two coffee trays and wearing the face of a man who had learned long ago that dating Kelly meant carrying beverages and opinions with equal seriousness.
Still together.
Still somehow not engaged because Kelly said marriage was "a lovely institution for people who enjoyed seating plans," and Anton said he was patient, which she said was his most annoying quality.
Hero pressed the intercom.
"Natalie, why are you here like a pop-up emergency?"
Natalie leaned into the camera.
"Because my wedding dress fitting got moved, Freddie is useless, Kelly is refusing to care about centrepieces, and I need Emily."
Freddie looked offended.
"I am not useless."
Natalie did not look at him.
"You asked if ivory and cream were different colours."
"They're both white under emotional lighting."
Kelly called from behind them, "He's right."
Natalie pointed backwards without turning.
"Do not encourage him."
Anton lifted one coffee tray.
"We brought peace offerings."
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Friends.
Not lawyers.
Not police.
Not family wounds.
Friends.
Loud.
Ridiculous.
Normal.
I had not realised how much I missed normal until it buzzed at my gate demanding help with centrepieces.
Eleanora ran back towards us, shoe still in hand.
"Who?"
Hero crouched.
"That is Auntie Natalie, Uncle Freddie, Auntie Kelly, and Anton."
Eleanora frowned.
"Ant."
Hero's mouth twitched.
"Anton."
"Ant."
"Close enough."
I pressed the gate release.
Natalie swept in first, of course, and stopped only because the driveway rules had been drilled into everyone.
She held both hands up.
"No grabbing. No surprise hugs. No photos. No Eleanora content. No talking about old trauma unless Emily starts it. No crying before coffee. I remember."
My throat tightened.
Hero looked at me.
I looked away.
Natalie saw anyway.
She had always seen too much.
Her voice softened.
"Hi, Em."
There it was.
Not pity.
Not fear.
Not careful enough to hurt.
Just my best friend.
"Hi."
For one moment, everything between us was college-aged and impossible.
Sleepovers.
Dance bags.
Freddie and Hero being idiots in expensive trainers.
Kelly teaching us how to lie our way into bars before we were old enough.
Anton pretending he was above the chaos while absolutely participating.
Natalie holding my hand through Brandon's funeral.
Then me vanishing so thoroughly that even people who loved me stopped knowing where to knock.
Natalie's eyes shone behind her sunglasses.
She took them off.
"I missed you."
I swallowed.
"I know."
"I was angry."
"I know."
"I still am a bit."
"Good."
Her mouth trembled.
"That's what you say now?"
"I'm emotionally evolved. It's disgusting."
She laughed once.
Then cried.
"Damn it. Coffee rule."
Freddie touched her shoulder.
She waved him off.
"I'm fine."
Kelly walked past them both and stopped in front of me.
She looked me up and down.
"You look healthier."
I blinked.
"Thank you?"
"Still tired. Hair's good. Bit mumsy in that cardigan, but I assume trauma chic is in."
Hero covered his mouth.
I stared at her.
Then laughed.
Hard.
Harder than the comment deserved.
Because Kelly had always loved like that.
No softness unless she meant to weaponise it.
No pity.
Just observation, insult, loyalty.
She hugged me only after I stepped forward.
And when she did, she held on tight.
Not too long.
Long enough.
"Don't disappear again," she said into my ear.
My throat closed.
"I'll try."
"Do better than try. I hate tracking people emotionally."
I laughed against her shoulder.
"I missed you too."
She pulled back, eyes shiny.
"Obviously."
Anton handed me a coffee.
"Hi, Emily."
"Hi, Anton."
He nodded towards Eleanora.
"She's bigger."
"She does that."
Eleanora stared at him.
Then lifted the shoe.
"Boo shoe."
Anton nodded solemnly.
"Excellent shoe."
Eleanora looked pleased.
Freddie approached Hero and immediately pulled him into a hug that almost lifted him off the ground.
Hero laughed.
Then made a strangled noise.
"My ribs are healed, but emotionally I object."
Freddie slapped his back.
"Still dramatic."
"Still short."
Freddie gasped.
"I'm average."
"Emotionally?"
"Boys," Natalie snapped.
Both of them stopped.
Some things never changed.
Eleanora watched the entire exchange with fascination.
Then pointed at Freddie.
"Da?"
Hero looked betrayed.
"No."
Freddie looked delighted.
"She recognises quality."
Hero narrowed his eyes.
"She calls tall men Da sometimes."
Freddie stood straighter.
"Tall."
Kelly snorted.
"Generous."
Anton handed Freddie a coffee before the conversation caused injury.
Natalie turned to me with a wedding planner folder already appearing from her bag.
I stared.
"You brought admin."
"I brought an emergency."
"You're getting married, not negotiating a hostage release."
"With Freddie's family, there is overlap."
Freddie called, "I heard that."
"You were meant to."
I looked at the folder.
Then at her.
"Inside?"
Natalie hesitated.
Still careful.
Still remembering.
My choice.
I looked at the house.
At the private driveway.
At the garden beyond the side gate, secure and sunny, with Eleanora's little slide, a sand table, and the expensive outdoor sofa Hero insisted was practical because it had washable covers.
Not inside yet.
Not because I was afraid.
Because the garden was ours too.
Open air.
Life after hiding.
"Garden," I said.
Natalie smiled.
"Garden."
We spent the afternoon outside.
The first proper friend afternoon in years.
Not crisis.
Not lockdown coping.
Not police statements.
Just sun on the patio, coffee cups, wedding fabric swatches, Eleanora running between adults, Freddie and Hero arguing about suits, Kelly refusing to be bridesmaid-shaped, Anton quietly helping Eleanora rescue her dinosaur from under the table.
Natalie wanted Clara-Bellas girls to dance at the wedding.
I said absolutely not unless she wanted thirty children in ballet buns stealing the cake.
She said maybe just one.
I looked at Eleanora, who was trying to put her shoe on Bunny.
"She's not reliable."
"She's flower girl," Natalie said.
I stared.
Hero went still beside me.
Natalie's face softened.
"If you want. If she wants. No pressure."
No pressure.
The language of everyone who loved us now.
Eleanora shouted, "Flower!"
We all looked at her.
She had no idea what we were discussing.
She was holding a leaf.
"Close," Freddie said.
Natalie's eyes filled.
I looked at Hero.
His expression was open.
Hopeful.
Afraid to be hopeful too loudly.
"She can be flower girl," I said.
Natalie burst into tears.
Kelly groaned.
"Oh good, bridal emotion. My favourite."
Anton passed her a napkin.
Kelly took it without looking at him.
"Don't be smug."
"I wasn't."
"You were internally patient."
"Always."
She leaned into him anyway.
Still dating.
Still them.
Later, while Freddie chased Eleanora around the garden pretending to be a dragon and Hero told him not to encourage sprinting near stone planters, Natalie sat beside me on the outdoor sofa.
Not too close.
Close enough.
"I'm glad you're not hiding anymore," she said.
I looked at the garden.
At the private walls.
At the gate.
At my daughter laughing.
At Hero, acting like he was relaxed while tracking Eleanora's every movement with fatherly precision.
"We're still private."
"That's different."
"Yes."
"You look like you know the difference now."
I breathed in.
"I think I do."
She nodded.
"I'm proud of you."
I closed my eyes.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because you keep doing brave things."
"I preferred when people insulted my cardigan."
"Kelly covered that."
"True."
Natalie took my hand.
This time, I did not tense.
"Will you come dress shopping with me?"
My throat tightened.
Not because of dresses.
Because of being asked into someone else's future.
"Me?"
She looked offended.
"You're my best friend."
"Still?"
Her eyes filled.
"Idiot."
I laughed, but it came out broken.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yes. I'll come."
"Good. Because Freddie thinks lace is a pasta shape."
"It is."
"It is not."
"Could be."
She laughed.
I missed that laugh.
I missed being someone's friend without needing a legal briefing first.
Across the garden, Hero caught Eleanora just before she attempted to climb into a planter.
He scooped her up and spun her once.
Not too fast.
Never too fast.
She squealed.
"Again!"
Hero kissed her cheek.
"Again? You're a tyrant."
"Again!"
He spun her again.
Then his eyes found mine.
Warm.
Open.
Desire had shifted between us since that night in the kitchen.
Not constant.
Not rushed.
But present.
In glances.
Hands at my waist when he passed behind