At first, I didn’t recognise him and, thinking he was going to ask Millie to sit back down, I got to my feet, ready to intervene. It was only when I saw him bowing to her and holding out his hand that I realised he was the man I’d been dreaming about all week. By the time he brought Millie back to her seat two dances later, I’d fallen in love with him.
‘May I?’ he asked, indicating the chair next to me.
‘Yes, of course.’ I smiled at him gratefully. ‘Thank you for dancing with Millie, it was very kind of you.’
‘The pleasure was all mine,’ he said gravely. ‘Millie is a very good dancer.’
‘Nice man!’ Millie said, beaming at him.
‘Jack.’
‘Nice Jack.’
‘I really should introduce myself properly.’ He held out his hand. ‘Jack Angel.’
‘Grace Harrington,’ I said, shaking it. ‘Millie’s my sister. Are you here on holiday?’
‘No, I live here.’ I waited for him to add ‘with my wife and children’ but he didn’t, so I stole a look at his left hand and when I saw that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring I felt such a rush of relief I had to remind myself it didn’t mean anything. ‘And you? Are you and Millie visiting London?’
‘Not really. I live in Wimbledon but I often bring Millie here at weekends.’
‘Does she live with you?’
‘No, she boards at her school during the week. I try and see her most weekends, but as I travel a lot for my job it’s not always possible. Fortunately, she has a wonderful carer who steps in when I can’t be with her. And our parents do, of course.’
‘Your job sounds exciting. Can I ask what you do?’
‘I buy fruit.’ He looked at me quizzically. ‘For Harrods.’
‘And the travelling?’
‘I source fruit from Argentina and Chile.’
‘That must be interesting.’
‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m a lawyer.’
Millie, bored with our conversation, tugged at my arm. ‘Drink, Grace. And ice cream. I hot.’
I smiled apologetically at Jack. ‘I’m afraid I have to go. Thank you again for dancing with Millie.’
‘Perhaps you would let me take you and Millie to tea?’ He leant forward so that he could see Millie sitting on the other side of me. ‘What do you think, Millie? Would you like some tea?’
‘Juice,’ Millie said, beaming at him. ‘Juice, not tea. Don’t like tea.’
‘Juice it is, then,’ he said, standing up. ‘Shall we go?’
‘No, really,’ I protested. ‘You’ve been too kind already.’
‘Please. I’d like to.’ He turned to Millie. ‘Do you like cakes, Millie?’
Millie nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, love cake.’
‘That’s decided then.’
We walked across the park to the restaurant, Millie and I arm in arm and Jack walking alongside us. By the time we parted company an hour later, I had agreed to meet him the following Thursday evening for dinner, and he quickly became a permanent fixture in my life. It wasn’t hard to fall in love with him; there was something old-fashioned about him that I found refreshing—he opened doors for me, helped me on with my coat and sent me flowers. He made me feel special, cherished and, best of all, he adored Millie.
When we were about three months into our relationship, he asked if I would introduce him to my parents. I was a little taken aback as I’d already told him that I didn’t have a close relationship with them. I had lied to Esther. My parents hadn’t wanted another child and, when Millie arrived, they definitely hadn’t wanted her. As a child, I had pestered my parents so much for a brother or sister that one day they had sat me down and told me, quite bluntly, that they hadn’t really wanted any children at all. So when, some ten years later, my mother discovered she was pregnant, she was horrified. It was only when I overheard her discussing the risks of a late abortion with my father that I realised she was expecting a baby and I was outraged that they were thinking of getting rid of the little brother or sister I’d always wanted.
We argued back and forth; they pointed out that because my mother was already forty-six, a pregnancy at that age was risky; I pointed out that because she was already five months pregnant, an abortion at that age was illegal—and a mortal sin, because they were both Catholics. With guilt and God on my side, I won and my mother went reluctantly ahead with the pregnancy.
When Millie was born and was found to have Down’s—as well as other difficulties—I couldn’t understand my parents’ rejection of her. I fell in love with her at once and saw her as no different from any other baby, so when my mother became severely depressed I took over Millie’s general day-to-day care, feeding her and changing her nappy before I went to school and coming back at lunchtime to repeat the process all over again. When she was three months old, my parents told me that they were putting her up for adoption and moving to New Zealand, where my maternal grandparents lived, something they had always said they would do. I screamed the place down, telling them that they couldn’t put her up for adoption, that I would stay at home and look after her instead of going to university, but they refused to listen and, as the adoption procedure got underway, I took an overdose. It was a stupid thing to do, a childish attempt to get them to realise how serious I was, but for some reason it worked. I was already eighteen so with the help of various social workers, it was agreed that I would be Millie’s principal carer and would effectively bring her up, with my parents providing financial support.
I took one step at a time. When a place was found for Millie at a local nursery, I began working part-time. My first job was working for a supermarket chain, in their fruit-buying department. At eleven years old, Millie was offered a place at a school I considered no better than an institution and, appalled, I told my parents that I would find somewhere more suitable. I had spent hours and hours with her, teaching her an independence I’m not sure she would have otherwise obtained, and I felt it was her lack of language skills rather than intelligence that made it difficult for her to integrate into society as well as she might have.
It was a long, hard battle to find a mainstream school willing to take Millie on and the only reason I managed was because the headmistress of the school I eventually found was a forward-thinking, open-minded woman who happened to have a younger brother with Down’s. The private girls’ boarding school she ran was perfect for Millie, but expensive, and, as my parents couldn’t afford to pay for it, I told them I would. I sent my CV to several companies, with a letter explaining exactly why I needed a good, well-paid job, and was eventually taken on by Harrods.
When travelling became part of my job—something I jumped at the chance to do, because of the associated freedom—my parents didn’t feel able to have Millie home for the weekends without me there. But they would visit her at school and Janice, Millie’s carer, looked after her for the rest of the time. When the next problem—where Millie would go once she left school—began to loom on the horizon, I promised my parents that I would have her to live with me so that they could finally emigrate to New Zealand. And ever since, they’d been counting the days. I didn’t blame them; in their own way they were fond of me and Millie, and we were of them. But they were the sort of people who weren’t suited to having children at all.
Because Jack was adamant that he wanted to meet them, I phoned my mother and asked her if we could go down the following Sunday. It was nearing the end of November and we took Millie with us. Although they didn’t exactly throw their arms around us, I could see that my mother was impressed by Jack’s impeccable manners and my father was pleased that Jack had taken an interest in his collection of first