‘Later, Harry,’ I tell him.
The echo of his words about Zara ring in the silence. He nods.
15
The landscape project is an incredible, fabulous opportunity for me. We ignore the personal awkwardness in our mutual enthusiasm for the work. Another tick for Harry, I think. Ideas and conversation are flowing. Harry is lit up and laughing again. It makes me feel bubbly inside.
We are discussing Harry’s business and the construction contract for the big new section of the Children’s Hospital in Melbourne.
‘I thought, this time, there should be some kind of landscape,’ he says. ‘Designed at the same time as the construction, designed in, not a tacked-on afterthought which never quite works.’
‘Brilliant!’ I enthuse. ‘Absolutely fantastic concept.’ Ideas are pouring through me. ‘Sick children, if they are able, could safely access sun and nature. We’ve all seen the data that shows proximity to nature enhances healing. Adults need somewhere to walk too. Tired nurses. Exhausted doctors. Weary, grief-stricken, fearful parents. I have a dream - everyone should be able to access nature for a ten-minute lunch time walk. It makes a big difference to your health and your working day. And all those tired, weary, worried, dedicated people – how refreshing to feel the sun on your skin, touch a velvety leaf, smell a sweet rose, even for a few little minutes.’
Harry is looking at me like I’ve just won a Gold Logie or climbed Everest or something. I grin. I like it. This is the essential me. And if I get the chance to somehow give a few minutes of happiness and peace to all those people...I smile at Harry and feel my heart swell to bursting.
We stare at each other, our lips curving up, and then both look back down to the concept plans we have begun to sketch and scribble all over.
We’re in Melbourne. We’ve been walking around the site, and now we are at the main Children’s Hospital, and I’m talking to some parents in the waiting room. They look weary and grey-tinged, almost welded to the hard, plastic seats, as though they have been there for years.
The mother’s eyes are beginning to shine with the first light I’ve seen in them since we began talking. ‘A Children’s Garden? Oh yes,’ she says. ‘And a garden with a walk-through trees and flowers, for parents?’ Tears spring into her eyes. ‘Oh please. Yes, please. How lovely.’
A nurse tells me, ‘What I’d give to be able to snatch a bit of sun. Just ten minutes. Go for it, sister. A hospital garden. OMG yes. It could make all the difference in the world.’
Harry is with me for some of the conversations. He is looking at me again with a sort of amazed gratitude.
‘What?’ I ask, laughing.
‘Here I thought landscape was what you did with the unbuilt-on bits. The wasteland. Chuck in a bit of soil and a few spiky plants for textual interest, and presto! Landscape.’
‘And now?’
He takes my hand. ‘And now I find that landscape has as much meaning to people as the built elements that shape their lives. That the right landscape can change and enrich lives. That we need to listen to people to find out what their needs are, and design accordingly. It’s a whole lot more than a few mature palm trees to convey a sense of period, which then fall over in a high wind.’
My face might just be going to break open with the strength of my grin.
‘Come on,’ he says, ‘I’m taking you to dinner.’
I stop grinning. ‘I’ve got no...’ I tell him. ‘I’m in work pants and boots! Not really dinner wear, unless we go for fish and chips.’ I can picture my hair, probably mussed, and no doubt I’ve streaks of dirt and grime in multiple places on my clothing, probably spiders in my hair...
‘You look beautiful,’ Harry says, and then smirks very wickedly. ‘Your ass looks amazing in those work pants. I’ll be the envy of every man sitting at their tables with fluffed up, made-up, primped-up dates. They’ll be wondering what’s underneath all that artifice, whereas everyone can see you are straight-up gorgeous. Those work boots give you a sassy edge.’
I give him a hard stare. ‘I remind myself you are accustomed to charming corporate clients. You are very good. I almost believe you.’
‘Believe me, Lovely Lilac. You enchant me.’
I finally agree, and am not surprised when Harry not only takes us to a very fancy rooftop restaurant, but they appear to know him, ushering him to a discreet table with a gorgeous view of Melbourne’s cityscape in the setting sun.
I could feel out of my depth. But in another way, I have never felt so comfortable in my life. Harry understands me in an important way. He gets my passion. Works in the same field himself: to deliver designs that improve the daily experience of people’s lives.
We clink glasses and the conversation flows.
A few days later, a Friday night in early February. Dinner number three. Harry says he likes me for who I am, but I want to surprise him. See the glow of admiration in his eyes. Show him I know how to dress up if I choose. That I’m not a total garden gnome.
I locate my old bag of makeup and regard the contents doubtfully. Do they breed germs if you leave them too long, or is that a marketing ploy?
I dot on foundation, smear it around with my fingers. It makes my face appear flat and one-dimensional. Pale and dead. Not the healthy glow I am used to seeing in the mirror, that I take for granted.
It’s just the base, I tell myself. I rummage around and find a half-length red lip liner I used to love. As I carefully trace the shape of my lips, I think: where did those lip wrinkles come from? Tiny but deep grooves edge out vertically from the top right-hand edge of my lip, like miniature caverns. The lip liner looks like it will smudge into them within the hour. Bright red lippy just makes the whole mess worse. Eyeliner and mascara shadow my eyes in a recently-risen-from-my-coffin, dead-goth way, rather than the mysterious smoky effect I was aiming for.
I stare at my reflection. Who is that desperate looking stranger? The make-up seems to emphasise flaws, not hide them. I wipe the whole disaster away with a few wipes, wash and re-moisturise and head out to dinner.
Plain dress, plain face. Not what I intended, but Harry is as warm and interested as always. It’s at dinner he tells me his idea: a mini construction for a primary school in our local area, known to have high populations of disadvantaged kids.
‘A castle!’ he says. ‘A proper miniature castle in the grounds. As part of my company’s philanthropy project, I want you to design a kid-safe garden!’
If I wasn’t in love with this man already, this is the Moment. I could squeeze him to death. I could eat him. I could do much, much worse!
Oh! When did that happen? I’m in Love with this Man. I love Harry. I have to think... What is he talking about?
‘… Adventure, exploration and fun!’
‘Yes!’ I catch up, tuning in. ‘What about a scented, meditation lawn too? I was reading that schools are experimenting with guided meditation to reduce bullying and other issues.’
Nice save.
Except that there is no saving me. I love my children so much, but I struggle to tell them.
Will I ever be able to tell Harry?
16
Lily tells me she got the promotion and she will be moving back to Queensland in a few weeks.
I tell her I am very proud and congratulate her. I want to tell her I love her, but the words stick. Even Aiden and I never really said the words to each other. Maybe they mean so much to me, it’s a real effort.
‘I’ll miss you,’ I say instead. ‘But it is fantastic opportunity and you deserve it. They will be lucky to have my sunny, happy, generous and capable Lily.’
I turn away before she can see the tears, and begin to rustle around doing chores. I won’t say unnecessary chores – by the time I do them, they are always highly necessary!
‘I’m abandoning the Grandchild Project,’ I tell Harry next morning in the cafe. ‘I’m going to treasure every second that I have with Lily until she goes. I don’t care about a grandchild. I just want
her to be happy.’
Harry is just listening, letting me talk.
‘I worry she won’t have anyone special to care just about her though. She loves children – what if she never gets to know the joy of having them? And who will care for her when she is old?’
‘Maybe the Grandchild Project could re-emerge in a new form?’
‘Maybe.’ The coffee is dark, hot and strong. I stir in sugar, even though I don’t normally take it. The sweetness and caffeine smack into my brain and electrify my blood. Maybe because he is listening so deeply with that intent expression on his face, as though he is tasting, savouring, each of my words, like the Italian sugar biscuit he prefers, I blurt it out.
‘Zara. What happened? She hurt you, I know.’
Harry’s gaze sharpens. Fury clouds his brow. His entire body tenses, as though he will leap up from his chair and storm out, or throw the chair.
I stare back. I am strong. I can help him bear the weight of whatever pain he carries. I know now, without reservation, that he is a good man. I feel very sure, deep in my bones.
He suddenly sags. ‘Can we talk about this at my house?’ he asks. His voice is quiet but sort of weakened, like he has run a marathon and he is worn to the very bone.
Is that a good idea? I wonder.
I have a flash of his mouth on mine, his hard, warm hands seeking and demanding my skin, my shape, the essence of me. My thighs clench inwards and a hot surge spikes my groin.
Before I can respond, Harry says, ‘Lilac, this Friday is Valentine’s Day. Perhaps it’s foolish, but would you be my Valentine? Have a date with me? A long, relaxed lunch? And then see what the afternoon brings?’
His blue eyes are stars, flaming desire, need, and uncertainty. It’s the combination that I find so irresistible. I can put the light and laughter back in those eyes. I know now that it is in my power.
‘Yes.’ My throat tightens and I can’t utter another word. But I don’t need to. Harry beams.
He says, ‘Come for a walk around the lake with me. We will save visiting my house for another time. I’ll tell you about Zara as we walk.’
The sun is sparkling on the lake like quicksilver insects made of diamonds. The black swans waddle around nudging picnickers for scraps, their cygnets grown now from grey fluff balls into multi-coloured mini-versions of their parents. Joggers, walkers and cyclists stream past, happy, smiling to themselves, or focussed, checking their sports watches as they pass their milestones.
We walk in silence, our strides matching. Harry touches my hand with his fingers every once in a while. I feel the contact like a burn. I want to grab and hold him, but I let him make the moves, and the talk. This is his story to tell.
‘I have to thank Zara for the man I have become,’ he begins.
I suppress a spike of envy so sharp I am shocked. He must have heard my slight gasp, as he shoots a quick, concerned look at me. I hope my face is now impassive, or neutrally interested, or with that intent listening look Harry generously gave me in the cafe while I talked about Lily.
It must be OK as he continues. ‘She wanted so much. So much stuff: the house, the furniture, the friends, the parties. Clothes, cars, holidays.’ He laughs, a bitter note sounding. ‘I had to be successful, in order to keep her happy. I had to keep working every hour known to man, to make money. To lock in better clients, bigger jobs.’
He stops and stares at the lake; the trees trailing their long leafy arms in the shallows, making cool inviting shadows beneath them.
‘I wanted success too. I was driven. I wanted to be the best I could. And I thought bringing in the money was the best way to keep her happy.’
He looks down. Touches my hand again. ‘I assumed we would have kids. Just assumed. Stupid me. Was looking forward to it. She kept laughing, putting it off, saying, ‘Plenty of time for all that.’ Then I started getting worried, and finally one day I told her how I felt. I wanted kids. And she told me she didn’t want them. She couldn’t imagine the thing – that’s what she said, ‘The thing’ – swelling her carefully honed stomach, wrinkling her massaged and moisturised skin. I’ve got to say, I was shocked, and at first, I thought it must have just been one of her moods. When I eventually understood that she really didn’t want kids, I tried hard to get my head around it. I won’t say I wasn’t disappointed. I tried hard to hide it. I felt bewildered – what was the point of all this then, with no kids? What was all the work for, all the house and garden, everything?’
He looks at me. ‘I sound like an asshole, don’t I?’ His tone is grim. Mortified. I can still hear the bewilderment.
‘Keep going,’ I say as softly as I know how. I feel like any abrupt move, a wrong word, and the spell will be broken, and he will clam up and – from embarrassment perhaps – he will never ring me or seek me out again.
‘And then...and then something worse happened. We were trundling along, in our separate lives, as you do...’ I felt a pang for him. Aiden and I had never ‘trundled along in our separate lives’. We had laughed, and loved, and celebrated, and proudly borne children together.
‘...in our separate lives, and for some reason...Zara...suddenly got this idea. A fear about getting older and losing her looks. As you noticed, her very beautiful, stunning good looks.’ He shot me a stare. ‘I’ve been blaming that client of yours, but perhaps I read her wrong. Highly likely Zara told me lies about Tori Donnelly. It would be typical, but at the time, I believed her.’
He inhaled. Clenched his jaw. His hands twitched. ‘Zara started doing the whole Botox thing. I didn’t know for ages. Dumb blokes, we never notice, do we?’ he half-grins. ‘Maybe women shouldn’t worry so much.’ He smiles at me, then remembers he is telling his story.
‘It all progressed from there. Injections. More Botox. Threads, whatever they are. Minor surgeries. By the time she was flying to America for major surgeries, it was too late. She had some perception of herself that she was never good enough, there was always some new, glaring flaw. It became really, really expensive. I really think all that obsession contributed to her cancer. Once she got that, had the diagnosis, it progressed fast. Was identified too late, despite all the medical interference she was subjecting herself to. Thought the pain was just surgery related, not tumours growing. It is still a very poor survival rate for bone marrow cancer. She thought she was so ugly, with no hair or eyebrows during chemo cycles, that I reckon she just gave up. Gave up living. Didn’t fight. Just gave up.’
Now I am holding him, there in bright daylight, with all of Ballarat to see him, and he is sobbing and shaking, pressed against me. My arms are wrapped around him, and I’m making those noises you make to children and animals when they are distressed. ‘Shh, Harry, Shh. It’s OK. It’s not your fault.’
He rips himself out of my arms. But don’t you see? It is my fault. At least partly. How could someone so beautiful hate her own appearance so much? How did I fail her? What could I have done differently? I told her she was beautiful every day – but I should have done it every hour!’
His entire body is shuddering. He is heavy, his weight half-collapsed on me in his grief. I hold him, my body braced, my stomach clenched. I hold his weight for as long as he needs me to. We stand there, in the shimmery sun, listening to the birds sing and people’s voices calling. A gentle breeze tickles the leaves, while he cries.
I realise that he has finally stopped crying. That he has taken back some of his weight, but is still in my arms.
‘Lilac,’ he says. ‘Lilac Loveday.’
Eventually we walk again. Harry goes up in my esteem even further when I realise he is not embarrassed. He simply accepts his outburst of grief. He seems healthier in his emotional honesty than am I. He makes me feel free. I think I might try to be more emotionally honest with myself and everyone. I tentatively stretch out a mental tendril to check in with myself.
I am sorry for his experience and his loss.
I also want this man, bad.
17
Body dysmor
phia says Google. I read a bit more, and feel very sorry for the young Harris and his bride Zara. Mental and physical health issues can spring out from nowhere. A tragedy.
I have no envy at all for Zara now. Just pity.
At yoga I include a special gratitude meditation. I am so very lucky, I know it. Even having Aiden for too-short a time, we had love and life, and were blessed with two beautiful children. I have my successful landscape business, built with my own hard work and business sense; a business which brings happiness to people. Thanks to Harry, it is also expanding in fascinating new directions.
I have a new project too, one which I am keeping quiet from Harry, for the moment.
I thought a lot about what he said. Thought about our growing relationship, and my feelings for him. Thought about what I represented to him.
I want to check that I am not just an opposite, a negative to Zara’s gleaming positive.
I want to give him a gift.
My new scheme is the Valentine’s Day Project.
I pick up my phone, dial a number. ‘Tori,’ I say through the Hello Darling screams, ‘I need your help.’
I’ve done an unaccustomed several hours of shopping. I generally hate shopping, but this time my purchases, made under Tori’s expert (and expensive) guidance, fill me with a huge anticipatory pleasure. I can hardly help smiling every time I imagine the effect of my purchases.
I then undergo several appointments, having procedures with bizarre names and esoteric practices which with Tori is fully conversant. It takes hours.
Be Mine: Valentine Novellas to Warm The Heart Page 20