by Beth O'Leary
But these are perfection. All it takes is application. And practice. And possibly a slightly calmer mental state—I started this process in a fog of missing Carla and raging at my mother and wondering what the hell I was doing with my life, and I think maybe brownies are like horses: they can sense your stress levels.
Now, though, I am calmed, I have brownies, and—finally, at last, after so many missed weekends … Ethan is here.
He throws his bags down and swoops me up in a hug as soon as I open the front door.
“Welcome to the rural idyll!” I tell him as he lets me down.
“It smells like something’s burned?” Ethan says, then, catching my expression, “But delicious! Burned in a delicious way! Chargrilled? Barbecued? Those are great ways of burning things.”
“I made brownies. Quite a few times. But look!” I lead him proudly to the plate of perfect chocolatey squares on Grandma’s dining-room table.
He grabs one and takes an enormous bite, then closes his eyes and moans. “OK,” he says through his mouthful. “That genuinely is delicious.”
“Yes! I knew it.”
“Always humble,” Ethan says, then he reaches to grab the drying-up cloth I’d slung over my shoulder. “Look at you, baking! All domestic!”
I grab the cloth back and swat at him with it. “Shut up, you.”
“Why? I like it.” He nuzzles into my neck. “It’s sexy. You know how much I love it when you do the fifties housewife thing.”
I blush and push him off. “That was a murder-mystery party costume and I was not doing a thing, and even if I had been, it would not have been for you!”
“No?” Ethan says with a cheeky grin. “Because I distinctly remember you doing a thing…”
I laugh, batting away his roaming hands, and move through to the kitchen. “Do you want a tea?”
Ethan follows. “I want something,” he says. “But it’s not tea.”
“Coffee?”
“Guess again.” He presses up against me from behind, hands snaking around my waist.
I turn in his arms. “I’m sorry—I feel so unsexy right now. I’ve spent most of the day crying, and it’s been such a weird week. Being back here is making me…”
“Turn into your grandmother?” Ethan says, with a teasing twitch of his eyebrows.
I pull back. “What?”
“I’m kidding!”
“Where did that come from?”
“Spending your day baking, no interest in sex, wearing an actual apron…” He clocks that I’m really not laughing. “Come on, Leena, I’m teasing!” He takes my hand and tries to twirl me. “Let’s go out. Take me to a bar.”
“This isn’t a bar sort of place,” I say, awkwardly spinning into the twirl.
“There must be a bar somewhere. What’s that little town nearby? Divedale?”
“Daredale. That’s over an hour away. And anyway, I thought we could bob around to see Arnold this evening, my neighbor—he said he’d make us lamb for dinner.” I try a smile. “He’s a bit grumpy, but he’s a lovely guy at heart.”
“I should probably do some work this evening, really, angel,” Ethan says, dropping my hand and heading to the fridge. He pulls out a beer.
“Oh. But…”
He kisses me on the cheek as he reaches for a bottle opener from the drawer. “You’re welcome to chip in. I’m looking at white-space opportunities on the project I told you about last week—I know how you love a challenge…”
“I feel plenty challenged at the moment, to be honest,” I say, then blink as Ethan turns the TV on.
“Millwall’s on,” he says. “I thought we could have it on in the background.”
He didn’t care about white-space opportunities or Millwall playing when he was asking to go to a bar. I swallow, reminding myself that he’s come a long way to see me, and he’s right—I’m in a difficult place at the moment, I’ve gone a bit … backward on this grieving thing. I can see how it could be frustrating.
Still. He’s not exactly getting in the spirit of the rural getaway, is he?
He looks up at me from the sofa, catches my expression, and softens. “I’m being a knob, sorry,” he says, reaching up to take my hands. “I’m not good at this rural-life schtick, angel. Give me a bit of time to adjust to the new you?”
“I’m not a new me,” I tell him grumpily, coming around to sit next to him on the sofa. “And I’m not my grandmother.”
He pulls me in, tipping me so my head lies on his chest. This is my comfort place. I used to feel almost desperate if the fear and grief hit when Ethan wasn’t there—I needed this, his arm around me, my ear listening to the beat of his heart. This was the only way it felt safe to stay still.
I soften into him. He kisses the top of my head.
“I’ll tell Arnold we’ll come around for lamb next time,” I say, as Ethan pulls me in closer, into just the right spot.
* * *
The next morning I get up early for a run and when I get out of the shower I climb into bed naked, pressing my still-damp body up the length of Ethan’s frame. He wakes slowly, with an appreciative noise, his hand reaching for my hip, his lips finding my neck. It’s lovely, just like it should be, and the weird tenseness of last night feels ridiculous—we joke about it as we bring our coffees back to bed, and he combs through my hair with his fingers as I lie against his chest, like we always do at home.
After that, Ethan’s all conciliatory and agreeable; he says he’ll come along to the May Day Committee meeting, even though it starts at eight a.m. today (why, Betsy?) and I give him a clear out (“if you need to work…”).
When we walk into the village hall together every head swivels our way. Ethan, somewhat taken aback, mutters Jesus before plastering on his best taking-out-clients smile and working his way around doing introductions.
“Hi. I’m Ethan Coleman,” he says to Betsy.
He’s speaking loudly and slowly, as if Betsy’s deaf; I wince as her eyebrows rise. He does this with all the elderly people in the room—Penelope actually flinches a little, and she must be used to people yelling, given that she lives with Roland. Crap. I should have briefed him a bit before we got here.
Jackson is last to the meeting, as usual—not quite late enough to be late, but always last, and always greeted with a chorus of adoring hellos from the elderly in the room. He glances at Ethan, who clocks him and stands up again, stretching a hand out for him to shake.
“Ethan Coleman.”
“Jackson.”
“Good to know there’s someone else under the age of a hundred around here,” Ethan says, dropping his voice and flashing Jackson a grin.
Jackson looks at him for a moment. “These are good people,” he says.
“Oh, of course! Of course. I guess I just wasn’t expecting so many grannies. I kind of imagine it to be all miners and farmers up here, you know, going oh, aye and ’ow do, love.”
I wince. Ethan pulls a face when he does the Yorkshire accent, as though he’s trying to look stupid—I’m not sure he even knows he’s done it, but it’s made Jackson’s eyes narrow a fraction.
“Sorry,” Jackson says, “you are?”
“Ethan Coleman,” Ethan repeats, then, faced with Jackson’s blank expression, he straightens up a little more. “Leena’s boyfriend.”
Jackson’s eyes flick to my face. “Ah,” he says. “You’ve come up to visit, then.”
“I would’ve come before, but it’s not easy for me to get away from London,” Ethan says. “People counting on me, millions at stake, that sort of thing.”
This is said entirely without irony. I blush, standing up and putting my hand on his arm.
“Come on, Ethan, let’s sit down.”
“Remind me what you do, Jackson?” Ethan says, brushing me off.
“I’m a teacher,” Jackson says. “No millions at stake. Just futures.”
“Don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t spend all day with kids without my brain going numb.”
“Will you sit down, please?” I say sharply.
Ethan’s eyes narrow. “What? Jackson and I are just getting to know each other.”
“You’re right, we should get started,” Jackson says and walks to his seat.
Only when he’s sitting down does Ethan let me pull him back to his own chair. I stare down at my feet, heart thumping with embarrassment.
“Right!” calls Betsy, with patent delight. “Well! How exciting. Ahem. Let’s talk bonfires. Leena, are you ready?”
Deep breath.
“Absolutely,” I say, pulling my pen and notepad out of my bag. I try to collect myself. Ethan doesn’t mean any harm; he just gets a bit macho and defensive when he thinks there’s another Type A guy in the room, that’s all. Everyone will understand when he’s got his temper back. He can just charm them all another time. It’s fine. Not a disaster.
“You’re taking minutes?” Ethan says.
My cheeks heat again. “Yeah. It’s what my grandma does.”
Ethan laughs then, a too-loud laugh that gets everyone looking. “When was it you last took minutes, Leena Cotton?”
“A while ago,” I say, keeping my voice down. I can feel Jackson watching us across the circle.
Betsy clears her throat pointedly.
“Sorry!” I say. “Bonfires. I’m ready, Betsy.”
I ignore Ethan’s glances and get on with my minutes. Having him here is making the meeting feel different—I’m seeing it from his point of view, like when someone watches your favorite TV show and all of a sudden you realize how rubbish the production values are. I can see Jackson watching Ethan too, steady and unreadable.
I try to concentrate on the meeting. Betsy is explaining “for any newcomers” (so, Ethan) that May Day is a traditional Gaelic festival celebrated here in Hamleigh for generations. She’s getting really deep-dive on the mythology for something that is essentially just the usual quirky British fayre-type merriment, only with a maypole.
Astonishingly little is achieved in the meeting, except that I’ve got lumbered with finding a May Queen and a May King for the parade, which is going to be tricky when the only people I know in Hamleigh are present, and don’t really like me. But I don’t want to say no to Betsy, so I’ll have to think of something.
I pack up and leave the meeting as soon as it’s done.
“Leena?” Ethan says as I head for the door, dodging Piotr, who is trying to stop Penelope hauling Roland out of his seat on her own. “Leena, slow down!”
“What were you doing in there?” I hiss, as we step outside. It’s raining, thick sideways rain that gets under your collar right away.
Ethan swears. He hates getting his hair wet. “God, this place,” he moans, looking up at the sky.
“You know, it also rains in London.”
“Why are you so pissed at me?” Ethan says, walking fast to keep up with me. “Was it what I said about northerners? Come on, Leena, I figured Jackson was the sort of guy who could take a joke. And why do you care, anyway? You keep saying how everyone chooses his side over yours and how awful he’s made you feel about the dog…”
“Actually, I keep saying how awful I feel about the dog. Jackson is a really good guy and he’s not held that over me at all. You were the one acting all—all obnoxious, and I’ve been trying so hard to make a good impression on these people, and…”
“Whoa!” Ethan tugs my arm to pull me to a stop in the bus shelter. “Hello? I’m obnoxious, now, am I?”
“I meant…”
“You’re meant to be on my side, angel, aren’t you?” He looks hurt. “Why do you care so much what these people think of you?”
I sag. “I don’t know, really.”
What am I doing? First yelling at my mum, then at Ethan. I need to get a grip on myself.
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking his hands. “I’ve been kind of crazy these last few days—weeks, maybe.”
Ethan sighs, then leans forward and kisses me on the nose. “Come on. Let’s get you home and in the bath, hey?”
* * *
Ethan has to head back to London pretty much as soon as we get back from the meeting, which is probably a good thing: I’m meant to be spending the day helping Jackson decorate the Year One classroom as my penance for losing Hank. I’d hoped Ethan would muck in and help, but now I really don’t fancy partaking of another Jackson–Ethan meet-up, at least not until Ethan’s had longer to coo l off and realize he needs to apologize.
Jackson’s truck pulls into the car park just as I climb out of Agatha the Ford Ka, sweating slightly after a roasting from the air con. I didn’t pack enough rough clothes, so I’m in skinny black trousers and a fleece I borrowed from Grandma, which I assume is fine for doing DIY as it already has an enormous purple paint splodge over one boob. (Interesting, as nothing in Grandma’s house is painted purple.) Jackson is wearing threadbare jeans and a flannel shirt. He gives me a quick smile as he puts down the paint tins and brushes to unlock the doors.
“Hi. You better at the roller or the fiddly bits?” he says.
“Err, fiddly bits,” I say. I was expecting a frostier greeting after this morning; I’m a little taken aback.
I follow as he hefts the paint through to the classroom. It’s strange seeing a school with no children dashing about—it makes you realize how small and flimsy everything looks, from the little plastic chairs to the brightly colored bookshelf half full of tatty paperbacks.
“Jackson,” I say. “I’m so sorry about Ethan being…”
Jackson’s setting up, steadily laying out everything he needs; his hands pause for a moment. His eyes look very blue in the late-morning sunshine streaming through the classroom window, and he’s clean shaven today, the usual sandy grains of stubble gone from his jawline.
“He was trying to be funny,” I say. “He’s normally not like that.”
Jackson uses a paint-splattered screwdriver to lever up the lid of the tin.
“I’m sorry too,” he says. “I could have been a bit more, you know. Welcoming.”
I tilt my head—that’s a fair point. I relax a little, reaching for a brush. We start on the back wall, painting side by side. Jackson’s forearm is lightly dusted with pale freckles, and when he moves past me to turn on the light I can smell the outdoors on him, cool air and a hint of earthiness, like the scent of rain.
“I never said thanks for helping out with Samantha when she was here for Easter,” he says eventually. “She wouldn’t stop going on about you afterward.”
I smile. “She’s such a lovely kid.”
“She’s already getting too clever for me,” Jackson says, pulling a face. “She asks more questions than my class put together. And she’s always thinking—bit like you, really.”
I pause, surprised. He glances over.
“Not a bad thing. Just the impression I get.”
“No, that’s fair. Except I’d call it worrying rather than thinking, most of the time, so I hope Samantha’s not like me, for her sake. My brain doesn’t know when to shut up. I bet you I can think up twenty worst-case scenarios before you could even think of one.”
“Never been one for worst-case scenarios,” Jackson says. He crouches to dip his roller in the tray; his wrists are flecked with paint now, new, brighter freckles. “When they happen, you cope. And it’s usually one you’ve not thought of that gets you, so why worry?”
God, what I would give to think like that. The sheer simplicity of it.
“I just want to be sure I’m doing the right thing,” I say. “I’m worried about—I don’t know, you know those books you read as a kid, that let you choose what happened next, and you turned to a different page depending on what you picked?”
Jackson nods. “I know the ones.”
“Right, well, I’m always trying to skip ahead so I can work out the best one.”
“Best one for what?”
I pause. “What do you mean?”
“Best for you?”
“No, no, I mean just … best. The right thing to do.”
“Huh,” Jackson says. “Interesting.”
I reach for a new subject, something more comfortable.
“Can I ask who was May Queen and May King last year? I’ve got to find someone to do it, and I’m thinking that’ll be the best place to start.”
There is a very long pause.
“It was me and Marigold,” Jackson says eventually.
I drop my brush.
“Shit!” I reach for the wet cloth and dab at the vinyl floor—I’ve got there just in time to avert disaster.
“All right?” Jackson asks, gaze back on the wall again.
“Yes, fine. Sorry … you and Marigold? Your ex?” I realize belatedly I probably ought not to know about Marigold—it wasn’t Jackson who told me. But he seems unsurprised. I suppose he does live in Hamleigh: he must be used to gossip doing the rounds.
“She always liked doing it when we were together.” His hand is steady and careful as he paints, but there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw. “She came back for it.”
“With Samantha?”
The roller pauses briefly.
“Aye.”
“Will they be coming this year?”
“I hope so. I’m lucky—Marigold’s filming in London for a spell so she’s in the UK for a few weeks.”
“That’s great. I’m glad.” I chew the inside of my cheek. “When I said about my flatmate Martha, the other day,” I say tentatively, “I never meant—I know there are lots of ways to be a parent. Obviously. I’m sorry for upsetting you.”
He sluices more paint into the roller tray, and I wait, watching him carefully tilt the tin back without dripping any paint down the side.
“Marigold keeps saying they’ll move back and set up in London,” he says, clearing his throat. “But it’s been over a year. And the visits are getting less and less often.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.