The Wishing Tree Beside the Shore: The perfect feel good romance to escape with this summer!

by Jaimie Admans

  Ryan grins when he sees me, and that familiar warmth floods in again. There’s something so nice about feeling like people are pleased to see you. It doesn’t happen in London. The people at work are about as indifferent to me as they are to the staff water dispenser in the corner, but here, since the moment Cheryl greeted me in the train station car park, I’ve felt wanted and welcome.

  He’s wearing a plain blue T-shirt today, which arguably does more for his biceps than his usual tank top look does. The sleeves are positively straining around muscular arms, and he’s got on black three-quarter-length cargo trousers with his feet shoved into trainers instead of hiking boots, and I can’t tear my eyes away from his solid calf muscles that look like he spends half his life mountain climbing. He’s the kind of guy who could make socks and sandals look sexy. Although I hope he never tries it, just in case.

  ‘Gosh, I’m so awful at this, but you’ll know. What is it?’ I jump when Alys shoves her phone in my face, so focused on Ryan’s legs that I hadn’t noticed her approaching.

  ‘I sent her a picture of my tomato slicer last night and she got it straight away. I can’t let her win this one too. You’re my “Guess the Gadget” expert – any ideas?’

  I look at the photo onscreen and recognise it immediately because my mum had one. ‘It’s a strawberry huller. It’s your friend’s way of showing support on opening day.’

  As I watch her walk away happily to text her friend, I feel guilty again. Any guessing of gadgets has been pure coincidence, fluke, and luck, but even that somehow ties into me being a chef. Everything is tainted by this lie, even the most innocent of things that should be fun.

  ‘Good morning,’ Ryan says cheerily. I’m gravitating towards him even without knowing where I was going. He leans down to give me a one-armed hug, and I can’t stop my hand sliding up his warm arm and giving him a squeeze back. The familiar scent of his saltwater and bamboo-esque cologne surrounds me and when I go to pull back, he holds on for a moment longer, his stubble grazing when his lips press against my forehead.

  Neither of us have mentioned the other night again since, although there have been a few stolen kisses behind the tree trunk when the residents aren’t looking, but there’s a cloud hanging over us. I’m holding back because of the lie, and I know Ryan’s holding back because my life isn’t here anymore. And I can’t get the idea of him being supposed to marry someone else out of my head. It was a long time ago and it shouldn’t still bother me, but the fact he could keep something like that a secret puts a totally different slant on the no-secrets friendship I thought we had, and I’ve spent so many years thinking he didn’t kiss me back that day for one reason, I still haven’t quite processed that it was something else entirely.

  ‘Hi.’ I can’t get the grin off my face even after he pulls away. ‘It’s not nine o’clock yet. Where are all these people coming from?’

  ‘Seaview Heights started to get some calls last night – people enquiring about parking, payment options, opening times, that sort of thing. Tonya did some digging and discovered that one of the major tourist websites has chosen it as their “pick of the week” for things to do in South Wales, and it’s gathered the right kind of attention.’ He taps the table and I notice the stack of newspapers on one end.

  He picks one up and holds it in front of him, accidentally making the cardboard punnet he’d just folded together pop apart. ‘This morning’s paper.’

  ‘Front-page news!’ I squeal so loudly that several hearing aids go on the blink. ‘This is amazing!’

  It’s the most widely circulated newspaper in South Wales, and covering the entire front page is one of Ryan’s photos of the tree at dusk with the sunset sinking into the ocean behind it, and the headline splashed across it reads – Centuries-old strawberry patch reopening amidst stricken seaside sycamore.

  I scrabble to turn to page 4 for the full story, my fingers clumsy with excitement. ‘Oh God, Ry.’ I feel my face fall. ‘It’s us.’

  There on page 4 and 5 is a whole double-page spread, led by a huge photo of me and Ryan, our arms linked as we took a bite of the first strawberry the other day, and surrounding it are smaller photos of us laughing, digging, laying the weed fabric, and trying to wrestle a gnome from Baaabra Streisand’s mouth. No one is allowed to eat Tony Blair.

  On the opposite page, there’s a half-size photo of us hugging. I didn’t even realise Tonya had taken a photo, but it must’ve been after the strawberry tasting when Ryan hugged me because there he is with his arms around me, my head on his chest, his chin resting on my forehead. Both of us have our eyes closed and look totally enrapt with each other. The framing is perfect – a beautiful sunburst on the left and the strawberry patch spread out behind us. It was the morning after rain and Tonya has managed to capture the glistening of the red fruits and the raindrops on pretty white flowers reflecting from the sun and looking like they’re sparkling. The picture is so … joyful. It would make me want to visit if I wasn’t already here.

  Underneath it is a picture I took of all the residents standing in front of the tree with Baaabra. The sun is dappled through the branches and shining down on the group, and both pictures together are so magical that you can almost see fairies dancing through them.

  ‘You look so happy,’ Godfrey says. I hadn’t realised he was listening.

  ‘So in love with each—’ Mr Barley grunts when Godfrey stamps on his foot under the table they’re sharing, having forgotten that there’s nothing covering the table and their legs are clearly visible.

  ‘With life itself,’ Mr Barley corrects himself.

  I don’t even recognise myself in these photos. My usually sweaty skin looks glowing, and my grown-out hair looks neat and shiny because the camera is kind to split ends, and the blue bits look professionally blended with my dark hair and exactly the kind of metallic shade it looked on the box. Usually I look like someone dyed a bus blue.

  All of this is fantastic, and I should be ecstatic, even though I’m an introvert and the idea of photos of me being in a paper that thousands of people read makes butterflies swish around inside and not the good kind of butterflies.

  However, it won’t be fantastic if Harrison is one of those people.

  ‘Have you checked the petition?’ Ryan’s eyes are dancing. ‘The paper only went out at seven o’clock this morning and there are already ten thousand more signatures than there were last night. Our website has crashed three times with the amount of traffic, and Tonya’s had so many emails that she’s paying her grandson to be her personal assistant for the week. He’s got at least three enquiries from national newspapers and a TV camera crew are on their way here.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say. He thinks I’m so overjoyed I can barely find words, and I am for the sake of the tree and the people here, but there’s going to be no hiding a TV crew from Harrison. Or national newspaper coverage. And then what? I lose my job. I have rent and bills to pay in London, and Harrison is a big name in business; he’s bound to blacklist me with other companies. I didn’t spend the past four years as his assistant only to throw it all away, but how am I ever going to convince him that this is all part of a cunning plan to undermine the protest?

  I sigh, attracting attention from Ryan, Godfrey, and Mr Barley because I should be happy, not sighing.

  The article is beautiful as well. The headline reads “No more wishes at the magical seaside sycamore tree?” and it gives a perfect rundown of the tree – the carvings and the stories behind them, the strawberry patch and Henrietta’s wish to see it as it used to be, and the plight of the care home residents losing their garden space to a hotel. It finishes with links to our website, Tonya’s Twitter account, and the petition, and there’s an appeal for readers to share their stories if they’ve ever visited the seaside sycamore tree.

  Godfrey’s signing copies. He’s such a celebrity that he might start charging for his autograph soon. Even Baaabra Streisand has been relocated to a gatepost at the upper end of the land, so s
he doesn’t get disturbed by people looking at the carvings.

  There’s a steady stream of customers all morning. Other residents come out to support their friends, the staff get involved, and Steffan skulks around, pacing from the driveway to the rear of the building and back again, peering over the hedge every time he passes.

  There are so many strawberries on plants, and with the sun out, they seem to be ripening in front of our eyes. The tree is a huge hit with visitors, and there are many disappointed children because it’s still summer and the huge bunches of sycamore seeds dangling high above aren’t ready to fall yet.

  By lunchtime, Ryan and I, Tonya, and Godfrey have done countless interviews, both in person and over the phone. We’re going to be on the local news tonight and a special interest program on Monday night. The biggest UK-wide newspapers have already published stories about us on their websites, and the number of signatures on the petition is going up every second. Tonya’s grandson keeps shouting out random numbers like 18,137 and 20,989. It’s a gorgeous day and there are plenty of people on their way down to the beach who come in to pick a punnet of fresh strawberries to go with their picnics.

  Tonya’s phone hasn’t stopped ringing, Ryan’s assistant at the campsite keeps putting calls through to his mobile, and I’m in the middle of telling a little girl about how I used to pick strawberries here when I was her age when my phone starts buzzing and Harrison’s name flashes up. Even though I was expecting it at any moment, it still makes me jump.

  Of course, I’d forgotten to put it on silent, and the loud ringing and buzzing has attracted everyone’s attention, including Ryan’s. The idea of talking to Harrison in front of the people I’m betraying is detestable, but now I can’t even quietly ignore him because that’s going to make them even more suspicious.

  ‘Go on, Fliss,’ Godfrey says helpfully. ‘I can manage here.’

  I reluctantly put the phone to my ear and say his name so brightly that my voice has probably just registered on the National Grid.

  Nothing.

  ‘Harrison? Hello?’

  I pull the phone away from my ear but the screen still shows the call is connected.

  ‘Are you there?’

  Silence.

  I can’t talk to him here anyway. Apart from being overheard saying something a chef wouldn’t say, there’s so much din from strawberry pickers and people visiting the tree that I can’t hear myself think.

  ‘I’m going to …’ I say to Godfrey, waving the phone around and gesturing towards the gate.

  Like he can sense my unease, Ryan’s watching me from across the patch. ‘Okay?’ he mouths.

  I give him a thumbs up and quickly hurry out of the gate, feeling very much not-okay. ‘Harrison? Are you there?’

  I put a finger in the other ear to try to block out the noise around me. I can hear the office sounds behind him so I know he’s there, but he’s silent. Like he’s too appalled with me to even speak. This can only be a bad thing, and I brace myself for the yelling that will inevitably follow.

  ‘Well, this looks like quite a love story.’ He surprises me by talking quietly instead of yelling, although the yelling would be preferable to the menacing tone in his voice.

  He’s obviously read the article. I am recognisable then. I was hoping I might’ve got away with it.

  ‘A love story? Noooo. Noo-oo.’ No one needs to put that much emphasis on a simple “no”. I couldn’t make it sound any more like a love story if I’d tried.

  I go up the coastal path and huddle in a corner of the hedge between the pathway and the car park, trying to find somewhere quiet. ‘I can’t really talk right now.’

  He laughs a mocking laugh. ‘Oh, I assure you, Felicity, you can find time to talk now.’

  ‘I’m doing my job,’ I hiss into the phone. ‘I’m doing what you told me to.’

  ‘You’re hugging some guy on a strawberry patch! Sharing food with him!’

  Ah, there’s the yelling.

  ‘A strawberry patch that did not exist until you got there. And this is the same guy from the sheep video, isn’t it? Is this the campsite-owning Tree Idiot?’

  ‘Er … no? That’s someone els—’

  ‘It says here “Local campsite owner, Ryan Sullivan!”’

  Something about Harrison knowing Ryan’s name makes the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. ‘Oh. Oh! That guy! Yes, that’s him.’

  ‘Right. And?’

  ‘And?’ I tuck my hair back and look around to make sure I’m not being overheard.

  ‘Are you buying him off with freshly picked strawberries? Trying to seduce him? What’s your angle on this? Because you look smitten.’

  ‘Looks can be deceiving,’ I mutter. ‘I’m trying to get to know people. To gain their trust. Get right to the heart of this protest, like you told me to.’ I grit my teeth as I say it. I’m doing nothing he told me to. ‘No one’s going to let me in on their plans unless I prove myself to be trustworthy.’

  He does a chortle that makes me go cold all over despite the summer sun. You know something’s gone horribly wrong in your life when even one of the most devious, underhanded businessmen in Britain laughs at the notion of you being trustworthy.

  ‘Have you had a chance to chat to the care home owner yet? I sent him a second set of copies of the paperwork last week – in case he’d misplaced the first lot seeing as it’s taking him so long to sign – and he’s still dithering about it. Give him a kick up the backside when you see him, will you?’

  ‘He’s … around.’ I peer over the hedge again and spot Steffan skulking around the car park. He catches me looking and I duck down behind the hedge again fast.

  ‘Without him getting a wiggle on, we’ll lose the hotel company and all their future business if I don’t deliver on this pronto.’

  ‘Isn’t there somewhere else they can plonk their hotel? This place is special, it doesn’t deserve …’ I trail off because I hear him suck air in through his teeth.

  ‘Special, is it?’ The menacing tone is back too.

  ‘Well, not to me,’ I stutter. One day I’ll start thinking before I speak. Today is not that day. ‘To the locals. They won’t give up without a fight. The more of them I meet, the more it doesn’t seem worth it.’ Maybe this is the way out without upsetting either party. If I could persuade Harrison that it’s not worth the hassle, he’d never have to know that I’m not doing my job, and no one in Lemmon Cove would ever find out I’m not a chef.

  ‘Felicity, you’d make a truly terrible businesswoman.’

  Then again, maybe not.

  ‘You don’t get this far into a transaction and then decide to walk away. How will we ever recoup the costs we’ve already funnelled into this?’

  Ffion walks past and gives me a curious glance.

  ‘Maybe by not offering things you don’t have in the first place,’ I snap into the phone, ashamed of being caught red-handed, so to speak. I give her a nod and a smile, but inside, I’m shrivelling up like a lettuce leaf on a sunny windowsill.

  I turn further into the hedge, trying to block out the noise of traffic and the slamming of car doors from the car park.

  ‘Felicity, this is a disaster. It’s going from bad to worse. That petition is gaining far too many signatures, and now the newspapers have got a hold of the stories. I sent you there to prevent this very thing.’

  ‘I’m trying, okay?’

  ‘Really? Because so far, it seems like you’re trying to save the place. If you cost us this client, your job will go with them. Do you understand that?’

  If you lose this client, it will be because you sold them land before you owned it. ‘Yes, Harrison,’ I say meekly, annoyed at myself for not telling him where to shove his client. The more time I spend here, the more I despise my company and everything they stand for.

  ‘Have you tried blackmail? I’ll do some digging on this Ryan Sullivan chap, see what we can dredge up. That might help.’

  ‘No!’

 
I can hear the raised eyebrow over the phoneline. ‘Who is he, Felicity? What does he want?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s just a guy. He loves this place and he doesn’t want the landscape ruined by a hotel.’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t. He owns a flaming campsite, for God’s sake. That’s like those towns where you have a McDonald’s and a Burger King next door to each other. A constant competition. From what I understand, his campsite is currently the only place to stay in the area. A hotel would drastically decrease his visitor numbers. If you think this is about anything other than business, you’re more naive than I thought.’

  I want to tell him he’s wrong. Ryan’s not like that. But the cynical part of me wonders how much of a point he’s got. A hotel opening across the way will have a detrimental effect on Ryan’s business. There’s no denying that.

  ‘So what’ve you got on him? In the three weeks you’ve been there, you must’ve got something. It certainly looks like you’ve got close enough …’

  His tone leaves me without a shadow of a doubt that I have to give him something. I look to the sky for inspiration. ‘He lost his last business because he accidentally poisoned someone with squash.’

  ‘Excellent.’ I can imagine Harrison steepling his fingers like Mr Burns. ‘That will be useful information. Is it public knowledge?’

  ‘Yes. Er, I think,’ I say, distracted by doing another check for eavesdroppers.

  Harrison tuts. ‘Then how am I supposed to blackmail him with it? It’s no use if the public already know. That would’ve been perfect too. We could’ve run a story about him serving poisonous food; that would’ve soon finished his little establishment off. What else?’

  ‘You would do that?’ I say in horror. ‘Put out a completely fake story and destroy someone’s livelihood?’

  ‘Well, I can’t now, can I? Because you haven’t found me any decent information.’