by Jenny Oliver
‘Your dad thought we were different.’
Ruben looked down at his glass. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘but there was nothing I could do about that except apologise.’
Olive looked away, she remembered Ruben standing on the cottage steps. She remembered the feeling of being seen as nothing, as scum. Of saying to Ruben, ‘I don’t think I can get over the way he looks at me. You can walk away from this but I can’t.’ And Ruben saying, ‘That’s unfair.’ And Olive nodding. ‘Yes, I know it’s unfair. But what is it your dad says? “Fairness is a childish concept.”’
At the patio table, after a moment’s pause, Ruben seemed to pull himself back to his adult self and said, jokily, ‘So you don’t think we could have been blissfully happy?’
Olive laughed. ‘No. We were so young. We wouldn’t have been able to stay together through all that. I was really hurt by everything your dad said. Now I’d probably be able to get over it. Not probably, definitely. But I was only sixteen and it felt real. What I said earlier about thinking about the what-ifs, even if you hadn’t, I would have done. I would have thought how I was holding you back. And it was pretty bad at Aunt Marge’s. Pretty bad with Dolly. It’s inevitable we would have drifted apart. That’s the reality, isn’t it?’
‘Ever the pragmatist, Olive.’
Olive felt herself bristle. She was too used to being seen as the cool, rational one. ‘No, I just think it’s too easy to imagine the alternative as perfect. We didn’t know who we were outside of this place.’
Ruben held his hands up in defence. ‘Don’t worry, you’ve persuaded me! I agree. We were sixteen. Babies. Idiots.’ He laughed.
The moment had changed. The gap between their old and new selves had widened again. They both had their new personas back in place. She said, ‘So what have you been doing with your life?’
Ruben topped up their wine glasses. ‘This and that,’ he said casually.
‘You can do better than that,’ said Olive, looking out at the garden. ‘Have you been married?’
‘I’ve not yet had the pleasure.’
‘What work are you doing?’
‘This and that,’ he said, a little cocky and laissez-faire. ‘I made quite a bit when I sold my company a little while ago so …’
Olive internally rolled her eyes. ‘What did the company do?’
‘Just data analysis.’
‘Just data analysis?’ Olive mocked. ‘It was obviously more than that to make you “quite a bit”.’
Ruben shrugged, acting coy at the attention. ‘It was a programme we built that was geared to Formula One racing but essentially you could use it in anything. Sport, the military, online shopping. Whatever you want. It was very targeted but could be adapted across a variety of sectors, that gave it its value.’
‘So a little more than just “this and that”,’ Olive said with a shake of her head, like she’d caught him out in his humble bragging.
Ruben laughed, more bashful, ‘Yeah, I suppose so. And to prove your earlier point, when I rang my dad to tell him about the deal, he said, “Sounds like a fluke, Ruben.”’
Olive winced.
Ruben shrugged like it was nothing. ‘He didn’t believe anything had any value if it wasn’t in law or banking.’
‘So is the whole rich playboy thing you living up to his disapproval?’ Olive’s lips twitched with a smile.
‘How dare you!’ Ruben barked a laugh. ‘Why do you think I’m a playboy?’
‘You have Stormzy tickets, Ruben. You wear the sunglasses eighteen-year-olds wear. You drive a fast car and you live in some swanky penthouse.’ Olive felt herself falling into their old familiarity, their easy banter. She remembered suddenly moments lying on her back looking up through the dazzling lemon yellow of the leaves in sunlight, laughing till her stomach ached and she could barely breathe, Ruben cracking up beside her.
‘I like Stormzy,’ he said, then he stopped, thought for a second and added, ‘How do you know where I live?’
Olive swallowed. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘It was just a guess.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ He grinned. ‘You’ve looked me up. You’ve been on my Instagram.’
‘I have not,’ she lied, feeling her cheeks go red.
Ruben’s mouth stretched even wider into a very satisfied smile. ‘I think you’re lying, Olive King.’
Olive huffed. Not liking the feeling of having been caught out, the smugness of his expression making her feel like one of the adoring women she knew he had queuing up. She didn’t like the loss of control. It derailed her. The vulnerability of it made her uncomfortable. Perhaps she wasn’t actually ready for real honesty.
In an act of self-preservation, she altered the course of the subject by saying, ‘You are going to take Zadie to that Stormzy concert, aren’t you?’
Ruben smirked, his confidence now sky-high, ‘I think it’s called a gig.’
‘Whatever. Are you going to take her?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Is that your answer for everything?’ Olive felt more comfortable with her disapproval. ‘You know she thinks you’re a hero, don’t you?’
Ruben shook his head. ‘I’m not a hero.’
‘I know that,’ Olive quipped.
Ruben raised a brow like he could see straight through her. Then he said, ‘I don’t want to be a hero. The kid knows not to expect too much.’
Olive blew out an incredulous breath. ‘You really think so? She’s spent twelve years building you up to some godlike status.’
Ruben ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it out of place. His eyes drooped. ‘My life’s not really set up to have a daughter.’
Olive sighed. ‘This is a chance, Ruben. They don’t come round very often. Don’t mess it up with her,’ she urged, feeling justified now in her desire to sabotage the earlier moment.
Too quickly, Ruben said, ‘Yeah, of course.’ Then he got up, rolling his shoulders as if reacquainting himself with his true self.
The moment for honesty between them was over.
Ruben stretched his arms above his head and yawned. ‘Time for bed, I think.’
Chapter Thirteen
Dolly and Fox received an exceedingly warm welcome at the farm at the bottom of the valley. It was owned by Matilda and Duncan. She was West Country born and bred. He was an Aussie who’d come over to pick fruit one summer and never left. ‘You can borrow the van, mate,’ said Duncan when Fox explained the situation over a cold beer in the garden. Matilda had strapped an ice pack round his ankle with a tea towel. ‘Sleep in the back, that’s what we do. The only problem is there’s a bloody great crack across the window where this idiot’ – Duncan pointed to his son, Brad, a tall, sweet-looking blond kid standing by the back door – ‘hit a bloody buzzard, but you’ll be right.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Dolly, naturally suspicious of anyone and anything, especially favours. She was sitting across from Duncan, her own beer dripping condensation on the wooden outdoor table.
‘Yeah! Definitely, no doubt about it,’ Duncan waved a work-gnarled hand. ‘Take it, pay it forward and all that. We’ll go and get your bike now. Leave it here with us. Brad here’s done a bit of mechanics, he’ll have a tinker with it.’
Brad nodded from where he stood in the shade by the door.
‘Well, I mean, that sounds perfect,’ Fox said with a swig of his beer, clearly much more inclined than Dolly to take people as he found them. ‘Thank you.’
Duncan tipped his head in acceptance and then clinked his beer with Fox’s. ‘Happy to help.’
Matilda came out with a plate of freshly baked scones and jam. ‘You can’t drive on that ankle,’ she said, nodding towards Fox’s tea-towel-bound foot.
Fox made a face. ‘No, probably shouldn’t.’
‘Definitely shouldn’t,’ Matilda scolded. ‘Stay here tonight, we’ve got some B&B rooms set up. Leave in the morning.’
This was way out of Dolly’s comfort zone. All this kindness of stran
gers. She even gave her shoulder a test to see if she could get behind the wheel but it still sent shooting pains through her when she lifted it above forty degrees.
She could feel Fox watching her. His expression like he could tell how uncomfortable all this made her. This having to rely on others, to accept help. ‘This is all very kind of you,’ he said.
Dolly shifted in her seat.
Next to her, Matilda shook her head, mouthful of scone. ‘It’s nothing. And there’s a giant leg of lamb that’s been in the barbecue oven for the last six hours that needs eating. You’ll be helping us out.’
Fox sat back with a grin in Dolly’s direction. ‘It gets better and better!’
After their drinks, Matilda showed them to one of the B&B rooms. All beautifully decked out in country cottage chic. As she made to leave, Dolly said, ‘Oh no, sorry we need two rooms.’
Matilda looked surprised and said, ‘I thought—’ at the same time as Dolly said, ‘We’re not together!’
‘Sorry, love. Just figured with a chap like that …’ then winked at Fox, who lapped it up with a grin.
Then feigning sad, puppy-dog eyes, Fox added, ‘She’d never have me.’
Matilda made a face at Dolly. ‘You’re mad.’
Dolly tried her best to laugh along with them. Then Matilda went off to get the key for the other room and Dolly glared at Fox.
‘What?’ he said, all innocent.
‘Don’t,’ she warned.
He grinned. ‘Chill out, Dolly. You’ve got to learn to relax. Laugh. Have some fun.’ He leant forward and whispered, ‘It’s not a crime to enjoy yourself.’ Then he walked away into his room, kicking the door shut behind him and she heard a sigh of pleasure and the sound of him flopping down on the huge squishy bed.
Once she’d been let into her own room, Dolly had a shower, washed her hair with the little bottles of lily of the valley shampoo and conditioner and changed into soft blue joggers and a raspberry-pink T-shirt. All the while she was overly conscious of the fact Fox could hear her through the wall, because she could hear him. She didn’t want to be aware of him. She wanted to go back to hating him but something about him asking her a simple question about herself – not to mention him handing her the water before he’d taken a sip – had thrown a trip switch inside her that set her off kilter. He had got her talking about herself without even really trying. That never happened. It was only then she remembered that was Fox’s skill. He’d been a hostage negotiator. This was what he was trained for. Listening effectively was part of his job. What was it they called it? Dynamic silence. She tried to think what he’d done. He’d labelled her emotions, definitely, oldest trick in the book – You sound surprised, Dolly. Oh God! She’d totally fallen for it. He found people’s weaknesses, their interests, their emotions and used them to burrow under their skin.
She had a flash forward to Brogden patting Fox on the back saying, ‘I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve cracked her. And she was a particularly tough nut. Fox Mason, you’ve more than earned your bonus.’
Dolly made a face at the wall when she heard him creaking about next door. She felt as foolish as she did unwittingly relieved to have spoken about things she never mentioned. It all seemed immediately less negative now she had said it. But still she felt tricked, and when he opened his door and knocked softly on hers she pretended not to hear. It was petty, she knew, but she needed to regain her autonomy.
Dolly waited five minutes then followed him downstairs and out into the garden. The light had started to fade. The table was piled high with food and drinks and in the centre, a big vase of sweet-smelling jasmine and ivy tumbled down onto the tablecloth. Over by the barbecue Duncan was making a show of basting the lamb shank. Fox was discussing motorbikes with Brad but when he saw Dolly he gave her a nod. She purposely didn’t join them, instead she went to where Matilda was mixing drinks. ‘Prosecco with homemade elderflower cordial,’ Matilda said, handing Dolly a champagne flute with a few tiny white elderflowers sprinkled on the surface.
Dolly took the drink and found herself a seat that didn’t have a dog or cat or chicken sitting on it. On the step by the French windows, one of the many children was playing the violin, the others fought over a Nintendo Switch. The view was all patchwork fields and pale dusky sky. Just one sip of the elderflower cordial and Dolly was back home. Back running behind Olive. Back standing on her tiptoes trying to reach the biggest of the million white flower heads for her mum to dip them in batter and sizzle into elderflower fritters that they’d eat piping hot and burn their mouths. Back to Ruben lifting her up so she could pluck the flowers from the very top. Back to sitting on his shoulders while he said funny things to impress Olive. Back to lying in the grass watching him, watching how close his fingertips were to Olive’s. Back to barbecues on the beach, fairy lights and homemade bunting strung between two surfboards, the music, the dancing, the dog chasing rabbits and the dark black evening sky. They were days bathed in sunlight. Memories shrouded with fine gold thread. All of them together. The smiles. The laughter. Her mum’s blonde, blonde hair, the curls heavy like silk. The tilt of her head as she danced with their dad. His infatuated eyes entranced. The waft of her perfume. Next to them, she saw Ruben bowing to ask Olive to dance, all over the top like a costume drama on a Sunday afternoon. Olive shaking her head in refusal, above the jest of it all. Faux broken-hearted, he would move on to Dolly, who jumped up quicker than a kangaroo. She would press her head to his shirt and inhale. She would tip her head, hoping her frizzy curls might somehow cascade down her back, and see Ruben’s eyes locked not on her like her dad’s were with her mum, but on Olive, who sat watching with mild amusement and her customary watchful concern. Olive was the one who stopped the fallen candle setting fire to the table, who made sure the barbecue wasn’t burnt, who checked the dog was fed. Who took their mum away when she suddenly stopped laughing.
Sitting on her kitchen chair at the farm, Dolly sipped the Prosecco. The little girl’s violin was stuck on the same chord. Over and over, she played, making the same mistake each time. Stamping her foot. Clenching her teeth in frustration. Duncan abandoned the roast lamb to go over and encourage her to change tune. But she burst into howling tears instead and Matilda hurried over to usher her inside to bed.
Dolly watched the histrionics. Seeing the girl’s little face screw up all red, she could taste the flavour of gasping, frustrated tears. Dolly could sense Fox watching her out of the corner of his eye. She looked away, reaching down instead to give a wiry Jack Russell by her feet a stroke.
She wanted to stop the reminiscing in its tracks. To turn her brain off and go over and join the ensuing chat about tired pre-teens and whether the Kawasaki would beat Brad’s souped-up dirt bike. But she couldn’t switch it off that easily. Even as the Jack Russell woke up and started weaving between her legs in excitement, she remembered the day she saw Ruben and Olive sneaking away, his hand pressed firm on the small of her back. She knew in that moment that they were more than just friends. She remembered the all-encompassing fear that she had lost them to each other; her idolised big sister and the boy she loved so much it made her heart ache. Dolly, the little fool on the outside who didn’t know. She remembered following them through the woods, watching from behind a big fir tree as they took their own secret path down into the tangled, derelict mess of the orangery. Her own face crumpling as she watched Ruben cup Olive’s cheek, sickened with jealousy at the utter adoration.
The Jack Russell came back with the stick between its teeth but refused to give it up when Dolly bent to take it. As she wrestled it from him, she was struck by the memory of running so fast she tripped on snaking brambles that lacerated her legs. Found by her father freshly back from ‘the best adventure of them all’, out rallying the troops because he’d laid the treasure hunt to end all treasure hunts. She found it hard to remember his face. She knew he was grinning. High on life. He’d changed into normal clothes but he still had the sunburn of an explorer. If she had one
wish it would have been to look at him properly in that moment of his radiant happiness. To have stood up and grinned back, rather than sobbed inconsolably into his open arms about love and deceit and her evil sister at the orangery. Her pride was hurt along with her heart and she wanted justice and attention, dialling it up a notch to get Daddy onside. If only she had brushed down the bramble cuts, wiped her face and smiled. He wouldn’t have gone marching to the orangery to see what Olive had done to upset her sister. Nor would he have seen as Olive and Ruben discovered his wife, Josephine King, in the arms of Lord de Lacy. He wouldn’t have witnessed, broken-hearted, the shameful, vitriolic showdown, nor come to blows with Lord de Lacy. He wouldn’t have picked up his still-packed rucksack and never returned. Had she just smiled, the worst thing to happen in Dolly’s life would have been simply an unrequited crush on her sister’s secret boyfriend.
At the barbecue, Dolly felt suddenly dizzy. The memories colliding like snooker balls. The ground like a listing ship. She focused all her attention on the yappy little dog.
‘Dinner’s ready!’ Duncan shouted, declaring the lamb finally perfect. Everyone came to take their places at the table. Matilda got the sharp knife from the kitchen. ‘Won’t need that,’ Duncan said, carrying the steaming tray of barbecued lamb in front of him, ‘this is so tender, meat’ll fall straight from the bone.’
Dolly stood up, steadying herself with the back of a rickety chair. Fox came to stand beside her. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, blinking hard to get herself firmly back in the present, ‘never better.’ Then to the rest of the table, with her best smile in place, said, ‘This looks delicious, I can’t wait.’
Chapter Fourteen
Ruben de Lacy found it nigh on impossible to sleep after his drink with Olive on the Big House veranda. He lay in bed, tossing and turning, listening to the howl of the fox and the hoot of the damn owl, missing his London apartment noises. He wanted helicopters and fire engines, drunken revellers and idling Ubers.