by Karen Swan
‘Yeah? Well I hope everything goes according to plan. Never work with animals or children, innit? I’m sticking to flowers.’ He shut the door firmly. ‘Righty-ho. I’ll see you Wednesday, then, and we can go through the checklist. Ranunculus roses, right?’
‘Yes, but in that particular colour—’
‘The one that only two growers in the world produce? Yeah, yeah, yeah, got it,’ he said, shaking his head as he walked off.
Cassie was just opening the door when she saw the Post-it she’d stuck to the glove compartment, reminding her of what she’d been meaning to show him for weeks.
‘Hey, Dean!’ she called, jumping back out. ‘Before you go, you couldn’t have a look at this for me, could you?’
Dean turned back, amused. ‘What’s that, then?’
She showed him the picture on her phone. ‘Any idea what that is?’
Dean raised a cocky eyebrow. ‘It’s a rose, innit? I’d have thought even you could tell that.’
‘Ha-ha,’ Cassie said, rolling her eyes. ‘I mean what type of rose is it?’
The buds had opened two weeks earlier into multilayered heads of a dusky powder pink. Even to her untrained eye she could tell it was a show specimen.
‘Hmmmm, looks like an alba to me,’ he murmured, holding the phone to the light to get a better picture. ‘Oh, yeah – yeah, it is, definitely. It’s what we call an “old rose”. The type you used to find before they imported all them china roses and cross-bred them all. You can tell because of the frothy petals and the scent. I bet it smells gorgeous, dunnit?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Where’d you get it? That’s a beauty.’
‘A gift. D’you know the name of it?’
‘Do I kno— Please!’ He puffed out his chest. ‘That is the Cuisse de Nymph.’ He said it with a slightly camp, lispy accent and Cassie tried not to smile. Dean was sweet, but always hopelessly showing off in front of her.
‘Thigh of the Nymph?’ Cassie translated.
Dean’s face fell as his moment of glory was stolen from him. ‘Yeah. You speak French, then?’
‘Oh, you know . . . a bit. Well, that’s great, Dean. Thanks so much. There are so many different types of roses—’
‘Over two thousand and counting,’ he said, quickly restoring his pride.
‘Right, yes. Two thousand – no wonder I didn’t know how to start identifying it. I should have just come to you in the first place.’
‘Always come to me first,’ Dean beamed, punching himself on the chest and marching off proudly. ‘Dean’s your man.’
Cassie was just packing the last of her things into a blue plastic Ikea bag to stack behind the sofa when she heard Henry’s triumphal return – the thump of bags and kit hitting the floor, a ballyhoo cry that sounded like the love-child of a hunting horn and a rugby song, and the pounding of feet down the hall as Suzy ran like a baby elephant towards him, her tummy acting as a rebounder between them.
Cassie peered nervously round the doorway. Archie was tossing the car keys on to the hall table and Henry was bending forwards in a comical manner to accommodate Cupcake as he hugged his sister.
‘Someone’s come between us,’ Henry laughed, rubbing her tummy affectionately. ‘I can’t believe how much Cupcake’s grown!’ Suzy pushed it out even further.
He pushed his hair back from his eyes – it was so long now – and looked up. He saw Cassie leaning awkwardly against the door jamb and just for a fraction of a second she saw her own hesitation mirrored in his face. But only for a moment.
‘Hey!’ he said with an easy smile. Except for the vast white patches left by his goggles, his face was nut brown, making his teeth look glaringly white. But that wasn’t the biggest change. Apart from the long hair, he must have lost nearly a stone in weight and had grown a beard. He looked older than when he’d left.
‘Hi, Henry,’ she said tentatively, walking down the hall and greeting him with a brief hug. ‘You made it back safely, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘Arch, cava!’ Suzy ordered, walking back to the kitchen. Archie followed obediently, a giggle in his eyes.
‘So . . . how was it?’ Cassie asked him stiffly, wishing Suzy hadn’t left her alone with him like that. Henry shrugged off his massive red quilted jacket to reveal yet more layers – a navy polo neck, thermal waterproof trousers and heavy boots. She felt awkward and tongue-tied. The last time they’d been together, they’d listened to Claude’s messages together, his hand on hers, just hours after a near-miss seduction, and then he’d been gone for two months and . . . well, what was normal now? Did they talk about the things that had happened – and hadn’t? Or just carry on like they’d never been to Venice?
From his easy body language, Henry was clearly taking the latter option.
‘Chilly. But good,’ he said, bending down to unlace his heavy boots. ‘We got some really good data. The Russians were putting flags down everywhere we stopped, of course – trying to expand their continental-shelf claims.’
He pulled off his boots and straightened up, staring down at her, his eyes all the more piercing thanks to the Grizzly Adams beard. There was a short pause between them as they took in the changes in each other’s appearance. ‘And so you made it here after all,’ he said finally.
‘Yup. Paris was . . . too much . . .’ Her voice trailed off. She realized he didn’t know about everything that had happened with Anouk. But then he didn’t need to; what had happened with Claude would have been enough to make most people run.
‘And you’re back to looking like you again.’
‘Finally.’ She primped her hair self-consciously.
‘And are you going to stay as you now? Or have you got some other versions you want to debut this year?’
Cassie narrowed her eyes at the humour in his. ‘No. I think I’m done.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ he said, pulling off the polo neck. He was wearing a navy Helly Hansen thermal grandad shirt underneath, which did a fine job of tracing his muscles. She tried not to look. ‘Did it work?’ he continued.
‘What?’
‘Your search for the real you. Were you supposed to be a brunette living in Paris and working as a chef? Or a man-eating fashion bunny in Manhattan? Or are you really a blonde wedding-planner in London?’
‘I’m a little bit of all those girls, I guess. Brunette, no; Paris, not any more; chef, ideally; man-eating? I don’t think so; fashion bunny – never; blonde – definitely; London, New York – perhaps.’
He nodded. ‘A process of elimination, huh?’
‘That seems to be the way it’s working. But I’m getting there.’
‘And how are you finding London?’
‘You mean, without a list?’ She shrugged. ‘Okay. I’m travelling all over sourcing churches, reception venues, bands, caterers . . . It’s been a baptism of fire, really, but I’m trying to take as much pressure off Suzy as possible. She’s getting really tired.’
He nodded, smiling casually.
‘Shall I, uh . . . run you a bath?’ she asked, jerking her thumb towards the bathroom and beginning to move away. ‘I expect you can’t imagine anything greater than hot running water right now, can you?’
‘Well, if you want the honest answer . . .’ he said with a wink, and her stomach somersaulted at the very thought of his intimation. She remembered Venice again – the bathroom, the balcony, the bed. Why wouldn’t the memory die? Just leave her be? Was she going to go back there every time she saw him? He was engaged.
A cork popped in the kitchen. ‘But we should probably have a drink,’ he said. ‘Suzy will insist.’
They walked up the hallway together.
‘I’ve cleared your room for you,’ she said.
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ he protested.
‘Honestly, it’s fine. I’ve got the sofa-bed. I’m very happy,’ she assured him.
‘But . . . well, I’m staying with Lacey this week.’
The
re was a short pause. Of course he was. ‘Oh right. Yes, of course. That makes sense,’ Cassie said quickly.
‘Sorry. I hope you haven’t changed the sheets and all that stuff.’
‘Had to be done anyway,’ she smiled as they walked into the sitting room and Archie handed them each a glass.
They all stood in a group and held their drinks aloft, like Morris dancers about to smack batons.
‘It’s good to have you back, Henry old boy,’ Archie said with a broad smile. He paused meaningfully. ‘Nothing lost to frostbite, I hope?’
‘No!’ Henry laughed, shaking his head. ‘Everything’s secure.’
‘Marvellous!’ Archie boomed, much reassured. ‘In which case, I should like to toast our intrepid explorer’s safe return.’
‘Your safe return!’ Suzy and Cassie cheered.
They all collapsed on to the sofas. ‘What did you miss most while you were gone?’ Suzy asked, putting her feet up on the coffee table.
‘You mean apart from s—’
‘Don’t say that!’ Suzy hollered.
‘I was going to say your shepherd’s pie,’ Henry quipped. ‘Well, let’s see . . . a cup of tea not made from melted snow was up there. My daily pat with Cupcake, obviously. The sight of Archie’s boxers drying above the bath.’ He looked at his brother-in-law. ‘Strangely comforting, Arch . . .’
Archie nodded earnestly. ‘Yeah.’
‘And of course I missed the ever-changing carousel of Cassies. How many others have there been since I’ve been gone?’
Cassie rolled her eyes as they all burst out laughing.
‘So tell us all about it, then,’ Archie instructed. ‘I want to hear about at least one wrestling bout with a polar bear.’
‘And I want you to tell me that you sank all Japanese whaling boats on sight,’ Suzy said.
‘I see,’ Henry said, grinning. ‘Well, seeing as I’m taking orders for my memoirs, what about you, Cass? What do you want to know?’
She shrugged helplessly, her mind a blank. All she really wanted to know was whether Venice haunted his dreams too. But his easy smile wasn’t that of a man on the run.
‘Put a porpoise in there somewhere for me,’ she smiled.
Chapter Forty-Three
Cassie’s mobile beep-beeped under the pillow and she turned over, frowning in her sleep. Her body clock, highly advanced in matters of sleeping as long as possible, told her it was nowhere close to getting-up time. From behind her welded-shut eyelids, she could detect sunlight. That meant dawn had passed, so it was definitely after five. Still . . . she drifted away again.
Beep-beep. Another message. She sighed. If it was a damned bride having an early-morning freak-out, she’d have one of her own back. Sliding her hand under the pillow, she found the mobile and, with Herculean effort, opened her eyes to read the display.
‘Get dressed. I’ll be over in ten.’
Huh?
She opened the next one. ‘I mean it. Get up.’
Oh God, she moaned. She knew that tone from Venice. Henry was on the march.
Eight minutes later there was a discreet rap at the front door. She was already there, leaning against it, eyes closed, trying to doze upright but keen not to have him disturb Suzy and Arch. God knows, they needed to hoard all the sleep they could.
‘Shouldn’t you have jet lag or something?’ she muttered, looking at him through bleary eyes. Henry looked back at her, his hands in his pockets and laughter in his eyes. He clearly found her morningitis amusing.
‘You’ve got a bit of toothpaste . . .’ he said, pointing to the corner of her mouth.
‘Oh.’ It hadn’t quite dried yet and she rubbed it away.
‘It’s been bothering me that you didn’t have a London list.’
‘Has it now?’ she dead-panned.
‘Yeah. So I’ve devised an abridged version for you. A one-day London extravaganza.’ He looked her up and down. She had pulled on cut-off jeans, a yellow T-shirt and plimsolls.
‘Okay, you’re suitably dressed. Let’s go.’
They shut the front door gently.
‘Your carriage, m’lady,’ Henry smiled, holding open the passenger door of a tomato-red mini – the old, tiny version.
‘How the devil do you fit into that?’ she chuckled, sliding into the seat.
Henry came round and opened his door. ‘I’m double-jointed,’ he joked, curling himself in.
‘How old is this?’ she asked, her hands lightly fingering the ridges and piping of the leather upholstery.
‘1966,’ he said proudly. ‘It was Mum’s when she lived in town. It’s still got the original Webasto sunroof and reclining seats.’ He gave her a cheeky look and she blushed slightly.
She noticed, with alarm, that the bakelite steering wheel was held together in one section by masking tape.
‘And that’s original too, is it?’ she asked, nodding at it.
‘Yes,’ Henry said wistfully. ‘It snapped in the last cold spell. I’ve been hunting around for months trying to find an original to replace it.’
He turned the ignition on and they bounced comically along the cobbles and out of the mews. The streets were still deserted, but then Cassie had known they would be. She was up at this time or earlier every Wednesday morning to have her confirmation meetings with Dean.
She sank her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
‘You really don’t like mornings, do you?’
‘Nope. And the urge to hurt you right now is overwhelming,’ she muttered. She heard him chuckle beside her, and she liked the sound of it – playful, joyous, full of life. They whizzed along the embankment in companionable silence – her exhausted state of semi-consciousness meant that for once she didn’t care about filling silence with nervous chatter – and she slowly woke properly to the icons of London flashing past the window: the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, the Eye on the opposite bank, the strange MI5 building, the glorious dome of St Paul’s bulging against the morning sky.
She knew these landmarks, of course, but still as a tourist. This wasn’t the area of London she was currently calling home. For her, that was Battersea Park just over the river, where she’d started running again, Kisses from Heaven for constitutional cups of tea and chats with Julian whilst she sorted through Suzy’s brides’ escalating demands, the Tachbrook Streetmarket for fish and Kentish meats, the Saturday farmers’ market just around the corner in Orange Square where she’d found a fascinating grocer who sold multicoloured carrots and stripy beetroots (what Claude could have done with those on a plate!), and the Italian deli and fromagerie in Upper Tachbrook Street whose owners she had become very friendly with. She had recently banned Suzy from shopping at the new, controversial Sainsbury’s and had made a point of introducing her to all her stallholder friends.
She looked back at Henry. He had shaved and had a haircut since she’d seen him four days ago, and he was back to looking exactly as she remembered him, albeit thinner. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’
He raised his eyebrows a touch and she sighed wearily.
‘Don’t tell me. It’s a surprise. I have to work it out for myself.’
Henry flashed her a devastating grin and she looked away quickly. It was too early for her to deal with.
‘What does Lacey think about all this? You’re scarcely back and you’re already sloping off on adventures.’
‘She doesn’t mind.’
Cassie nodded – Bully for her! she thought – and looked back out of the window. She didn’t want to dwell on his reunion with Lacey or the fact that he’d come from her bed this morning.
He turned in towards the City, darting and wheeling around the curved medieval backstreets so that the only direction she could be sure she was facing was forwards in the car.
Eventually he stopped and parked at a meter, feeding it with change from the deep and many pockets of his cargo shorts. She stood on the pavement, trying not to stare at the shape of his back in his navy T-shirt.
The street was so narrow it was almost Venetian in scale, but here the buildings were grey stone, not terracotta and pink plaster, and it wasn’t washing that hung above their heads, but telephone wires with pigeons sitting on them.
‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing a bag off the back seat and bounding over to her, taking her by the hand and leading her round the corner.
St Paul’s jumped out at them like a mugger.
‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed, stopping dead and taking in the dramatic facade. She was used to identifying the cathedral by the great dome, but down here, by the steps, it was all about the pediment and the colonnades and the solid towers flanking them. ‘How could I not have noticed it before now?’
They walked up to the huge doors set back in the portico, and Henry discreetly rapped.
They waited a moment. Cassie noticed a sign with the opening hours on. ‘Oh. Henry – look, we’re too early. It doesn’t open till eight-thirty.’ She checked her watch and groaned. She’d been trying not to know the time. It would only make her feel worse. ‘It’s only seven-thirty.’
Henry looked over at her just as the door opened. ‘Yes, but they open for matins now. And Richard here –’ A smiling man in a cassock shook her hand – ‘said it would be okay for us to come in. I’ve promised we’ll be quiet.’ Henry looked over at Richard and pumped his hand gratefully. ‘Thanks, mate.’
Richard smiled and nodded once again. ‘If you’re sure you know where to go, then I’ll leave you to it,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Duty calls.’
‘Sure.’
Richard hurried off.
‘Libraries, cathedrals, Michelin-starred kitchens . . . Is there anywhere you don’t have contacts?’ Cassie whispered, looking around. Further down she could see a good few worshippers sitting in the pews and the choir sitting in their white-topped cassocks, lamps lit to illuminate their scores. The dean’s words – deep, rhythmic, slow and pious – drifted in fragments towards them.
Henry shrugged. ‘He’s not a professional contact. Rich and I were choirboys together back in Gloucestershire. I’ve known him since I was four. Hey, we’d better move out of eyeline. Richard’s done this—’