Garden of Stars

by Rose Alexander

  “I was trying to forget about him, I’ve been trying for so long. I never succeeded. I’ve never stopped thinking about him. Not ever. Meeting him again – well, it’s made it worse. Because now I truly know how much I lost, what I could have had if only…”

  Sarah stopped in full flow, suddenly running out of steam, weary to her core. It would be easier if she could just make it all go away.

  Carrie rubbed her bump with her right hand. “I do not get it. I just do not understand that you’re risking everything for a teenage love affair you seem to have suddenly decided you’ve never got over.”

  Sarah shut her eyes in despair, wondering why Carrie was determined to deny that her feelings were genuine. And at the same time, the thought ricocheting around her mind was that perhaps Carrie was right. Perhaps she was inventing it all, perhaps she was, indeed, behaving like an idiot, and a selfish one at that.

  “And just think about it for a moment. What if Hugo finds out? What will you do then? You’re playing with fire!” Carrie’s warning tone heightened as she spoke.

  “I really don’t know why I feel the way that I do. I just know that I do.” Sarah’s attempts to stem the tears had failed and they were pouring unchecked down her cheeks. “And I don’t think Hugo’ll find out. There’s so little to find. It’s not as if I’m disappearing off in the afternoons or evenings to meet Scott, having to find alibis for regular clandestine meetings. We can only communicate online or on the phone.”

  Her tears began to fall onto the formica tabletop and lay there in little pools that slowly spread, drop by drop. Carrie’s gaze shifted around awkwardly before she collected herself and smiled encouragingly.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah, I don’t mean to be unsympathetic. I just don’t want you to do anything rash. We’ve been friends for so long, I care about you.” She patted Sarah’s hand. “I worry about you. This is the trouble with you artistic types. You feel everything so deeply.”

  Sarah shrugged her shoulders helplessly and wiped the back of her hand across her nose. “Like I said, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel that I don’t know anything any more.”

  Carrie paused. She tapped her fingers on the table edge slowly before replying. “You know, Hugo will never be Scott, however much you want him to be, however much you idealise Scott.”

  “Of course not. That’s the problem, isn’t it? And surely I’m allowed to regret, to wish things had been different?”

  “Perhaps you should take a look on my website, see what the separated women say there. They think the grass is greener, but when they try it, they find that arguing about whose turn it is to clean the loo or do the shopping is no different whoever you’re living with. Romance soon dies and then all you’re left with is who forgot to feed the cat, book the dental appointment or put out the bins.” Carrie folded her arms and sat back in her chair, emphatically. “I wish I could tell you different.”

  “I think that’s an incredibly negative way of looking at life,” Sarah retorted, her shoulders tensing up and her palms growing sweaty. “Do you really not believe in love? What about you and Dan?”

  “Dan and I rub along all right together. But everlasting, perfect love? Nope, I don’t think it exists.” Carrie hiccuped. “God, this baby is playing havoc with my insides.”

  There was silence for a moment, broken only by sound of Carrie trying to suppress the hiccups. Eventually, she continued, her tone of voice consciously measured and sympathetic.

  “Sarah, listen to reason. You and Scott – it’s going nowhere, fast. You couldn’t move to Canada – how would you ever get a visa? And he can’t move here for the same reason. Plus Hugo would never let you take the girls to live in another country. So that’s that.”

  Sarah clenched her fists together. She could feel her cheeks going red and her forehead was pulsating with an incipient migraine.

  “I’m just being realistic,” concluded Carrie, with a hiccup.

  “I need to get back to collect the kids.” Sarah got up and gathered her stuff together, ready to go. “Maybe yours is a reality that I don’t want,” she added over her shoulder as she headed off down the street.

  At home, at her desk, she sat for a long time staring at the single cork tree, alone in its rolling landscape, on the mat in front of her. She bit her lip so hard that the pain seared through her, as if somehow this would expiate her behaviour, the unloving wife she was to Hugo, the desire she had to wrest Scott away from his own wife and family. None of it was good, none of it was right, all of it filled her with conflicting emotions – and yet she seemed unable to change the trajectory she was on.

  Lack of intimacy in a marriage leaves it a bare and barren thing, that she knew. She wondered if she were the only woman to have a husband and two children, a family and a contacts folder full of friends, and still feel so completely alone.

  “So how was your weekend?” she asked Scott one evening. She was in her office; it was hot at the top of the house and she was sweating even though she was wearing only a T-shirt and shorts.

  “It was good.” Scott was sitting at his desk.

  The line of his brow, the slant of his cheekbones, his messy honey-brown hair and easy smile; all quickly dissolved any resolve she had been cultivating to end this thing, whatever it was. Outside the large plate glass windows was the now familiar Vancouver cityscape; the sky rises and gleaming office blocks, the majestic mountains in the distance.

  “The weather was perfect and there weren’t even too many midges. The bike ran like a dream.”

  He had gone on his motorbike to the cabin in the mountains, alone, to fish and walk in the fresh air. The cabin he had once promised to take Sarah to.

  “What did you catch, wild man of the woods?”

  “Oh, a few trout, enough to live on. I had to fight a grizzly for them but I managed to see him off.” Scott shrugged self-deprecatingly.

  “You are soooooo brave. Did you wrestle it to the ground with your bare hands?”

  “Absolutely. In fact, it was so scared of me it just gave in and lay down.”

  They laughed, the intimacy of a joke shared. He took a drink from the paper cup he was nursing in his hands. “It was all so fresh and lush, untouched by human hand. You would have loved it – nature, pure and simple. Anyway, you can see for yourself – I took some photos for you. They’re uploading now, they should be in the inbox any second.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I fixed up quite a few things around the cabin that have needed doing for a while – a leak in the roof, a cracked window pane.”

  Sarah pictured his strong hands, so capable and competent, hammering nails and drilling screws, moulding putty, mending, repairing, improving. And then putting themselves to other uses, on her body, her breasts, running over her buttocks and between her legs.

  Scott was still talking. “But there was something missing that would have made it perfect.” He was fiddling around with the things on his desk, pens and a stack of shiny silver discs.

  Sarah thought about what he had said for a moment. His kids? Surely not his wife? She took a deep breath and asked, “What was the missing thing?”

  “You. You were missing.” Scott looked into the camera lens, eyes intent. “I took the photos for you because I so wanted you to be there with me. I wanted you to see how beautiful it all is. I wanted to share it with you.”

  Sarah’s heart seemed to sink deep within her chest, her lungs to gulp desperately for air.

  “I remembered how much I wanted to take you there, all those years ago, wanted you to come to Canada and experience it all with me, how I wanted to see it through your eyes as well as my own.” Scott had unravelled a paper clip as he was talking and now started to wrap it around his finger. It clung stiffly above his knuckle.

  Sarah couldn’t think of anything to say, could hardly breathe enough to talk anyway.

  “I… You… I didn’t mean…” she muttered, barely audibly.

  And then one of the girls was c
alling her from her bed, wanting a drink, needing mummy, needing to know that mummy was always there, caring, providing, loving, protecting.

  “Go to her. I’ll call you on your mobile in a few minutes, when I go out for coffee,” promised Scott.

  Sarah fetched a glass of water for Ruby. She took the phone outside and sat down; it was too close, too humid, to go back upstairs. Lavender grew around her feet and the sprawling tendrils of the passion vine that scrambled up the wall brushed softly against her neck and shoulders. She watched the phone, waiting for it to ring. Why was he taking so long? Running her finger and thumb up the plump purple flower that reached through the slats of the bench, she inhaled its scent and worked hard to quell the rivulet of irritation that was running through her mind, the wish that the outside world did not exist, that Scott would dismiss all other calls on his time in favour of her.

  But she was being unreasonable in wanting that, she knew. He had his life to get on with, his job. It couldn’t all be put on hold for her. She felt suddenly empty, tired and deflated. To have so little and want so much was exhausting.

  The phone rang. At last.

  “Hi, lovely,” she answered, readjusting her voice from the despondency of a moment ago to a tone of warmth and joy. “Thanks for calling back. I was missing you already. Did get coffee?”

  At first, she thought the silence was the delay on the line. And then, gradually, horrifyingly, nausea rose up within her. It was not Scott.

  “What are you talking about?”

  It was Hugo.

  21

  “Who on earth did you think I was?” Hugo’s tone was plaintive, questioning.

  Sarah’s stomach clenched and an icy chill flooded through her veins. What had she said to Carrie about not being found out? How ironic her words seemed now.

  “Hugo!” she laughed, aware how fake it sounded. “Sorry, I thought you were Carrie, we were just talking pregnancy issues – heartburn, varicose veins – all those glamorous side-effects…but then she remembered she had to go…”

  “I’m glad you talk to Carrie as if she were your long-lost lover because you certainly don’t speak to me like that any more,” interrupted Hugo. His words were as tart as gooseberry fool. “And what the hell is Carrie doing, going to a meeting at 9 o’clock at night?”

  The sick feeling brought a sharp, bitter taste to Sarah’s mouth that she couldn’t swallow down.

  “She does all her work online, when the boys are at school or in bed. You know that. It was a call from the States – LA or somewhere.” Sarah laughed unnecessarily. “Did you want something? I’ve been working and I’m just about to curl up in front of the television with a glass of wine.”

  Sarah could hear muttering and sounds off mic from Hugo’s end of the line.

  “I was just phoning to let you know that I missed the train I wanted to catch from Manchester, so I got back to the office really late.” Had her tale really dispelled his suspicion so easily?

  “There’s a pile of stuff in my inbox that you wouldn’t believe; I’m going to have to clear some of it tonight before I come home.”

  “I’m sorry you have to stay late. I’ll leave your dinner on the side and you can heat it up when you get in.”

  Sarah went back inside the house, which was dark and cool, the shutters on the ground floor still closed from the morning, a vase of dying roses on the table ghostly spectres in the gloom. She could not say that Carrie hadn’t warned her. She stood, the phone clenched tight in her hand, until her heart rate was back to normal.

  The summer ended; the children went back to school. The mothers in the playground were full of their exploits; fabulous holidays on sun-kissed Mediterranean islands, shopping in New York, relaxing in the Lake District. Sarah and Hugo had not had a holiday as there was no money to pay for one and Hugo didn’t want to risk losing work by going away. He’d arranged a long weekend fishing trip for him and his colleagues, Big Phil and Tommo; their company summer party. He didn’t mention the phone call again; no further deception on Sarah’s part was necessary. She convinced herself that he had bought into her explanation; knew that, deep down, he hadn’t. She hated what she was doing and yet could not make herself stop.

  Giving up Scott now, just when she had found him again, was inconceivable.

  And then bad news came through from the Peak District; Inês had had a small fall; nothing broken but it showed how unsteady she was, and how increasingly frail. She was being brought back the next day and would need extra help at home from now on. Sarah immediately organised increased hours from Inês’s home helps agency and hired a carer. At least Inês had enough money to pay for it.

  Once everything was in place, Sarah took the journal back out from the drawer where she had stashed it. The need to finish it, to uncover its secrets, was suddenly more urgent than ever.

  Amarante, 1937

  As the train trundled towards Amarante, I watched the sheep jumping nimbly across the terraces of the steep hillsides, and observed how the dark rows of pine trees clung to the slopes like a battalion of infantry awaiting orders. Being out in the countryside, going on an adventure with John, reminded me of driving to Lisbon after our wedding, when I had been so excited but also sad to leave behind the beauty of my beloved Alentejo. My loyalties had been divided then between the childhood home that I loved and all the wonders that I believed awaited me in the big city of Porto. They were similarly divided now; between John who I am married to and Edmund who I am not.

  My wedding seems a long time ago and I can hardly believe how much my life has changed.

  I thought of everything that has happened, all the things I have become accustomed to in the last few years. Running a household, looking after John, visiting nightclubs, cafés, restaurants, cinemas…it had all seemed so impossibly glamorous before, so normal and run of the mill now.

  I thought of Edmund, of our trip to Aveiro on a warm spring day a year ago, those gilded hours when the world seemed to stop turning to allow us our short time together. Of his recent farewell visit. Our last goodbye. The vice around my heart tightened. I struggled to breathe freely, to prevent panic from rising in my throat. Tears, ever threatening their presence these days, gathered behind my eyes and I blinked rapidly, willing them away. My hands clenched tightly around my leather travelling bag, newly tooled in tan hide that smelt and felt like heaven.

  I thought of the last words Edmund said to me, that will be etched upon my memory forever.

  I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. And I always will.

  And then a letter, another letter on thick vellum paper, had arrived, with the same words upon it, in blue-back ink that glinted in the light.

  The rhythmic rumble of the train’s wheels on the track were like a calling: Go back! Go back! Go back!

  John was absorbed in some paperwork. He glanced up, frowned, looked down at the files before him and then up again, disquiet narrowing his eyes.

  “I say Inês, you’re not looking too special. Can I get you anything?”

  A smile was required and I managed it, lop-sided and forced as it was. “No, no, I’m fine. Just a little travel sick; I was always like that as a child.”

  I got up and made for the door between the compartments. “Fresh air is what I need.”

  I just caught his puzzled smile as I retreated down the aisle between the seats, and then he gave his attention back to his work.

  I pulled down the window and held my face to the rushing air. The smell of pine and eucalyptus engulfed me, sweet, intense and overwhelming. I let my lungs fill and my hair escape its taming grips, and allowed the tears to fall, fast and free.

  The wind was chill. Anybody’s eyes would water, in such a circumstance.

  And then the train entered a long, deep tunnel and all was plunged into darkness.

  Amarante turned out to be as pretty as I had imagined. The town is split down the middle by the River Tâmega and all along the banks are ancient houses with wooden balconies over
hanging the water. A beautiful bridge dating back to 1790, where once the Portuguese fought a heroic battle against the French, links the north and south parts. Close by is the Hotel Silva, where John had booked us a suite.

  “Bom dia!” The receptionist at the front desk greeted us enthusiastically and called for a porter to take up our luggage. John filled in the large leatherbound book with our details, whilst I ran my fingers over the intricate polished wood panelling.

  “I expect you’re looking forward to the festivities,” said the receptionist, addressing John but looking towards me.

  “Festivities? We weren’t aware of any,” I replied, for politeness’s sake rather than interest.

  “Of course - it’s the Festas do Junho and Sâo Gonçalo’s festival. He’s the patron saint of our town, and of marriage!” The man beamed happily at me and John. “Not that you need his help, but still…you can enjoy the party nevertheless. There’ll be fireworks and food stalls, music and dancing every evening, and on Sunday we’ll have a big procession through the main street, ending up in the square outside Sâo Gonçalo’s own church.”

  The receptionist’s enthusiasm was infectious and comical at the same time, and I found that I didn’t have to force a smile in response.

  “We shall look forward to it. Thank you so much for letting us know.”

  The man beamed as if to demonstrate that his was a job well done.

  As we emerged into the bright sunshine outside, we could already see the signs of the party to come. Bunting hung between the shop fronts and posters advertising the schedule of events were stuck to every available wall.

  I put all the energy I could muster into my voice. “I’d like to go and watch the dancing and musicians tonight. When I was a child, we went to all the festivals in the surrounding villages – there was one almost every week during the summertime.”

  “So it will be a chance for you to relive your childhood,” laughed John. “Although I hope they don’t go too mad with the fireworks, letting them off all through the night. I’ve come away for a rest!”