by Fiona Harper
Unshed tears clogged her throat. They were wonderful words, but if she picked them apart just a little …
Everything about her definitely wasn’t amazing, and that told her she was more right than she wanted to be. They did need more time. Why couldn’t he see that?
He turned just his head to face her, and his eyes were burning. ‘It’s more than that, Louise.’
She shook her head. ‘You can’t know that for sure. Not yet.’
His mouth settled into a grim line. ‘You’re wrong. I know what I feel, what I want. I’ve never been more certain. It’s you who doesn’t know for sure.’
How could she know? Real life wasn’t like daydreams or the movies when it all became obvious in a blinding split-second. She’d felt this way before and she’d been spectacularly wrong. Of course she wasn’t sure!
‘I suppose the lack of a reply tells me exactly where I stand,’ he said grimly as he put the car into gear and drove away.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ben felt as if he’d been kicked in the chest. This wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped for when he’d leaned in close and whispered in Louise’s ear. In that moment, everything had finally been going right for them, but now Louise was pushing him away as hard as she could and he couldn’t help thinking it had been his own stupid fault. Something he’d said or done had triggered Louise’s panic button. He needed to find out what—and why.
When they arrived at her house, he insisted on accompanying her inside, sure that if he left it now, she would retreat inside her shell. He had to talk to her now, while it was all brimming on the surface.
She wasn’t pleased about him being there. An air of irritation hung about her as she led him into the drawing room and poured him a miserly brandy. He took a seat across the room from her as she perched on a dark purple velvet sofa.
He did his best to keep the irritation from his tone, but his ego was still smarting a little from being so very firmly rebuffed. How had he got things so wrong?
‘Talk to me.’
She took a deep breath and he saw her shutters rise. For five long minutes she did nothing but stare into the cold fireplace. Then, still keeping her gaze locked on it, she said, ‘I’m scared, Ben. I so want it to be real, but I don’t know how to trust if it is or not. How do you tell?’
He crossed the room and sat down beside her. He knew she was scarred, that the wounds went deep, but she’d seemed so different recently: happier, freer …
She leaned against him, but still continued to stare into the empty fireplace. He placed an arm lightly round her shoulders and stroked the soft skin of her upper arm with his fingers. She didn’t push him away. With great difficulty he pushed aside his own need for an answer, for resolution, and waited.
When she spoke, her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it. ‘Right from when I was very young, life was about putting other people first—which isn’t a bad thing. Don’t get me wrong. But even when I didn’t want to, I had no choice. So, I used to daydream about the life I couldn’t have while I was being mother to my younger brothers and sisters and taking care of my father.’ She turned to look at him and his heart broke to see her eyes full of such pain. ‘I suppose it was my survival mechanism.’
‘We all have those,’ he said quietly.
She turned back and he guessed she found it easier not to look him.
‘Well, one day,’ she continued, ‘someone walked up to me and offered me all my dreams wrapped up in a sparkly box with a big bow—fame, success, recognition, enough money so I’d never have to worry about not having any clothes except my school uniform, enough money so I wouldn’t see the little ones’ eyes when I served up beans on toast for tea again … and love. I thought I’d found love.’
He sighed. Louise had had the kind of childhood he worked his hardest to protect Jasmine from. He thought of this brave woman, not much older than his daughter, running a household, studying, caring for a sick relative. Who would blame her for reaching for the dream?
‘And so I was selfish. I chose something for myself.’ She buried her face in her hands and the tears came thick and fast. Ben hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head. He knew exactly who would blame her for such a thing—she blamed herself. One by one the puzzle pieces clicked into place, fragments of things she’d told him that suddenly made sense—her relationship with Toby, her father, why she continued to push people away and punish herself.
‘You can’t blame yourself for your father’s death.’
Louise broke down completely. She cried so hard she could scarcely breathe, let alone speak. Years of guilt and pain, of grieving she had never allowed herself to do, came spilling out in one go. He hugged her fiercely, as if he could protect her from it by sheer strength.
Through the sobs she croaked, ‘But I … shouldn’t have … left him!’
People thought she’d stuck with Toby all those years because she wanted the glitz and glamour more than she wanted her self-respect. How wrong they were. It came to him with crystal clarity: Louise had stayed with Toby because she believed she’d deserved him.
Tobias Thornton had been her penance.
Louise opened one eye. Stark light sliced through the windows, bearing testimony to the fact that she’d been too exhausted to remember to draw the curtains when she’d crawled upstairs in the small hours of the morning.
Her eyes, her head, even her throat ached. Nerves tickled her tummy. She had that awful sick feeling in her stomach. Too many emotions, too many tears. She wanted to call it all back and pretend it hadn’t happened. What must Ben think of her now?
At the thought of him, she raised herself on one elbow. Last time she’d seen him he was curling up on the sofa with a blanket—which was completely ridiculous, seeing as she had at least ten empty bedrooms—but he’d insisted.
She got out of bed and her foot met something slippery and incredibly smooth. Her dress lay in a heap where she’d let it drop before falling into bed. She picked it up and draped it over a low, upholstered chair in the corner before wandering into her bathroom and having a shower.
There was no noise from downstairs when she emerged. Yesterday morning, she’d have been rushing downstairs to meet Ben. Today she wasn’t even sure she wanted to see him.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the bathroom mirror and let her breath obscure her reflection. Wishes and dreams were all very well when they stayed inside your head, but once they crossed the threshold into the real world, they were fragile, vulnerable—like the thin glass of the baubles on a Christmas tree.
What was wrong with her? Hadn’t she been aching to hear those words from his lips? And the reality had been even better than the fantasy. Hadn’t she wanted someone to look at her the way Ben looked at her? To see right inside her?
But there was her problem. Daydream Louise had been her better self, her angel. When Real Louise looked deep down to see what Ben saw, it wasn’t comfortable at all. No sugar, no spice, no all things nice. Just fear and loneliness and broken parts of the person she’d once been that she didn’t know how to fix. And if Ben couldn’t see all that, maybe he wasn’t really seeing her after all.
She walked to the dressing table and picked up a comb and untangled her hair with unforgiving strokes.
She reasoned that it was far too early to go and wake him, that she’d be better off finding something to do up here until a more sociable hour, so she flopped back down on her bed in her towel and reached for Laura’s diary.
Maybe Laura had the answers. Maybe she’d found a way to have her happy ending with Dominic and that would give Louise hope.
14th April, 1957
Dominic finally answered my letter—a year and a month after his wife passed away. I was so thrilled when I recognised his handwriting on the envelope, but less thrilled when I read the note inside.
It wasn’t that it was rude or dismissive, or even unkind. It was just … short. And ambiguous. He said he needed to speak with me face
to face, that he was coming down to Devon to visit an old school friend and wanted to drop in on me. He’d heard I’d bought Whitehaven and was interested in seeing it again.
It all seemed positive, yet …
I don’t know. Perhaps I’m just having trouble believing happiness is now within my grasp. I’ve been in limbo for so long.
Louise looked up and stared out the window. Maybe that was her problem too? Maybe she’d forgotten how to hope, just like Laura?
Anyway, the day came. I can’t tell you how many times I changed my dress or how my stomach fluttered so. And then he was finally knocking at the door. I ran to it, threw it wide and … stopped.
It wasn’t just Dominic standing there, but Caroline too. She was holding his hand and looking up at me with her dark curls and her mother’s eyes. I smiled anyway. I greeted them and invited them inside. I produced tea and cakes and scones. We sat in the drawing room and made small talk.
I’d imagined that when Dominic and I could finally be together we’d be making love, not drinking tea and minding crumbs and talking about the weather.
Finally, I suggested a walk in the garden—up on the top lawn, where the child could run and play safely within the walled garden—and Dominic and I would be able to talk.
That connection we had right from the beginning was still there. I could feel it tugging at me, drawing me to him. Just one look in his eyes told me he felt it too. I began to feel lighter, more hopeful … I started to ignore the sadness that now lingered round him. I blinded myself to the lines under his eyes and the tightness of his shoulders.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I said, as we both walked our eyes on Caroline as she circled one of the small apple trees again and again and again. ‘It’s been too long … I’ve missed you so much.’
And then, bothersome woman that I am, I began to cry. And I couldn’t stop. Dominic put his arm round me and I felt him take a big shuddering breath too. Eventually, Caroline got curious, and came to give me a leaf she’d found. I smiled and thanked her, even though I couldn’t even see what it was, and she ran off smiling. That only made me cry more.
I turned to face him, looked him in the eye. ‘I love you, Dominic. I will always love you. But I need to know if you feel the same way still. I need to know if there’s hope.’
His eyes told me all I could wish to know.
Yes, he loved me still. Yes, there was hope.
I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his. The sensation—one I’d waited for and dreamed about for so long—actually made me giddy. But after meeting me gently, kissing me tenderly but briefly, he pulled away and focused on his daughter.
I think that’s when I knew it was all going to turn to dust, that my dreams were only ashes and my wishes only curses.
‘I love you too,’ he whispered. ‘But I can’t … we can’t …’ He turned to look at me and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. Too much has happened. Too much I can’t undo.’
I tried to argue, to reason with him, but he wouldn’t have it. I told him to wait a while, that maybe he wasn’t ready, that maybe it was too soon, that we’d tried to go too fast, but he just shook his head and called for his daughter.
‘I came here today to say goodbye, Laura,’ he said, and then he closed his eyes and kissed me on the cheek, kissed me like he was breathing me in and saving me up for himself, and then he took Caroline’s hand and walked out of my garden and out of my life. I know I’ll never see him again.
Louise dropped the book on the bed, unable to see any more, her eyes were so blurry with tears. That was the second to last entry. She couldn’t bear to turn the final page. There was no more story left to tell. Laura had wasted her life on a lie, trusted the dream to solidify and become real and it never had.
Or had it? Who was the man mentioned in that documentary years ago? Had Dominic finally come round or had she found happiness with someone else? She really needed to know. And when she’d had the inevitable conversation with Ben this morning, she’d get on the internet and find out. She’d strung this thing along too far already.
She wiped her eyes and sat on her bed staring at the wall. There was nothing else to do. She’d finished her paperback and her phone and laptop were downstairs. Quarter of an hour more. That would be a sensible time to go downstairs, she reasoned. But she left it half an hour, and then fifteen minutes more.
When she could delay it no longer she padded down the sweeping staircase, dressed in a grey tracksuit and large pink slippers. The echoing silence made it seem colder than it really was and she crossed her arms across her chest and hugged herself.
She found a note in the kitchen: ‘Be back soon. Something I have to sort out. Ben.’
That just flipped her switch from sad to angry again. Just as she’d finally worked up the nerve to face him, he’d upped and disappeared? Besides, she liked anger better. It blocked out that nasty cold sensation that was trying to creep up on her. She’d thought The Feeling only applied to cheating husbands, but it seemed it made itself known when any relationship was going down the pan, like an icy prophet.
Stoking her irritation, she scrunched Ben’s note into a little ball and threw it in the bin. Then, while the kettle boiled, she rehearsed the coming argument in her head. Who had given him the job of deciding what she needed? She ought to be what she needed, and she certainly didn’t need some man to step into the slot Toby had left and take over her life. Okay, Ben wasn’t the same. He was full of concern rather than apathy, but that didn’t make her feel any less overruled, overshadowed.
She was losing herself again, and that wasn’t good. Remember how she’d been when he’d been at his sister’s? Feeling as if nothing was right if he wasn’t by her side, telling herself she needed him. And what had all those cosy little domestic fantasies been about? Why had she been trying to change herself into something she wasn’t?
She’d become the WAG for Toby; it would be just as dangerous to become the mousy little housewife for Ben.
As she drained the last of her cup of tea, she heard a knock at the back door and turned to see him standing there, his face grim. Outside, she might have looked as if she didn’t care if he was there or not. Inside, she was seething. She walked over, opened the door, then walked away again before he could touch her.
‘Is this how it’s going to be from now on? You backing away every time I come near you?’ His voice rose in volume. ‘And what exactly did I do that was so awful? I told you I loved you!’
Joy and pain stabbed Louise straight in the heart. She knew he thought he was telling her the truth. But she was scared. Scared that the shiny gift he was offering her, the one that promised to be all she’d ever wished for, would turn out to be fake once again.
‘I know you’re scared,’ Ben said, and the stabbing sensation came again, this time in her stomach. She didn’t like it when he looked into her head like that. It made her feel transparent, vulnerable.
‘We can do this,’ he was saying, but Louise was only half-listening. ‘If you’d just let me help you—help us. I can believe for both of us until you’re strong enough. If you need space, you’ve got it. If you need time, then take it. Whatever you need for the conditions to be right for our relationship to grow. The rest will follow.’
Louise’s ears pricked up. That was just how he’d talked about those hibernating little scrubby plants in the greenhouse all those months ago. And she wasn’t weak. She wasn’t. She was strong. A survivor. Once again, he was seeing her all wrong.
Ben was still talking, oblivious to her growing frown. ‘What we’ve got could flourish into something amazing, something that could last a lifetime.’
She backed away, still shaking her head. ‘I’m not one of your stupid plants, you know, something to be trained or cultivated. You can’t fix me, Ben. I don’t want to be your next project. I don’t want you to love me for who I can be when you’ve finished with me. If you’re going to love me, love who I am now—with all my hang-ups and damage—not the perfe
ct vision of a Louise that may never be. And if you can’t then perhaps I don’t need you at all.’
Ben stopped walking and stared at her. How could he convince her? Of course he loved her—all of her—but she was refusing to accept that for some reason. She was finding excuses to bat him away.
‘I know I messed up, Louise. And I know I jumped in too fast, but that’s only because … I’ve never felt this way about anyone else—ever. It excites me, confuses me, scares the life out of me. I don’t want to lose you.’
Her shutters fell again, and this time they were clamped down and double-bolted. With an increasing sick feeling in his gut, he realised that this was the kickback from last night. She was too raw, and she was protecting herself the only way she knew how. It was easier to be this way than to let herself deal with any of the other things last night’s conversation had brought up. And he wasn’t going to get anywhere by pushing.
But he was going to leave her in no doubt as to how he felt about her before he gave her the space she needed. She had to believe him about that. Knowing she would just retreat if he approached her, he stayed rooted to the spot, and hoped the truth of his words could pierce her shield.
He wanted to say something, beautiful, elegant, poetic—something to reflect just a tiny bit of what he felt for her, but his mind was blank. No flowery words seemed to measure up. So he spoke it with his eyes, his body, his whole being, and finally, he simply said, ‘I love you. That’s all. No expectations, no requirements, no pressure. What you do with that is up to you.’
The shield around her buckled just enough for him to see a deep yearning ache behind the fire in her eyes. She wanted to believe him, but she was too scared, and he tried to pinpoint why that was. What was the overriding factor here?
Guilt.
The word popped into his head as if someone had whispered it in his ear.
The irony of it all hit him like a blow in the solar plexus. Once again, he was offering all he had—his heart, his life, his love—to a woman, and it wasn’t enough. While she nursed her guilt anything he could give her, even if he wrapped the whole universe up and put it in a silver box, would never be enough.