by Debby Holt
Anna sat back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘You’re a great disappointment. You see Gavin Millar and he tells you he’s in the Army and you don’t ask him why! How could he change so much?’
Patrick set his chicken dish on the table and handed Anna a serving spoon. ‘People do change. I wasn’t interested in cooking when I was a boy. Now I love it.’
‘I don’t think people do change that much. Most people learn how to cook when they leave home. I must say this does look amazing.’ She took a small helping. She had no appetite tonight.
Patrick topped up their glasses. ‘To old friends,’ he said.
‘To old friends.’ Anna clicked her glass against his.
‘Tell me about Tess. What’s she doing now?’
‘She’s a university lecturer in London. She teaches English Literature.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. She always understood things before the rest of us did. I remember her talking about Tom’s Midnight Garden in class. She was like you. She had great confidence.’
‘I don’t remember that. I don’t recall Tess being unusually confident.’
‘Well, she was.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t notice that.’
Anna put down her knife and fork. ‘I know what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘I’ve exposed your indifference to the lives of old friends. So now you accuse me of not knowing my own sister…’
‘If the cap fits…’ Patrick murmured.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ she said. ‘You really haven’t changed. Do you remember suggesting we meet for a walk on the common after rehearsal? I rushed home to get ready and was there at four, and you were half an hour late and…’
‘That was entirely your fault. I’d expected you to wait while I did my scene with Mercutio.’
‘Why would I wait? I wanted to get changed and look nice.’
‘You already did look nice. I was blameless.’
‘You were very lucky I waited.’
‘I was. Do you remember that walk? It was the first time I kissed you.’
Anna picked up her glass. ‘Of course I remember. It was the first time anyone kissed me.’
‘Was it? I wish I’d known. I’d have been less nervous.’
‘I’m sorry, you were not nervous.’
‘You have no idea. You were so lovely. You still are.’
Their eyes met for a moment. She looked away first and he asked after her parents. She talked about her mother’s website for a bit and then asked after his parents. They were happy, he said, they liked living in Blackheath. ‘I’m sure they’d like to see you again. I know Mum was fond of you.’
She nearly choked on her wine. ‘I can’t believe you said that! Do you remember the last time I saw her?’
‘Anna, that was fifteen years ago…’
‘It was fourteen. I still shudder at the memory. The way she burst into your room and saw me half-undressed and then she drove me home and I couldn’t stop crying. Oh, it was terrible… Patrick, stop grinning! It was one of the worst moments of my life!’
‘I know,’ Patrick said, ‘but it was so like a farce. Mum comes into my room and her mouth drops and then she starts shrieking and you start apologising while I try desperately to cover my rapidly shrinking erection… It was funny!’
‘You didn’t have to share a car with her afterwards.’
‘No, but I faced a full-scale grilling when she got back. And the next morning we all drove off to France for a happy family holiday and she would hardly look at me. What happened when she dropped you back home? Did your mother say anything?’
‘I was lucky. She came home a few minutes after me. She’d been given a farewell party at her shop and was far too merry to notice I’d been crying. And then later Dad came back with blood all over his shirt.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Someone tried to mug him and he put up a fight. It was all very dramatic and rather lucky for me. I looked like a tragedy queen and no one noticed.’
‘It was a rotten way to break up. When we got back from France, you’d moved down to Somerset. I walked over to your house and imagined you were there. I did miss you.’ He grinned again. ‘You and I were the Romeo and Juliet of Wimbledon.’
‘Possibly. I never wanted to kill myself. I wanted to kill Mum. It was her fault we moved away.’
‘I always liked your mum. She was very nice to me.’
‘She’s always nice to handsome young men.’ Anna put her knife and fork together. ‘That was lovely.’
‘You haven’t eaten much. Can I offer you cheese or fruit?’
‘I couldn’t eat another thing.’
‘Then let’s take our glasses through to the sitting room. I have something to show you.’
It turned out to be the sofa. ‘It was my first proper effort at upholstery. Sit down. See how it feels.’
She sat down. ‘It is quite extraordinarily comfortable.’
‘Now you’re making fun of me.’
She laughed. ‘It is nice to see you again.’
He watched her finish her wine. ‘Would you like another glass? I have a bottle in the fridge.’
‘Thanks, but I’d like to be able to walk back to the bus stop without falling over.’
Patrick joined her on the sofa. ‘Do you ever wonder,’ he asked, ‘what we’d have done if Mum hadn’t burst in on us that evening?’
‘We’d have been sensible and stopped. At least, I’d have been sensible. At least I think I would.’
‘I was crazy about you. You do know that?’
‘Well,’ Anna said. ‘I was crazy about you.’
‘It still seems unfair. One minute you were there and then you weren’t. It always felt unfinished. You know what people say? You never get over your first love.’ He leant forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth. ‘You make me feel like I’m thirteen again.’
They both knew what would happen next. This time, his kiss was long and easy like the resumption of a long-delayed conversation between old friends. She felt she’d been waiting for this forever. She let her head fall back against the cushions, then arched her back as his hand moved up to unhook her bra.
And then Lola started crying.
Patrick was a good father. ‘I won’t be long,’ he promised. She watched him go upstairs and she heard his voice, soft and gentle as he reassured his child.
So, she thought, first his mother and now his daughter. Someone was trying to tell her something. She stood up and fastened her bra. For a few moments she hesitated and then she picked up her bag and left.
On the journey home she had a text from him. ‘Sorry. Sorry about me. Mostly, sorry about Lola.’
She sent back a jaunty text. ‘Just as well! Thanks for supper!’ Already she knew she wouldn’t see him again. All she’d wanted, she told herself, was closure. She remembered something William had said a long time ago concerning a difficult relationship from which he was trying to extract himself. ‘She says she wants closure,’ he’d cried. ‘I never trust people who say they want closure.’
And now William was on his own at his brother’s engagement party and he’d been right all along. She should have kept away from Patrick. She’d told herself she needed to lay old ghosts and actually all she wanted was to get laid. Patrick was struggling with a sick child and open to temptation. She’d rolled up to his flat like a present waiting to be opened. And the worst of it was she had no one to blame but herself.
Freya was at the dentist and feeling quite cheerful. August was turning out to be rather good. Felix’s colleague, Ted Davies, had had a heart attack and of course that was not good but at least he’d survived and was now taking a well-earned rest. His misfortune had galvanised Felix. He was working all hours but when he did come home he talked to Freya about the pressures on Ted and problems at work. And meanwhile she’d had lovely phone calls from both the girls. Anna had rung last week and been unusually forthcoming, talking about Olivia’s new boyfriend, a
nd a dinner date she was about to have with some gorgeous doctor. And Tess sounded so happy in Scotland. She enjoyed her holiday job and was helping some friend of Maggie to promote his tourist business. All in all, life seemed more hopeful than it had for some time.
Freya’s eyes drifted towards the magazines on the table and she reached abruptly for one of them. A stunning flower arrangement was displayed on the cover. On either side of it there were allusions to the delights within: How to get the best out of your allotment!… See our sensational herbaceous borders… And then the extraordinary words: Meet gardener Xander Bullen: dishy and different!
There couldn’t be another Xander Bullen. She rifled impatiently through the pages and there he was. His shoulder-length hair was now short but it was most definitely Xander, in faded jeans and a white T-shirt, one foot poised ready to push his spade into the soil. Fourteen years had actually improved his looks. He’d been a little too thin before, whereas now his T-shirt displayed to flattering effect his rather more solid chest. He looked more confident, too, his eyes staring out at the camera with a hint of amusement. She turned the page and gazed at another photo of him on a bench with a baby on his lap and a pretty girl beside him. The caption below said, Xander in his garden with his wife, Poppy, and his daughter, Georgie.
Poopy looked very young. Freya started reading the interview. ‘“There is nothing airy-fairy about holistic gardening,” Xander told me. There is nothing airy-fairy about Xander full stop. Forget the gym, boys. If you want a six-pack like his, maintain a successful garden… “Holistic gardening,” Xander says, “is simply an understanding that everything is a question of balance. So, for example, if you plant horseradish near new potatoes, you’ll be doing your bit to deter potato bugs. If you grow thyme near your cabbages, you’ll reduce the number of cabbage worm and whitefly. You know how some people bring out the best in you? It’s the same for plants. Respect your garden and your garden will respect you.”‘
Apparently, he had a book out this month. Who would have thought it? The dentist came through and told Freya he was ready for her. She put the magazine down and resolved to buy a copy for herself as soon as possible.
Eliza had invited Dennis to tea.
Such an invitation was quite out of character and Eliza still wasn’t certain why she had made it. She had moved into her present flat twelve years ago and had never welcomed guests. If she wished to see friends, she went out to meet them for coffee or lunch or tea. She neither accepted nor proffered dinner invitations on the grounds that she went early to bed.
The fact that she never invited guests to her flat only occurred to her after she extended the invitation to Dennis. She assumed it was because she was lazy, and there was an element of truth in that. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her home. It was very pleasant and ideally situated, being just a stone’s throw from Harrods. It had no garden, of course, but it was on the ground floor so there were no wearisome stairs. She kept all her books in the spare room and her living quarters were cool and uncluttered. In fact, should anyone ask her to describe her home in one word, ‘uncluttered’ would be the word she would choose.
It was also the reason why she had never entertained here. She was, she could see now, a little embarrassed and possibly even ashamed by this aspect of the place. There were no photographs, no family portraits of husbands or gap-toothed children or lanky teenagers. Anyone could see that Eliza Sample was a woman who had left no mark on the world in which she lived. It was not that Eliza regretted the absence of children or grandchildren. She had made her choices and, having made them, saw no point in indulging in pointless hypothetical fantasies about what might have been. She knew she was lucky. She lived in comfort, she had her health and her mental faculties – touch wood – and she had no reason to feel sorry for herself. What she found difficult to tolerate was the idea that others might feel sorry for her. She liked her cool, uncluttered flat. She kept people away from it because she didn’t want to see it through their eyes.
But Dennis was different. Dennis had never once asked her for any personal details. He had never asked about husbands or children or grandchildren. He was motivated by a passion for art. At first, she had mistaken his passion for an arrogant, pushy desire to show off his knowledge and his erudition, but it wasn’t that at all. He wanted her to share his enthusiasm and his excitement. He wanted her to share the fascination he felt when he looked at a painting and the secrets it revealed about individuals who were long dead but not forgotten. He showed her that a passion shared and discussed was ten times more powerful and satisfying than one digested in solitude. Dennis made her happy and that was why she invited him to tea.
She had suggested he come at half past three. She had thought about producing scones but she hadn’t made them for years and decided it was safer to prepare egg sandwiches. She did make a cake – a simple sponge, sandwiched with jam and fresh cream – and she was glad she had done so because its aroma filled the flat with a welcoming warmth.
At twenty past three she went into her bedroom and checked her appearance. She wore grey trousers and a crisp pale pink shirt with her usual pearl necklace. Her white hair, cut in a smooth, sleek bob, was as disciplined as ever. She applied a little perfume and smiled at her vanity because she knew her visitor would almost certainly appear in his same, badly fitted brown suit.
Checking her watch, she went through to the kitchen to boil the kettle and warm the teapot. She took out from her cupboard two porcelain cups and saucers and a small matching jug which she filled with milk. At a quarter to four she moved to the sitting room and glanced round at the small desk in the corner with her laptop and her brass lamp, the two-seater sofa with its abundance of cushions, and the coffee table on which sat her latest acquisition, a book about Velasquez’s paintings. She was looking forward to showing it to Dennis. She went over to the window and stared out into the street.
An hour later she knew he wouldn’t come. She went into her kitchen and considered the food on the table. She wasn’t sure what to do about the cake. If she put it in a tin, the cream would go off. She put it in the fridge and turned her attention to the egg sandwiches. She could have some of them for her supper. The rest would keep till tomorrow.
It was more than a fortnight since the evening with Patrick. Anna had done her best to rouse herself from her pit of self-loathing. She had been ultra-kind to her patients, she had accepted a dinner invitation from a doctor acquaintance, she had rung her mother and made an effort to be nice. She’d even told her about the dinner date, a big mistake since the evening revealed they had nothing in common except a mild mutual attraction.
Still her dark mood persisted and she knew the reason why. William – kind, easy-going, best pal William – had expunged her from his life with a ruthlessness that shocked her. When she rang, he wouldn’t pick up. He responded to none of her texts or voicemail messages. For the time being she’d stopped trying. There was nothing more she could add to the apologies she’d made. Of course she’d been wrong to cancel Trevor’s party but if he’d been so upset about it, he should have told her at the time. It wasn’t like William to sulk and she felt stunned by his silence. Now she was beginning to be angry with him. If all their years of friendship meant so little to him then, fine, she’d be fine. Eventually.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The job of castle custodian was far more complex than Tess had realised. For a start, there were a fair number of castles in the area and Jamie did not have the monopoly in romantic wedding locations. In fact, he told her, weddings provided only a small part of the castle’s income. In the last year alone, there’d been a Burns supper for fifty, a marmalade festival, office parties, business lunches, school tours and the hiring of the castle for a four-minute scene in a BBC serial drama.
Tess was convinced that Sir Walter Scott could be a huge draw. She had discovered that he and Wordsworth had indeed visited the place. ‘The timing is perfect,’ she said. ‘There’s this huge debate about Scotland’s
relationship with England. We have the referendum in September. Scott was a huge supporter of the Union but he was also fiercely proud of being Scottish. He was the great reconciler. He couldn’t be more contemporary.’
‘To be honest,’ Jamie said, ‘his only connection with the castle is that he once spent an afternoon here.’
‘There’s your name,’ Tess said.
‘To be honest again,’ Jamie said, ‘I’m not absolutely sure that I am related to his son-in-law.’
Tess frowned. ‘You don’t need to say you are. You can just talk in your literature about Scott and his great friend and son-in-law, John Lockhart. People will see your name and make the obvious assumption.’
‘Tess,’ Jamie murmured, ‘I’m worried I’m corrupting you. Whatever happened to academic integrity?’
Tess wasn’t sure. In the last few weeks she had spent so much time with Jamie that it was impossible not to share his enthusiasm. As an academic, she did sometimes feel she led a rarefied existence; it was exhilarating to find she could apply her skills and knowledge in the development of a sound business project. She and Jamie had spent evenings in pubs pouring over competitors’ brochures. She agreed with him that Reidfern Castle was superior to all of them.
Tonight, for the first time, she was driving over to his house in Melrose. Intent on following his instructions, she turned into a small lane near the famous Melrose ruins and parked the car by the green litter bin on the bank. She reached for her bag, climbed out of Grandma’s car and locked it before turning round to check that she was indeed opposite Number Two.
For a moment she stared blankly at the small terraced cottage opposite her. She took a sharp intake of breath, felt quite light-headed, and let her back slump against the car. It was her house. It was her house. She gazed down at her feet. Here was the cobbled lane and, as she looked up to the left, she could see that it ended in a small clearing a few yards further on. She swallowed and fixed her eyes on the white door with its horizontal partition. She shut her eyes and put her hand to her forehead.