by Beth Moran
He needed some time, like Ziva said.
He wouldn’t leave the others to clear up the orchard without him, he wasn’t that type of person.
He loved me… he would listen because he loved me…
He would see that the woman he’d fallen in love with was the real me, after all…
He would surely ask me to stay, at least until we’d talked about it, until he’d let me explain…
He was waiting in the kitchen.
Face grim, arms folded. It was only when he looked at me that I saw hiding behind the defensive stance was pain.
Becky helped lower me into a chair. ‘Right. We’re all packed up. Taxi should be here in about half an hour. I’ll leave you two to talk.’ She bent down to envelop me in a hug, her face pressed against my now not-quite-so-terrible hair. ‘I’ll speak to you soon. Don’t worry about the retreats, I’ll keep things going until you’re ready.’
I nodded, meekly, not having the strength to argue. She turned to Daniel. ‘You’ll make her a drink and something to eat before she goes?’
Daniel gave one sharp nod, before Becky gave me a squeeze goodbye and left us to it.
For a long moment, the silence hung between us, dripping with unspoken questions and the unwelcome answers. Eventually, Daniel flicked the kettle on, fetching two mugs from the dresser. I felt another flicker of hope when I saw he’d used my favourite mug.
‘I don’t really know where to start,’ I said, voice trembling.
‘You don’t need to say anything. The internet told me plenty. Brenda filled me in on the rest.’
‘I was going to tell you,’ I gabbled. ‘Yesterday. After Damson Day.’
‘Tell me what?’ he asked, placing my drink on the table. ‘That you’ve been concealing from me who you really are? That you weren’t an honest, hardworking, uplifting food critic, but one who got famous through being vile? Or that you knew a potentially violent stalker was here, on my farm, where me, my daughter and hundreds of innocent people were gathered, and you didn’t even tell me, let alone call the police, because you were afraid that we might all find out that you’re not a nice person?’
‘Tell you that I’d worked as Nora Sharp, and why I did it, and why I left, and how I hadn’t told you because I hated who Nora had become, which was largely out of my control and not what I wanted. I loathed myself, and the only way I could bear to keep on existing was to stop being her, and go back to being the person I really am. If I’d told you, you’d not have let me stay. You’d not have given me time to show you that I’m not her. If you read her actual reviews, you’ll see they’re mostly constructive, positive ones.’
Daniel shook his head, scoffing in disgust.
‘You must know that if I genuinely thought staying here would have put you, or anyone else – let alone Hope – in danger, I would have left. I’d told Brenda everything, and she didn’t think there was anything to worry about. We thought we knew who it was, and the police were tracing them. I’m so sorry! I’m so, so sorry. If I could undo any of it, I would. I was scared, and lost, and alone. Then you gave me a bed, and a place to stay… A home. You gave me a second chance, a new start. I didn’t want to blow it.’
‘But you have blown it.’ Daniel blew out an exasperated sigh. ‘I feel like a total fool. I trusted you, with everything that means anything to me. My farm. My child… my heart. And you took that trust and smashed it to smithereens. You’re not who I thought you were.’
‘I am!’ I was trying not to cry because how dare I feel sorry for myself? ‘I have never been more myself than when I was here, with you. This farm, the retreat, being your girlfriend. Baking and cleaning and walking through the fields with Charlie’s daughter on my back. This is who I really am.’
He looked away, shaking his head. It was then that I knew I’d lost him.
‘Daniel. Please…’
His face was like a castle. Drawbridge up, portcullis slammed shut.
‘You can’t believe what Lucy said about me. You have to let me explain.’
‘Don’t you see, it doesn’t matter?’ He ran a hand through his hair, the anger rippling through his bicep. ‘It doesn’t matter if you spent every day saving lives instead of wrecking them. You lied to me.’
‘I never lied…’
He simply stared at the floor.
‘So that’s it?’
One nod.
‘Can I say goodbye to Hope?’
‘She’s with Mum. I thought it best for her not to be around.’
I couldn’t reply, my throat too swollen with regret and self-loathing.
‘I’ll take your bags out to the taxi when it gets here.’
He left the room, unable to even look at me. I didn’t blame him.
By the time I’d shuffled outside to the taxi my bags were already in the boot.
‘That everything?’ the taxi driver asked, clearly wondering why a man had dumped my bags and left me to limp to the car myself, but knowing better than to ask. It was all I could do to nod in response. Yes. That was everything. My heart. My home. This place, these people, they were everything. But it was my own idiotic fault I’d lost it all. No more than I deserved. No less than the hurt I had done to countless others.
37
I have to confess, there were fleeting, desolate, dark moments in the days that followed when I wished that I hadn’t screamed that night. That Daniel had been a few seconds too slow, or Lucy that bit stronger. Waking up each day and having to face myself, I couldn’t help wondering if it would have been easier not to have to bother.
I had lost everything except the one thing I had tried to get rid of – myself.
Thank goodness for practical, straight-talking, no-nonsense parents. That, and my wonderful, on-the-brink-of-bonkers grandma.
Together, over the next few weeks, they got me up and gave me something else to think about. Wholesome, nurturing food that was impossible to resist no matter how scrunched up and tender my stomach. Simple, satisfying tasks that were impossible not to take a teensy bit of pleasure from accomplishing – scouring the grill, ironing sweet-scented sheets or snipping sprigs of flowers from the garden and arranging them in pretty vases.
Even better, they only ever asked me once, that first evening, what on earth had happened and they never asked me how long I would be staying, or whether I would be going back to Ferrington.
It was the beginning of June, nearly a month since I’d arrived back home when I found out they were even more remarkable than I’d given them credit for. My knee was still stiff, the scar red and gnarly, although the other abrasions had faded, and when I looked in the mirror, I was starting to appear slightly less like a bedraggled zombie. I’d had a call from Brenda, filling me in on what was happening with the case against Lucy (not a great deal yet, these things took time). I’d spoken to Becky the day before about the business, and was painfully aware that she was running retreats without me, and the next few months were jam-packed with guests.
Even worse, she’d told me that my old editor had been trying to get in touch with me about something important. When I called Miles, he’d warned me that the story of Lucy’s arrest was about to break in the tabloids. It was inevitable that my name would be printed along with it. My dad found me, sitting at the kitchen table where I’d been peeling potatoes for hash browns, head in my hands.
‘Eleanor, is there something wrong?’ He stopped by the table, and even went so far as to put one hand on my shoulder.
‘Yes. Yes, there is.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Oh?’ He took a seat opposite me.
‘It’s about my previous job. Writing the reviews. I wasn’t… it wasn’t quite… I mean… have you heard of Nora Sharp?’
Dad looked at me steadily. He let out a little huff and tapped his fingers on the table a few times. ‘We know.’
‘What?’ I sat back, genuinely stunned.
‘We’ve always known.’
; ‘But… how? And why didn’t you say anything?’
‘We knew you’d tell us when you were ready.’
‘Yes, but how?’
‘Eleanor, we’ve read everything you’ve written since you could pick up a pencil. We know you. We know your voice. And didn’t you think we’d put two and two together when suddenly a mystery restaurant reviewer appears in town, coincidentally the exact same time you suddenly develop a social life and start eating out all the time?’ He raised his eyebrows, but his face was kind.
‘But then I moved to London.’
‘And could afford to rent a flat in the capital on the income you made from that little blog? Don’t get me wrong, the blog was wonderful. But not big city apartment wonderful.’
‘Didn’t you think it was horrendous?’
His brow creased, adding even more wrinkles. ‘We thought the reviews were balanced and fair. Anyone working in hospitality would agree. We also of course found the memes and the click-bait headlines awful. But we knew they weren’t you. That image wasn’t you, and we believed you would find your way back in due course. You were miserable, and in a perverse way, the more miserable you got, the more we felt sure you would give it up.’
He reached across the table and took my hand. His calloused palm was as familiar to me as the sunlight on the lake, but I could not remember the last time he had wrapped his fingers around mine.
‘We know you, Eleanor. We love you.’
I held on tightly to my father’s hand, even as we cried together. Even when my mum came in to find out why no one had set the tables, we didn’t let go, and so she made us a cup of tea with not one but two biscuits each. Even as Grandma then joined us, chuckling at the early reviews I’d written in Windermere, and how I’d called out their arch-rivals, the snooty, overpriced establishment a mile down the road, for ‘ironically’ serving Heinz tomato soup still in the tin, as that justified charging eight pounds for it.
I had a weird family. We didn’t do big heart-to-hearts or emotional outbursts. We rarely said, ‘I love you,’ and barely ever showed it. But here, sat at the table where I’d chopped ten zillion onions and cracked a squillion eggs, I remembered again the reason why people kept coming back to this strange little B & B year after year. Why they put up with the rigid rules and archaic systems. It was because absolutely everyone was welcome here. Welcomed, and accepted, and treated with dignity and uncommon kindness. No matter who they were, or what they might have done.
Right down to the newest member of staff.
For a fleeting moment, I made a mental note to never lose sight of that when running Damson Farm Retreats. Until I remembered that I didn’t do that any more. I would mention it next time I spoke to Becky. She might find it useful.
‘Right. We’re twelve minutes late starting the linen. Eleanor, if you don’t mind?’ Mum said, whipping away my mug and plate.
I didn’t mind, at all.
Well. Only a tiny bit.
I booked the rest of the week off. My parents, of course, insisted I pay for my room if I wasn’t there to work, but then later on both Mum and Dad refunded me the money separately, on top of the basic wages they’d been paying me.
I was there to work, but that week it wouldn’t be for the Tufted Duck. For four days I wrote, deleted, rewrote, cut and pasted and deleted most of it again. I had moments where I nearly cracked under the pressure, and others where the words flowed like the Maddon river. Eventually, what emerged was the article of my life. It wouldn’t make or break me – no words would have the power to do that to me again. But it did at least express the most honest apology that I could offer, and I hoped a stark warning and a useful insight to others who may have been temporarily dazzled by the bright lights of fame and fortune, as well as my lessons learnt on the crushing impact of living a lie, rather than facing up to being true to yourself, however tough that might be.
I sent it to Miles, with a clear stipulation that my fee would go to the Ferrington Bridge Fund. I would not be filming any YouTube videos or commenting on social media. He replied within an hour to inform me that it would be the main feature in the Saturday supplement.
He also asked if I would write a follow-up on the Ferrington Feud. I said that I would think about it, which I did, for most of that night and several more that followed. Wondering if I would ever be brave enough to turn up in Ferrington with a notepad, my phone set to record.
Then, one week exactly after the article was published, the Tufted Duck had a new booking.
‘A walk-in?’ I asked Mum, incredulous. The Tufted Duck had no room for walk-ins at the best of times, let alone mid-June.
‘Can you handle it? I need to… do something else.’
‘You want me to stop cleaning this room, and handle a walk-in? But Dad’s on check-in today.’ I was talking to an empty doorway, she’d disappeared as quickly as she arrived.
Putting down my cloth with a sigh, gathering the bucket of spray bottles and dumping my gloves in a bin bag, I made my way down to the reception area.
When I glanced up to see who was waiting in the foyer, I nearly tripped down the remaining few stairs.
Giving myself a mental slap for still being so pathetically obsessed with Daniel that I saw him everywhere I went, I quickly yanked myself together, swallowed back the lump in my throat and carried on.
Then he turned around.
The man smiled, hazel eyes crinkling, one hand automatically reaching up to rub at his scar.
Daniel.
Here.
In the Tufted Duck reception, holding an overnight bag and smiling.
‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head. He didn’t look sorry. His grin was growing by the second. ‘I shouldn’t be smiling. That’s not what I had planned.’
‘What did you have planned?’ I stammered, coming to a stuttering stop a few metres away.
He shrugged, trying and failing to tug down the corners of his mouth. ‘An appropriate level of contrition to show you how completely sorry I am, and that I am fully aware of what a total arse I was.’ He took a hesitant step towards me. ‘Miserably lost and utterly heartbroken. Because that’s how I’ve been since you left.’
I don’t know how I did it, but despite my thumping heart and wild thoughts running around inside my head, I managed to reply in a manner that was just about on the right side of composed.
‘So why are you smiling?’ I don’t know why that was the question that popped out. Seeing the state the rest of me was in, my mouth appeared to have gone rogue.
He looked at me for a long moment. When he blinked, it was like someone flicked the lights off and then on again.
‘I’m happy to see you.’
‘Okay.’ I didn’t ask why he was happy to see me, let alone why he was here. I wanted this moment to drag out forever. Before the hard questions came, and the heart-breaking answers and then Daniel went away again. ‘Do you want to check in?’
‘Yes, please. If you’ve room.’
I moved over to the check-in desk and flicked through the reservations book, Mum and Dad still not having upgraded this aspect of the system to a computer. My movements were robotically calm, but beneath the surface I was a gibbering wreck. ‘Yes, the Mallard room is free again.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Will you be needing a cot?’
‘No.’ Daniel was still grinning like a loon, but I felt a stab of disappointment that I wouldn’t get to see Hope. It was probably for the best, though. She was too young to understand any of this. I was thirty, and I could barely get my head around it.
‘Same address and phone number as last time?’
‘Yes.’
I added all the details and then paused, hand trembling, lips horribly dry. ‘Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?’
‘You.’
‘Excuse me?’ I nearly choked on my own breath.
‘Um. I mean, would you like to go for a walk, or find somewhere to get a drink or something?’
It
was my turn to blink, about 300 times in quick succession.
‘Because, obviously, I’m here to see you.’
Up until this moment, if Daniel had asked to meet up, or phoned wanting to talk to me, my plan had been to say no. It had been a long, hard slog, trying to deal with the trauma of what had happened with Lucy, on top of my whole life tumbling upside down for the second time in six months. Let alone losing the man I loved, and the child I’d begun to care for like my own daughter.
I didn’t want to go over it again, to have to try to explain myself, or beg for forgiveness. I couldn’t bear to ever see that look of revulsion on his face again.
I had reached a point where I was starting to be able to live with being me, but it was so tenuous and fragile that I daren’t risk slipping back again.
But now he was here. Now he was smiling and his arms were stuck in his pockets, not folded angrily forming a barrier between us. Now he was looking at me like he had in the moment he told me he loved me…
‘I have three more rooms to clean. But I could go for a walk after that?’
If anything, Daniel’s smile grew even wider. ‘I’ll help you.’
‘No, you won’t!’ Grandma called from where she was clearly hiding round the corner. ‘Me and your dad’ll sort the rooms. You go off and kiss and make up or whatever it is you need to do. We won’t expect you back until nightfall.’
‘Well,’ Mum retorted, from where she must have been lurking right beside Grandma. ‘There is a mountain of breakfast prep still to do, and the back stairs need a proper vacuum…’
‘Hi, Wendy, hi, Grandma, nice to… hear you,’ Daniel called.
‘She’s joking!’ Grandma called back. ‘You go on, now, off you go!’
‘I am not joking!’
They were still arguing when we slipped out of the door.
We walked the whole hundred yards or so to the far end of the garden, where I led Daniel to a bench hidden behind a wall of clambering roses.
‘I think we should talk before we do anything else,’ I said, eyes firmly fixed on the roses.