For once, things are looking up.
‘Maybe you could start helping me get to grips with this one? What I know about flowers and soil and planting can be written on the back of a postage stamp.’ He shuts his eyes briefly and sighs. ‘God, sorry. That was really presumptuous of me, wasn’t it? What a bloody clown I am. We’ve only just started chatting and here I am ordering you about like some sort of hired help.’
I ball my hands into fists, flexing them beneath the table, and smile. ‘I honestly don’t mind at all. I love helping out and I love gardening so it’s a win-win for me.’
Peter drags his chair closer to mine, his interest in me now a palpable force. ‘How have I not noticed you before now? The only excuse I can give is that I was too mired in my own misery. But you’re here now, and I have to say, I’m really glad about that. I’m just hoping you can forgive my clumsy mouth. It’s been a while since I sat next to somebody as pretty as you. It’s been a while since I was single and had to—’
I reach up and kiss him, his mouth warm against mine. Not too much pressure. I don’t want to scare him off, send him running in the opposite direction. Not when I’ve come this far. Not when I’ve worked so hard to get him exactly where I want him.
‘Sorry,’ I say softly as I end the kiss and turn away, feigning shyness before turning back again to look at him. ‘I don’t know why I did that. It just felt right at the time.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’ His eyes are shining, two small diamonds sparkling with such intensity, I find myself backing away a fraction. He leans across and takes my hand, resting it in his. His palm is cool and dry. He’s not as nervous as I imagined him to be then. Neither am I. I’ve practised this for a long time, rehearsed it so many times, I wondered if it would ever come to fruition but here we are, our purported romance beginning to blossom.
We kiss again, his breath warm, traces of coffee still present. His cologne surrounds us in a misty, invisible haze. I wonder what he is thinking about? Is he falling head-over-heels in love with me or is he being cautious, finding his feet and thinking that we should take this thing one day at a time? I will follow his lead, walk in his shadow. I will take my cues from him and when the time is right, I will put my plan into action and I will strike. But not yet. The build-up is almost as appealing as the climax. Almost, but not quite.
‘This,’ I say, pulling back and sweeping my hand around the garden, ‘is a work in progress.’ I narrow my eyes and grin. ‘So, when do you want me to start?’
12LAUREN
‘Dad, she seems lovely.’ I am buttering more toast as he walks in the kitchen after Alice has left in a taxi despite Dad’s insistence he would take her home. He stands next me and helps himself to a slice.
‘Yes, she is, isn’t she?’ He bites into it, crumbs flying everywhere, sticking to the corners of his mouth and dropping on the floor at his feet.
‘Plate,’ I say, handing one over.
He raises his eyebrows and holds it underneath his chin.
‘So, is she an avid churchgoer?’ I place the butter back in the fridge and sit at the table, watching him, waiting for his reply, thinking she doesn’t appear overly religious but then, how would I be able to tell? It’s not as if she’s going to walk about carrying a bible or making the sign of the cross on her chest, is it?
‘I don’t think so. She said she’s just about done with the grieving sessions and probably won’t be going back.’
‘How did her husband die?’ I don’t know why I’m asking. It’s not as if matters how a person dies; it’s the heartache and devastation they leave behind once they’re gone that’s important. Or sometimes, it’s the heartache and devastation they cause while they’re still here. That leaves a lasting impression too.
‘A car crash, apparently. She didn’t go into too much detail and I didn’t ask. Death isn’t really the sort of thing you dwell on when you meet somebody new, is it? Maybe we said all there is to say when we were in the church.’
There is a heavy silence. It hits him like this sometimes, right in his solar plexus, a reminder of Mum. I see it in his face, the greyness in his eyes, the wrinkling of his brow. A stray word, an unexpected whiff of perfume, a flash of colour and she is back in the room standing next to us. Except she isn’t and never will be. I swallow and wipe at my mouth, turning away from him, thinking that death is exactly what connected them and that they should talk at length about it, offload their burdens to one another, otherwise what was the point in all those sessions?
‘You at least have some sort of chemistry, though?’
‘I guess we do.’ Dad is smiling at me. I’m glad about that. The last thing I want to do is upset him. He’s been through enough – more than most – but more than that, he’s also my mate. Not many fathers and daughters have a relationship like ours, I’m aware of that, and the last thing I want to do is destroy it with a careless word or an ill-thought-out question that cuts him to the quick. For a while, we drifted apart, two ships sailing on empty, rough seas, but things are settling down, our navigation paths synced once more. God, listen to me. I sound like one of those counsellors Dad visited every Sunday. He’s right about one thing, though – I definitely need to get out more, stop talking like an old fart and not a teenager whose head is almost falling off after downing too much vodka.
‘I’ve asked her out for a meal.’
‘Have you now?’ I suck in my cheeks and give him a playful punch on the arm. ‘Well get you, Mr ageing Lothario. Where are you going to eat?’
Almost immediately, his face colours up, creeping up his neck and over his stubble covered cheeks. My mouth drops open. I close it and swallow hard.
‘Really? You’re taking her there?’ I shrug and wipe down the kitchen surface with a cloth, sweeping the crumbs into my palm before throwing them in the bin. ‘I guess it’s time now though, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ll have a lovely evening.’
He reaches over and grips my hand. ‘Thanks, sweetheart. I wasn’t sure about it but I feel so comfortable there, and it seemed like the natural thing to do.’
He’s right. It is the natural thing to do. This is a bold move for him, though. He needs to be on firm ground, somewhere he feels at ease and The Half Moon Inn is that place with its inglenook fireplace and lovely, familiar staff. I hope he has a great night. I really do. I try to visualise him as he makes small talk with Alice, drinking his wine and relaxing.
‘I can drop you off and pick you up if you like?’ I passed my test a few months ago and Dad keeps promising to let me drive his car. ‘You might find it easier to chill out if you have a drink, you know, a couple of glasses of vino?’ I am so desperate to get behind the wheel of his car.
He lowers his eyes, his hand still grasping mine. ‘I’ll think about it. Alice doesn’t have a car so I can’t really expect you to drop her off as well and I can’t exactly just shove her into a taxi on her own.’
‘I don’t mind, honestly.’ And I don’t. He seems happy and is no longer pining after Mum. This is a positive step for him. It seemed like he thought more about Mum after she died than he did when she was alive. I may only be seventeen years old but I know a crumbling marriage when I see one. I also know deceit when I see it.
After Mum died, Dad put up even more photographs of her, as if we didn’t have enough up to begin with. I don’t know why he did it. Maybe it was his way of trying to make us feel as if she had never left, her face peering out at us, staring down as we ate and slept and watched television. It was eerie and unnerving. Still is. I wanted to take some of them down but knew what sort of a reaction that would provoke so instead, we just got on with our lives. Dad fell into a slump, going through his daily routine like a robot, not an ounce of happiness or spontaneity in his life. But perhaps all of that is about to change, or at least I hope so. Our dry, purposeless existence was wearing on us both. This house needs some life breathing back into it, like flowers coming into bloom on a fresh, spring day. It needs a third person to bind us back together. Mum is gone and Alice is here.
She may well be the best thing to happen to us in a long, long time.
13ALICE
This place is special to him. I can tell. It’s the way his eyes glaze over, the way his mouth sags ever so slightly whenever he looks around the room. The staff all know him, smiling as he passes, touching him lightly on the shoulder, giving him a subtle nod, a knowing look, a surreptitious glance when they think we’re not looking. I’m guessing it was their favourite restaurant, he and his wife. Did the staff know about the fractures in their marriage? The damage Sophia was doing to both of them? The damage she was doing to people she had never even met? I’m guessing not. All they saw was the polished version of the Saunders family, the one they presented to the outside world – their carefully varnished veneer, all shine and gloss when all the while, underneath it all, cracks ran right through their little world, threatening to split them apart.
I dismiss those thoughts, pushing them away. It’s the here and now that counts, the chance to even things up. He must think highly of me to bring me here so early in our relationship. I’m obviously doing something right.
A warm glow stirs deep inside me as he pours my wine, then fills his own glass and clinks it against mine, smiling and raising a toast.
‘To a lovely evening.’
‘To a lovely evening.’ I sip at my drink, the heady aroma of the Pinot Noir wafting towards me, making me settled and comfortable.
‘I take it you know this place?’ I can’t help myself. I had to ask, if only to see him twitch and shift in his seat, to see the cogs whirring in his brain as he tries to formulate a safe reply that won’t make us both embarrassed and self-conscious. I look forward to his response, to his choice of words so as to not spoil the moment and possibly even ruin the rest of the evening. It’s a strange thing, marriage, isn’t it? Even in death, people still do their best to remain loyal to their spouses, to not denigrate them publicly. Even if they were being unfaithful. It’s bad manners. A gross misdemeanour. Nobody ever speaks ill of the dead. To do so would be deemed unseemly and indecorous. What a strange world we live in, where the dead are forgiven, regardless of their sins and yet the living are continually belittled and insulted despite working hard to shake off the shackles of their past.
‘Yes, I know this place pretty well. We used to come here, Sophia and me. It’s not quite our local but everyone knows me well enough.’
