Chapter 10
We make our way around the green, and through a small woodland that lies directly alongside the village. I’ve never been here before, and am so enchanted by it that it manages to over-ride the potential awkwardness of the whole Josh situation.
The path leads deeper and deeper into the trees, until the branches and boughs above us form a glorious canopy in every imaginable shade of green. Sunlight dapples through the leaves, striping the branches of the mighty oak, hawthorn and ash, splashes of pale gold falling on trunks that are coated in moss and lichen.
The woodland floor is a rich carpet of fallen leaves and flowers: dazzling pops of colour as swathes of bluebells sway and nod in the breeze. I spot the bright white petals of wood anemone, the deep yellow of primrose, smell the aroma of wild garlic. The air is alive with the gentle buzzing of insects, the melodic call of birdsong, and with… magic.
Even as I think it, I spot a colony of those tiny fairies perched on one of the branches of an especially magnificent oak. They seem to be peeking at me, their iridescent wings glittering.
Josh sees me notice them, and says: “Cally’s partner, Archie, makes them. He lost his wife when Meg, the younger daughter, was born, and she used to love fairy tales and folklore and magical fables. So Archie started creating these for his girls, and then they started to appear all over the village, and… well, it’s Starshine. This kind of thing starts to seem normal after a while.”
I stop and stare at more of the tiny creatures, including one that appears to be hiding behind a tree stump. They are beautiful, but now they also come with their own fairy tale – one of loss and love and looking for ways to make life that little bit more special.
Josh offers me a bottle of water, which I accept, then continues walking. I wonder what his story is – he has one, I know. Everybody does – and the real ones, the ones that matter, are always more interesting, more joyous, more heart-breaking, than any of the ones I make up when I’m fictionalising strangers at an airport. Heck, when I’m fictionalising myself.
I’m about to open my mouth and launch into the apology I have planned – I have been rehearsing – but he has disappeared off too far ahead, striding along the path even deeper into the woods.
I shrug and follow on, deciding that my grovelling can wait – that I should take my time, let myself glory in the sights and the scents and the sounds around me. Eventually, after a few more minutes of glorying I emerge onto a road. It is a proper road with tarmac and markings, which I’ve already gathered is something of a rarity around here, but it is also a road that leads to nowhere. It ends abruptly at the bottom of the hill, and there is no traffic at all. Definitely the road less travelled.
Josh is standing on the opposite side, holding open a gate. I have no idea where we are going, but I assure myself that this isn’t a kidnap situation, and that all will be well. I hesitate for only a few moments before I cross over, and follow him up the footpath.
He has been largely silent so far, and I have been happy enough to go along with that. He is quiet, but he is not bristling with hostility, which is a big improvement on the way we left things last night. We climb the path together, and as it narrows and steepens and he goes ahead of me, I try very hard not to let myself stare at his Levi’s-clad backside. Because that would be rude, and way too distracting.
The pathway we are following is leading onwards and upwards, and snakes its way through thick grasses, across meadows on the verge of full blossom, and over open fields. To our right is glorious countryside, splayed out like a patchwork quilt, and to the left is the sea, a glittering turquoise mirror beneath us. I spot a couple of old-fashioned wooden signs saying we’re on the South West Coast Path, with way-markers directing us to Charmouth and Lyme Regis and Golden Cap.
It’s hard not to stop and gawk every few minutes, because the views are simply mind-blowing. We are high up on top of cliffs that tumble down to the sea in shades of yellow, and red and gold, the sunshine shimmering on the waves of the Channel, the coast bending on as far as the eye can see. As we walk, we pass beaches made of yellow sand, beaches made of shingle, one made of big white pebbles. We see tiny boats bobbing out in the distance, people so far away they look like ants, the bright faraway glimmer of a river cutting its way through the hills and down towards the bay.
I can see all the signs of life below – the people, the dogs, the occasional flash of light reflecting from a café window, the distant glimpse of a road – but it doesn’t feel real. It feels like we’re the only people on the planet, perched on the very edge of the world, surrounded by a natural beauty so wild and so dense that humanity has barely touched it. I know this part of the world is called the Jurassic Coast because of the fossils that have been found here, and it is easy to imagine it as the land that time forgot.
I make a vow to bring Rose up here before we leave – it is only spring but there are already so many flowers in bloom, I know she’d love it. I recognise some that look like orchids, the egg-yolk yellow of long-stalked cowslips, and others I have no name for – low to the ground, a fuzz of vibrant pinks and purples, punctuated by clusters of star-shaped blossoms in shades of violet, tumbling along the cliff edge.
I pause to take a few photos for her, trying to angle the camera over the side to catch the way they fall, feeling a rush of adrenaline as I edge my feet a little too close to the drop.
I remember reading somewhere that there is a French phrase for that sensation – the weird and inexplicable urge to leap from tall places – that translates to something like “the call of the void”. It happens to loads of people, none of whom are at all inclined to suicide, but they find themselves on the edge of a cliff, or on top of a tower, or standing by a bridge, wondering what it would feel like to take the plunge. I vaguely recall it’s something to do with a misfire in the brain – it’s telling you to be careful, but your mind doesn’t understand quite what’s happening. I must discuss it with Ella and Priya – I’m sure they’d have all kinds of theories.
Once I’m very safely back from the edge, I see that Josh has positioned himself on a wooden bench that’s been perfectly placed to take in the panorama. He points over to the west, and tells me that it’s Golden Cap – the highest point on the southwest path. It rises dramatically up from the sea, vivid gold cliffs topped with verdant green, curving around the coast. I can only imagine how glorious it feels to be up there on a day like this, and add that to my must-do-while-I’m-here list as well.
“So,” I say, once I have finished admiring the view and sat myself down beside him, “I wanted to talk to you. And apologise. And… ummm, I think that’s it.”
He raises his eyebrows at me, and replies: “Okay. Go ahead.”
I am very clearly embarrassed, very clearly struggling, and very clearly not going to get any help from him. He seems to be enjoying it, in fact, if the tiny smirk on his face is anything to go by. I take a deep breath and remind myself that he wasn’t enjoying it last night – that the look on his face then was one of confusion, and hurt, and later anger. I can only imagine how humiliated he must have felt, and I owe him a decent explanation. Now I just need to come up with one that makes any sense at all.
“Right. Well, let me start by saying I’m sorry, Josh. I never thought I’d see you again – I mean, really, this is weird isn’t it? A totally freaky coincidence. And if I hadn’t ever seen you again, then it would have just been a nice flirty memory for both of us, wouldn’t it?”
“Maybe. And it might be weird and freaky, but here we are – seeing each other again. I have to be honest, I felt like an absolute fool the moment I realised what had happened – when I saw you there, with my future sister-in-law in a Dorset village, when I’d been imagining you living it large in New York. For the first couple of seconds, I was really happy – until my brain caught up. Then I just felt… stitched up. Like a prize idiot. I was embarrassed, and then I was angry. It felt like I’d been a toy you’d played with when you were bored.”
I cringe as he talks, and rub my hands over my face. Ughh. This is really hard, and I am not enjoying having this version of myself presented to me.
“I know,” I say after a few moments, “and again, I’m sorry. I… well, I’m not glamorous, Josh. I’m not like Amelia, the woman you thought you met in Dublin. I have a boring job, and a boring life, and I’m… well, I’m a boring person. I’m not especially confident, and I’m not very outgoing, and I’m more used to my own company than anybody else’s, to be honest. I’d been sitting there making up stories about the other people at the airport, and wishing I had a slightly more interesting story of my own, when you came over. And you were… you are… well, you’ve not exactly been whacked with the ugly stick, have you?”
I feel the blush racing over my cheeks as I say this and am relieved when he laughs.
“Thank you. I think. But I still don’t really understand why you couldn’t just be yourself – why the charade? Why did you need to be Amelia?”
“Oh, God. I don’t know, Josh… I didn’t plan it. I wasn’t sitting there waiting for some man to come over so I could flip my identity. It just happened. It was just a silly thing that I did, that I never thought would hurt anyone. To be honest if I hadn’t assumed my shiny new persona, I’d have probably just got up and moved away. It was like I was acting, inhabiting someone else’s skin – someone far cooler than me. I’d never have been able to sit there and flirt with you like that… it’s just not part of my DNA.”
“I’m not a biologist, but I’m pretty certain flirting isn’t genetic – and it’s clearly in there somewhere, or Amelia wouldn’t have been able to wrap me around her little finger like she did.”
“Maybe. Who knows? But it’s certainly not anything I’ve had practice at for a very long time. And being Amelia felt so good… she was so sure of herself. So successful. So… sorted. Exactly the kind of woman a man like you would find attractive.”
“That’s a bit presumptuous of you. You have no idea what kind of woman I’d find attractive.”
“Well,” I reply, risking a smile, “you did ask for her number, didn’t you?”
He pulls a face and answers: “Yeah. I did. And now I feel predictable as well as stupid. But for the record, Lucy, there’s no sign of you having been whacked with the ugly stick either. Maybe you don’t need to pretend to be someone else just to talk to a man you fancy.”
“I didn’t say I fancied you!” I object, realising a moment too late that he was winding me up. That I now sound like a teenager.
He winks at me and gives me a grin that makes my tummy flip. Jeez. Who am I kidding? I fancy the arse off him. It’s been a long time since I felt that way, but I still just about recognise it from when I was young, and unscarred, and way too trusting of my own feelings. The only difference is that now, I find it more terrifying than exciting.
“Okay, fair enough,” I say, shaking my head. “And have I grovelled enough yet? I genuinely am very, very sorry. I’m not the sort of person who usually goes around doing things like that. I didn’t intend to make you feel like a fool, I promise – I just wanted to make myself feel better, if that makes sense. I’m really not a liar, and I don’t want you to hate me.”
He stares out at the horizon, at the endless waves and the pale sunlight and the timeless beauty of this place. He stays silent, and I am preparing myself for a rebuff when he finally speaks.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “You’ve grovelled enough. And I don’t hate you… I have an issue with people who lie to me – long story, not your fault. I suppose the whole Amelia-being-made-up thing upset me because of that, and I over-reacted last night. Also, there were extenuating circumstances.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like the fact that I’d been paintballing and taken a neon pink blast to the groin.”
“Ouch. What else?”
“Like the fact that my dad’s arriving today, and that has me on edge.”
“Why?” I say, frowning across at him. “Don’t you get on?”
He shakes his head, and lets out a strangled laugh – one of those laughs that doesn’t come from a place of amusement at all.
“Not really,” he answers. “He’s… well, I could over-complicate this, but frankly he’s a bit of a prick.”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well. There is a lot of that about. Pretty much an epidemic really. But it’s harder to avoid if they’re actually related to you, I suppose.”
“Exactly. He’s here for Jake’s wedding, and it’ll be my job to make sure he doesn’t infect anyone with his… prick-itis? Anyway, that wasn’t helping my mood either. There was also one other extenuating circumstance – you. Or Amelia, I suppose. Both of you maybe. I hadn’t stopped thinking about you since we met.”
He turns to face me as he speaks, and I am instantly lost in those gold-flecked eyes. I feel the same pull towards him I did when we first met. The same sense of attraction, the same spark. Except this time, I am me, not Amelia Leamington-Smythe; this time, there is no flirtatious banter, no easy charm. This time there is just Lucy, looking up at him, blushing, with no idea what to say.
Truth be told, I’d thought about him as well – but now I am here, sitting next to him, in a place that is alight with romantic potential, I am suddenly mute. It is all too complicated, too difficult, too much for me to handle. I recognise this moment for what it is – a chance for me to say “yes, I feel the same”. A chance for me to open a door, to see what happens.
It is tempting. He is tempting. But I am not yet ready to take chances, of any kind. I may never be ready again.
I realise that I have been silent for too long, and let out a puff of exasperated breath – I am even annoying myself.
“See?” I finally reply. “This is the real me. Tongue-tied and tangled up in my own stupid thoughts. Sorry.”
He laughs – for real this time – and stands up. The sun is behind him, and I shade my eyes with my hands so I can see more than shadow. I am confused as he walks away, putting a few metres between us, then turns around again.
He strides towards me and comes to a stop by the bench.
“Hi!” he says brightly. “Is this seat taken? No problem if it is.”
I gaze around our secluded hideaway. There are no other human beings in sight, in fact no other living creature apart from a curious-looking seagull that has perched itself on a fencepost, and is watching us with great interest. He’ll probably be telling his mates this story later, down at the seagull pub.
“Help yourself,” I reply, gesturing to my side.
He sits down, turns to face me. Gives me that killer smile – the one that really should come with some kind of government-mandated health warning. He holds out his hand for me to shake.
“I’m Josh,” he says simply. “Nice to meet you.”
I smile back, and place my hand in his, where it feels way too comfortable.
“Nice to meet you too, Josh. I’m Lucy. Lucy Brown.”
And just like that, we have started over.