Chapter Sixteen
On Monday, Ivy woke in the early hours of the morning with her stomach in knots.
It was the day of the bonfire. The bonfire that Trip had said he might come back for.
But why should that make her feel so sick and hopeful and nervous and excited, all at once?
She glanced at her phone, but he hadn’t texted.
And when she thought about it, what on earth was she doing, getting attached to Josie’s irritatingly peppy guest?
At the end of the holiday, Trip would head off to some other cool European city or one of the many colleges where he had an offer.
She would never see him again. There was no point in getting attached.
This – whatever it was – could go absolutely nowhere.
She’d heard of a summer fling, but never a mid-December fling.
Ivy lay staring into the darkness of her room as the minutes creaked by, but sleep eluded her.
She should be focusing on her art project, she thought, instead of obsessing over Trip.
Eventually, she threw off the covers, showered, dressed and arrived at the shop far too early, the morning air still grey and damp, the kind of chill that clung to her clothes and made her feel miserable all the way through. It pretty much suited her mood.
She found Josie already there, wearing what looked like Fin’s pyjamas with a thick fisherman’s jumper thrown over the top, barefoot and humming, lighting tea candles round the front counter like it was a shrine.
The scent of pine filled the air, along with the undertow of coffee and cinnamon buns from the bakery.
‘Good morning, darling,’ said Josie, glancing up with her ready smile that crinkled her eyes. ‘I had a feeling you’d be in early today. Couldn’t sleep either?’
‘No,’ admitted Ivy, dumping her tote on the floor. ‘I’m not sure why.’
‘Hm.’ Josie rested her hand on a bundle of twine.
‘Well, since you’re here, I’d love your help.
I thought we might make some winter crowns for everyone to wear at the bonfire later out of all this foliage.
And I have cookies in the oven for customers.
We’re going to really lean into winter this year, darling. ’
She nodded to the corner and Ivy saw a stash of pine branches and sprays of red berries.
‘That’s what that smell is,’ Ivy said, smiling in spite of herself.
‘That’s right,’ said Josie, pouring her a cup of coffee.
‘Winter has come to Wildest Dreams and about time too. Now. Garland time. I don’t think we should be constrained by anything as narrow and unimaginative as a colour theme, should we?
You’re an artist after all. We should just do something wonderfully rustic and pagan. ’
Ivy snorted. ‘Some artist,’ she said. ‘Painting props for a kids’ show is the pinnacle of my creative achievement at the moment.’
‘Please. If you have an artistic soul it can’t be denied, whatever the outlet. Go on, darling, let your instincts take hold. Run wild. Trust yourself.’
Ivy obediently took a bundle of dried flowers and pine and began to weave, working in strands of ivy and gold stars, trying to let her instinct take hold. She and Josie worked together, occasionally humming along to the songs playing quietly on the radio.
Then, as Ivy started on a second crown, making it smaller with Liv in mind, Josie spoke softly. ‘Funny, isn’t it? How love shows up in ways you don’t expect.’
Ivy glanced over, caught off guard. ‘What do you mean?’
Josie eyed her own crown critically and then reached for some glitter.
‘I thought I’d already had my great love, once.
Years ago. Your mum would remember him – Peter.
He was a teacher here in Fox Bay. We were going to see the world together.
Quote Russian poetry to each other in Paris and Rome.
And then he died. Can you get more tragically romantic than that?
’ She paused, eyes on the flickering candlelight.
‘Afterwards, I didn’t think I’d ever feel anything close to that again.
I was content to find my romance in the great Russian novels, in long ago poets. Believe me, I wasn’t even looking.’
Ivy stayed quiet.
‘And then, last summer, love found me,’ Josie continued. ‘Someone who had been right under my nose all this time. Not at all what I thought a great romance would be. No drama, no grand declarations – well, maybe one,’ she said, going pink. ‘But he’s so ordinary, I never expected it.’
‘So Fin is the second great love of your life?’ Ivy asked.
‘I suppose he must be,’ Josie said thoughtfully. ‘I just didn’t think the second great love of my life would wear fleeces and cargo trousers with zips.’
Ivy fiddled with a sprig of holly, unsure what to say. ‘I thought I’d fall in love at college,’ she said at last. ‘I thought he’d be an artist like me. Moody and intense and serious … I even met someone I thought was perfect. But he turned out not to be, I guess.’
‘Well, you and I are a little alike, dear,’ said Josie. ‘We’re always going to hanker after a grand idea, a great, sweeping love affair. Artists like us …’
Ivy refrained from asking what kind of art Josie actually did.
‘But you’re happy with Fin, right?’ she asked. ‘Even though it’s not super romantic?’
‘Oh, I never said it wasn’t romantic, darling!
Fin is the most romantic man I have ever met.
But his idea of romance is making my tea just how I like it or putting a hot water bottle in the bed before I get in because he knows I get cold feet at night.
’ Josie slipped the end of a branch and added a crown to the growing pile.
‘I wonder if … maybe you don’t always get the kind of love you think you want.
But sometimes you get the love you need. ’
Ivy smiled. Occasionally, Josie, for all her strangeness and flights of fancy, could be surprisingly wise and down-to-earth. ‘The love you need. I like that.’
She thought of Trip, showing up full of good humour when she had been at her lowest. Of him jumping in to save the show and the way Liv’s face had shone with relief.
Of him dragging her out of the darkened art room to experience Winter Wonderland.
Unlike Raff, with his moods and reveries, Trip had kept showing up, endlessly cheerful, exactly when she needed him.
But if so, a little voice nagged, then why hadn’t he texted?
‘I don’t know about me,’ Ivy said, ‘but you and Fin seem really happy, with your hot water bottles and tea.’
‘We are happy, darling,’ said Josie, starry-eyed in the warm light. ‘And I’m so glad I found him now, not ten years ago. Back then I might have thought a love like this was dull, instead of seeing it for what it is. Utterly romantic.’
Ivy stepped back, considering the little stack of slightly wonky flower crowns. ‘These will look brilliant in the firelight later,’ she said.
‘They will.’ Josie picked a berry-laden crown off the pile and balanced it on top of her head. ‘We might need a few more though, darling – can’t have anyone feeling left out.’
Ivy looked at Josie, detangling a grey curl from a spiky branch and grabbed for her tote bag. ‘Hold still a minute, will you?’ she asked, taking out her sketchbook.
‘Don’t draw me for goodness’ sake. I’m a mess,’ protested Josie.
‘You look great,’ Ivy told her, pencil flying over the page.
She swiftly captured Josie, cheeks as flushed as a child’s, the wild tangle of foliage and hair, the striped pyjama bottoms and her bare feet, the glitter covering her hands.
She tried to imbue the sketch with all that she could feel in the room – the warm glow from the candles, the strands of ivy and dried flowers, the sleepy, cosy, stillness of this dawn moment.
‘There,’ she said, picking up a crown that she’d attached tiny silver bells to, and dropping it on Ivy’s head. ‘A perfect fit. Now, let’s do one for Fin.’
Once the pile of crowns starting wobbling precariously, Ivy brushed the glitter off the counter and they stood admiring their work.
‘I think that’s perfect now, darling,’ Josie said. ‘Just the right side of gloriously excessive.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Ivy said doubtfully. ‘We could put on a few more of these berries?’
Josie shook her head vehemently. ‘Part of great art is knowing when to stop,’ she said firmly. ‘And besides, I think we’re due our breakfast now, don’t you?’
Ivy helped herself to one of the buns and sat cross-legged on the worn armchair while Josie perched on the stool behind the till, eating yogurt out of a jar. For a little while, they didn’t say much, just the flicker of candles and the quiet clink of spoon on glass between them.
‘I suppose I could text him,’ Ivy said at last. ‘Trip, I mean.’
Josie smiled at her. ‘I knew who you meant, darling,’ she said. ‘And why not?’
Ivy reached for her phone. She would just send a quick message. Tell Trip she was looking forward to seeing him soon. It was nearly seven now, a perfectly socially acceptable time to text. She would sound breezy and casual.
She clicked on his Instagram first. If Trip was awake, she thought he might have posted something excitable – final bacon sarnie in London.
But there was nothing – nothing, in fact, all week, since he had put up a picture of him and Brooke giving a thumbs up by the lighthouse, a photo that Ivy had taken.
But then Ivy noticed he’d been tagged in a photo yesterday.
She idly clicked on the post and nearly choked on the remains of her bun.
Blue sky behind the London Eye. Trip, smiling, arm slung round a startlingly beautiful girl with perfect white teeth, wide brown eyes and glossy black hair.
Ivy clicked on the post and was taken to an Instagram page.
Her name was Madison White. Actor, activist and cat-lover, read her bio.
She and Trip, with their matching wide smiles and gorgeous, happy faces, looked undeniably, unbearably perfect together.