Chapter Twenty-One
With Victoria in London, Sasha discovered that she had far too much time to think. And thinking, in her current state of complete infatuation, led to wildly unhelpful conclusions about the future.
So instead, she decided to meddle in someone else's love life.
"Absolutely not," Cathy said, backing away from Ambrose like he was holding a snake. "I'm not doing a makeover. I told Sasha, this isn’t some romcom where the girl takes off her glasses and suddenly the man realizes she's been beautiful all along."
"You don't wear glasses," Sasha pointed out.
"Exactly my point."
"Come on." Sasha linked her arm through Cathy's, physically preventing escape. "When was the last time you wore something that wasn't covered in soil?"
"Last Sunday. Church."
"And did Archie see you?"
"He was in London visiting friends."
"Right then." Ambrose appeared on Cathy's other side, and together they marched her toward the house like a particularly reluctant prisoner. "You're getting the full treatment. Hair, makeup, one of Sophie's dresses since you're about the same size—"
"Sophie's fifteen."
"Sophie's also taller than you'd think and has excellent taste." Ambrose was warming to his theme now. "We'll do something subtle. Natural. Just enough to make Archie actually look at you properly for once."
"I hate you both," Cathy muttered, but she let them drag her upstairs.
Sophie's room turned out to be a treasure trove of clothes that definitely didn't belong to a fifteen-year-old. There was no sign of cats, but Sasha had a feeling they weren’t too far away. She held up a designer dress with the tags still on.
"Sophie, why do you have a Stella McCartney?" she asked, holding up the dress.
"Grandmother keeps buying me things for 'when I grow into being a proper lady.'" Sophie made air quotes with obvious disdain. "I keep telling her I'm going to be a vet and will spend most of my time elbow-deep in a cow, but she's optimistic."
"Right then." Ambrose started pulling dresses from the wardrobe with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been waiting his entire life for this moment. "What are we thinking? Classic and elegant? Modern and edgy? Slutty but make it classy?"
"I'm not doing slutty," Cathy said firmly.
"Your loss. That emerald number would make Archie swallow his tongue."
"Ambrose," Sasha warned.
"Fine, fine. Elegant it is." He held up a simple green sundress. "This. Definitely this."
Getting Cathy into the dress required surprising amounts of coaxing and at least three threats to physically wrestle her into it. By the time she was changed, Sophie had assembled an impressive array of makeup on her desk that looked like it belonged to a professional artist rather than a teenager.
"Where did you even get all this?" Sasha asked.
"Tiffany left half her makeup bag behind when she fled. I may have, um, liberated it." Sophie picked up a mascara wand with professional efficiency. "Now sit down, Cathy. And for God's sake, stop looking like you're about to be executed."
"I feel like I'm about to be executed."
"You're about to get laid, which is significantly more fun, or so I’ve heard, anyway." Sophie began applying foundation with surprising skill. "Close your eyes."
"I'm not—we're not—" Cathy sputtered.
"Right. You're just doing this for the aesthetic experience." Sophie's voice was dry. "Hold still."
Sasha thought about questioning what Sophie knew about getting laid, but decided that it was probably none of her business.
Ambrose had appointed himself hairstylist, which mainly involved him pulling out Cathy's braid and running his fingers through her curls while making thoughtful humming noises.
"You have gorgeous hair," he announced. "Why do you always hide it?"
"Because loose hair and gardening don't mix. I'd spend half my time pulling leaves out of it."
"Well, today you're not gardening. Today you're seducing my idiot brother." He fluffed her curls with surprising gentleness. "There. Perfect."
Twenty minutes later, Sasha had to admit they'd created something remarkable.
Cathy stood in front of the mirror, looking simultaneously gorgeous and deeply uncomfortable.
Her dark curls fell in soft waves around her face, the green dress brought out the color in her eyes, and Sophie's subtle makeup made her look luminous.
"I look ridiculous," Cathy said.
"You look stunning," Sophie corrected. "Archie's an idiot, but even he can't miss this."
"And if he does, I'll hit him with a shovel," Ambrose added cheerfully.
"That's very supportive, thank you."
"What are gay brothers for if not to interfere in my sibling’s love life?" He squeezed her shoulder. "Now come on. Before you lose your nerve and put your work clothes back on."
They engineered the meeting carefully. Ambrose reported that Archie was in the library, mercifully alone after Cassandra had departed that morning in a huff about "people who don't appreciate vision.
" Sasha and Sophie positioned themselves as lookouts while Cathy, looking like she might bolt at any second, was given a gentle shove toward the library door.
"Wait." Cathy grabbed Sasha's arm. "What do I even say?"
"Hello would be a start," Sophie suggested.
"Very helpful."
"Just be yourself," Sasha said. "The dressed-up, not-covered-in-soil version of yourself."
"What if he laughs?"
"Then I'll absolutely hit him with a shovel," Ambrose promised. "A very large shovel. Possibly one that’s on fire."
Cathy took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked into the library with the air of someone approaching the gallows.
Sasha counted to thirty, then peered around the doorframe.
Archie had looked up from his book. He'd registered Cathy's presence. His eyes had widened. He'd opened his mouth as if to speak.
And then, inexplicably, his face had gone bright red and he'd looked down at his book like it contained the secrets of the universe.
"Archie, I just—" Cathy began, her voice uncertain.
"Right, yes, very nice," Archie said, still not looking at her. His ears were now approximately the color of beetroot. "You look… that is… excuse me, I've just remembered something urgent. Very urgent. Life or death, probably."
He practically fled the room, nearly taking out a side table in his haste, leaving Cathy standing there looking like she'd been slapped.
Sasha, Ambrose, and Sophie stared after him in collective bewilderment.
"Did he just…" Sophie began.
"Run away?" Ambrose finished. "Yes. Yes, he did. From a woman. Who looks like that." He gestured at Cathy. "I'm disowning him. Can you disown siblings? There must be a form."
"Maybe he really did remember something urgent?" Sasha tried.
"The only thing urgent is his need for brain surgery." Ambrose looked ready to chase after his brother with the promised shovel.
Cathy stood very still for a moment, then turned and walked past them without a word, her face carefully blank.
Sasha found her an hour later in the greenhouse, back in her work clothes, attacking innocent tomato plants with unnecessary vigor.
"He couldn't even look at me," Cathy said flatly, not turning around. "Just turned red and ran away like I'd grown a second head. Or possibly contracted the plague."
"Maybe he was overwhelmed…"
"Don't." Cathy's voice was sharp. She finally turned, and there were tear tracks on her cheeks that she'd clearly tried to scrub away.
"Don't make excuses for him. He was embarrassed.
Embarrassed that the help had ideas above her station.
Embarrassed that I'd dared to dress up and try to be something I'm not. "
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" Cathy's laugh was bitter. "Look, I appreciate what you were trying to do.
Really. But just because you and Victoria are head over heels and playing happy families doesn't mean the rest of us get fairytale endings.
Some of us live in the real world where sons of the manor don't fall for gardeners' daughters.
Where people like me stay in our place and people like Archie marry appropriate women with trust funds and connections. "
The words hit harder than Cathy probably intended, and Sasha felt something cold settle in her stomach.
"Right," she said quietly. "The real world."
She left Cathy to her aggressive pruning and wandered back toward the house, feeling distinctly hollow. The real world. Where people like Victoria ended up with other people like Victoria, and people like Sasha went back to Ambrose's spare room to figure out how to become a functioning adult.
She found herself in the morning room, staring out at the gardens without really seeing them, when Lady Charlotte appeared with a tea tray.
"You looked like you could use this," she said, settling gracefully into the chair opposite. She poured with the sort of practiced elegance that probably came from a lifetime of afternoon teas and subtle social manipulation.
"Thank you." Sasha accepted the cup, grateful for something to do with her hands.
"I hear you've been working wonders in the gardens," Lady Charlotte continued. "Cathy says you have real talent. Says you can read plants better than people who've been doing it for years."
"I've enjoyed it. Learning from her, I mean." Sasha took a sip of tea that was, predictably, perfect.
"It's lovely to see someone so enthusiastic.
Finding something you love, I mean." Lady Charlotte's smile was warm.
"You know, Victoria was always the same when she found something she loved.
Completely dedicated. She learned Latin just so she could read medieval manuscripts about banking history.
Can you imagine? Twelve years old and conjugating verbs so she could understand usury laws. "
Sasha tried to picture twelve-year-old Victoria hunched over Latin textbooks and failed completely.
"She's always been the perfect daughter," Lady Charlotte continued, her voice warm with pride.
"Never put a foot wrong, that girl. Straight A's, head girl, Cambridge scholarship.
She made it all look so effortless. Even when she was studying twenty hours a day, she'd come down to breakfast looking immaculate.
" She laughed softly. "I used to wonder if she ever actually slept or if she'd discovered some secret to surviving on pure ambition. "
Perfect daughter. Perfect career. Perfect life. Perfect everything.
Sasha looked down at her tea, at her hands that still bore traces of soil under the fingernails despite vigorous scrubbing.
She thought about her string of failed jobs, her complete lack of direction until approximately two weeks ago, her tendency to spill things on important people.
She thought about the difference between someone who learned Latin for fun and someone who'd been fired from waitressing for dropping a tray.
"She works terribly hard, though," Lady Charlotte was saying.
"Sometimes I worry she doesn't leave enough room for anything else.
All work and no play, as they say. Her father and I have been trying to encourage her to take up hobbies, meet people outside of banking.
But you know Victoria. Once she sets her mind to something, that's it. Total focus."
"She does seem very focused."
"Mmm. Though she's been different this holiday. More relaxed. Happier, even." Lady Charlotte's eyes were knowing over the rim of her teacup. "Less time on her laptop, more time outdoors. I wonder what's changed."
Sasha felt heat creep up her neck. "Perhaps just the break from London?"
"Perhaps." The smile suggested Lady Charlotte knew exactly what had changed and was far too well-bred to mention it directly.
"Though between you and me, I think it's good for her.
This relaxing business. She's always been so determined to be perfect that I sometimes wonder if she's forgotten how to simply be. "
They chatted for another twenty minutes about gardens and Cornwall and the upcoming house party, but when Sasha excused herself, Cathy's words kept echoing in her head. Some of us live in the real world.
Because the real world was this: Victoria would go back to London, probably within the week once she got a job offer.
She'd return to her perfect life with her perfect flat in Chelsea and her eighty-hour weeks.
And Sasha would go back to Manchester, to Ambrose's spare room, to figuring out how to turn her newfound love of gardening into something resembling a career.
Maybe she'd get a job at a garden center.
Maybe she'd take some courses. Maybe she'd be absolutely fine.
Their worlds would separate as naturally and inevitably as oil and water.
She was sitting on the terrace steps, watching the afternoon shadows lengthen across the lawns, when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Her heart bounced in her chest as Victoria emerged from the car, looking crisp and professional in her interview suit, every inch the successful banker.
"How did it go?" Sasha asked, standing up and trying to ignore the way her stomach flipped.
"Good. Really good, actually." Victoria's smile was bright but didn't quite reach her eyes. "They seemed impressed. Said they'd be in touch within the week about next steps."
"That's brilliant. Really brilliant." And it was. It absolutely was.
"Yes." Victoria moved closer, and despite everything, despite all of Sasha's spiraling thoughts about real worlds and appropriate matches, her hand still found Sasha's waist in that automatic way that made breathing difficult. "I've missed you."
"It's been eight hours."
"Still too long." Victoria kissed her, and for a moment Sasha let herself forget about gardeners' daughters and perfect lives and the inevitable end of summer.
But when they pulled apart, she caught something in Victoria's expression. Excitement, yes, but also something else. Distance, maybe. A slight guardedness that hadn't been there before. The look of someone already mentally packing their bags, already planning their return to real life.
"We should probably get ready for dinner," Victoria said, glancing at her watch. "I need to change out of this suit."
"Right. Dinner."
Victoria kissed her once more, quick and almost perfunctory, then headed into the house. Sasha watched her go, watched that straight back and confident stride, every inch the woman who'd learned Latin at twelve and never put a foot wrong.
And she realized, with a sinking certainty that settled like lead in her stomach, that Cathy had been absolutely right about fairytale endings.