The Five Colours of Hope (Kendric House #3)

Chapter One

Sixteen years ago

Ordinary girls never get Prince Charming. If you happen to be an invisible girl next door, then aiming for an A-list guy will only get you laughed at. And I got laughed at enough already without making a bigger fool of myself.

So running to school in my usual cargo trousers – faded at the knees – a loose, chunky jumper and with chipped muddy fingernails, the last thing I expected was to bump into Prince Charming.

And not just any bump – I totally ran smack into him.

Not any old Prince Charming, either: Osian James, the new boy, the tennis star with magic dust all over him.

I was late because I had a gift for Miss Gibson. I’d been growing this little plant for several weeks, waiting for it to blossom. Finally, today – the last school day before Christmas – it had.

So, running through the school gates, I didn’t see Osian leaning against the brick pillar, half hidden. I just heard his angry voice saying something about it being too short notice to cancel. He snapped something like, ‘Fuck off,’ and swivelled away from the wall into me.

Crash, bang, and I went flying, face down on the gravel, books scattered. Dark soil sprinkled everywhere.

No!

No, no, no!

I scrambled up on my knees to rescue the small potted plant. No, oh God, no! I cradled the fragile stem, hanging by a narrow strip of green. Broken like my heart.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” he asked.

When I didn’t answer, he hunkered down to my level. “Oh no, it’s broken.”

Well of course it’s broken, you stupid, arrogant, entitled git.

Osian James had rocked up at Hampton Mannor School last October, two weeks after the start of term.

Anyone else – anyone – would have stayed an outsider, forever.

Look at me: two years since I transferred here, but I was still the new girl.

Yet, ten minutes after Osian got here, he got welcomed into the most exclusive clique in school – we called them the Verbiers because they were always showing off about ski weekends in Switzerland.

They didn’t even talk to the likes of me.

Yet they were falling over each other trying to copy his Welsh phrases, saying ‘by here’ or ‘now in a minute’ like he did, and correcting everyone about his name: “It’s O-Shahn. It’s Welsh.”

People are legitimately unfair.

Girls one-upped each other to prove they were special to him:

“He took me to watch him play.”

“I went to his house; he has all these trophies in his room.”

“He kissed me goodnight.”

“We kissed for a whole minute. Nonstop.”

My bestie, Tricia, and I had retaliated by ignoring him: “O-sea-ann who?” As if we couldn’t remember how to pronounce his name.

But that didn’t mean I wanted him to see me like this, with tears falling down my cheeks, smeared with mud from my broken plant. Excellent!

“Can it be fixed?” he asked.

Fixed? What did he think, we could, like, glue it back?

“It’s not a tennis racquet.”

“No. I see that,” he said, all calm. He didn’t snark back. “I’m really sorry. Can I buy you another?”

I shook my head. “I grew it from a small cutting.” I wiped my cheek, smearing more mud on it.

He dug a hand into his pocket, took out a packet of Kleenex tissues and handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I hated to sound so pathetic, but who am I kidding? I took out a tissue, wiped my face and blew my nose. When I tried to give him the rest of the packet he held a hand up. “Keep it.”

Yeah, because he’s not going to touch it now it’s been in my dirty hands. He’s probably trying to find a polite way to leave me on the ground and go back to his Verbier girlfriends.

But he settled down on the ground beside me and reached a tentative finger to touch the fragile white petals. “What is it?”

“Camellia.”

He waited for me to say more.

“Camellia Snow Flurry. It’s a rare hybrid.” My voice steadied. As always, talking about plants calmed me down.

Osian leaned over to smell the bloom. “Wow, that’s really nice. Subtle, but very nice.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise gift for Miss Gibson.”

“Miss Gibson? Isn’t she the one who… er… runs First Aid Club?”

Like he didn’t know? I knew what he was thinking about my favourite teacher.

“Go ahead. Say it,” I said hotly. “I know everybody talks about her. Obviously you heard the full story going around.”

The school was buzzing with the gossip. Her husband had kicked her out of his house with her clothes in bin liners because she was bad in bed and had put on weight.

A nasty lie, obvs, but it made the rounds.

Osian fixed me with his eyes. “I don’t think we should believe gossip. What do people know, anyway? It’s not like she told them in class,”—he put on a higher-pitched voice like a woman—“Now, class, what are the benefits of disinfectant cream, and do you think my thighs are too fat?”

In spite of the tears still in my eyes, I snorted with a giggle. Thank God I still had the tissue so I could blow my nose. “‘Now, work in pairs to practice the recovery position. Compare and contrast my ex-husband and Vladimir Putin.’”

He laughed. Osian James laughed. At my joke.

He rubbed his hands on his thighs, and suddenly, all I could see were his hands on his stonewashed jeans. No one had ever had such beautiful hands.

“I’d hate to be a teacher and have students speculating on my personal life,” he said, sounding like he really meant it.

His hair was dark blond or light brown, except on his temples which were white-gold blond.

“Me too. People are so cruel.”

I still remembered how two of the blonde witches called me ‘washboard chest’ after a swimming lesson one time. They didn’t say it to my face, obvs, but Tricia heard them and told me.

“You okay?” Osian laid a hand on my shoulder.

“Me? ‘Course!” I said, as brightly as I could.

“So you grew this Camilla to give to Miss Gibson?”

“Camellia.” I stressed the last syllable. “Camellia sasanqua. Or Snow Flurry.”

“Why did you choose it?” He reached over and took the pot with its broken flower. His hands around mine for an instant were warm, strong and slightly rough. They probably got a lot of abuse gripping his racket, yet his touch on my hands was so gentle.

“I mean, why not red roses?” he asked, smelling the camellia again. His eyes fluttered closed. His lashes were darker than his hair, but if you looked really carefully they were light at the roots. His black jumper made him look blonder; it was close fitting but not too tight – just perfect.

“Hmm?” he asked again.

Oh God, I’d been dreaming or something. Please God, don’t let me blush.

“Because anyone can get roses,” I stammered quickly.

“You just pick up roses outside the tube station. I wanted her to have something special that no one else had. It’s a rare hybrid, even for camellia.

You have to go to a specialist nursery to find it.

There’s not many of them in the world.” I was on a roll.

That was me: once I got talking there was no shutting me up.

Even my family stopped listening and walked away when I was midsentence.

“See?” I stroked the petals of the broken flower.

“Camellia sasanqua is delicate but it grows strong, tall and full at the top. You know, it can grow taller than a person. So if she plants it outside her front door, it’ll be nose level.

When she walks up the garden path to her porch she’ll smell it. ”

“Like a nice welcome home?” he asked, but it wasn’t really a question – it was like he already knew the answer.

He really got me. He understood. He wasn’t a stupid git even though he must have known how gorgeous he was – I mean, come on, you just had to look at him.

But he was also quick on the uptake. And he totally cared.

Of all the people in our school, he was the only one to show sympathy for Miss Gibson.

“Do you know a lot about gardening?” Osian asked, shooting me a look.

“It’s just a hobby.”

He smiled. “A great hobby.” And he didn’t look away, blue eyes still fixed on me. No, not blue – they were like stonewashed jeans in the middle, and the rim darker like denim-blue.

Yes, definitely blushing; my whole face heated up.

“I’m now even more sorry I broke it.” He pushed himself up in one quick move and went to gather my books and shake them free of gravel and soil.

Then, with everything held under one arm, he bent down and offered me his hand to pull me up.

He was very strong; must come from all that tennis he played.

And when I stood up, I barely came up to his chin.

Because he was six foot two. Everyone at school knew his measurements.

He helped me replace my books in my bag; my boring bag.

For the first time, I really regretted not being more stylish.

Look at him: tall, a little too slim according to PE coach, but I would bet it was all muscle.

And he smelled nice. What had he said about my camellia?

“Subtle but very nice.” Yes, that was exactly how he smelled too.

“Can I keep this?” he asked, picking up the pot with the half-spilled soil and broken camellia.

“If you like.”

He wanted to keep it? My heart was now bigger than the lump in my throat.

I watched him take another sniff of the white blossom. If I had known, I’d have grown another just for him. And the way his profile looked with his face bent down over the flower, nose straight like a… like a…

A phone was ringing somewhere. He suddenly looked behind him to where his phone was on the ground. It must have been knocked down when we collided. OMG, our bodies had banged together, and I hadn’t even noticed how his body felt. Where was my brain?

He picked up the phone, glanced at the screen, pressed the mute button and slipped it into his back pocket, a small frown between his perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Uhmm…” He glanced back at me with his amazing blue-jeans eyes. “Are you doing anything Saturday night?”

“No, nothing.” My mouth answered while my brain was scrambling to catch up.

“Only, the tennis club are doing this Christmas party thing. Want to come? It’s very short notice but maybe…?” He left the question hanging, his mesmerising eyes on my face, which was probably the same colour as the deepest, reddest azaleas.

Me? Geeky girl?

“Yes, of course.” My mouth took charge and answered for me.

“Great, shall I pick you up at eight?”