chapter Sixteen
“Corkscrew?” Osian asks, holding up a chilled bottle of California white as I come out on the balcony.
In the half hour it took to cook the pizza, I’d raced in and out of the shower, blow dried my hair and dragged on a blue shift dress. A little moisturiser and lipstick have transformed me into a more civilised version of myself.
He, too, has changed his dusty clothes for a clean white polo shirt and beige cargo trousers. His hair is still damp, so we’ve both had showers.
“No screw top for you?” I look at the bottle in his hand.
“Old fashioned geezer, me.” The words are careless, but his eyes linger on me for an instant too long before withdrawing back to the bottle in his hand. “I begged this from Llewellyn’s private drinks cooler. I thought you could do with something after your ordeal.”
“No corkscrew. Sorry.” The one thing my recent shopping trip had not included. When you’ve recently sworn off alcohol, you don’t need a corkscrew.
“Wait.” Osian darts into his apartment.
I place the salad bowl on the table next to the two plates and cutlery, then go to my own kitchen for a bottle of sparkling water.
Osian comes back brandishing one of those multi-functional tin openers that also unscrew jars, open bottles and, for all I know, hoover carpets.
I let him open the wine while I pour myself sparkling water.
He watches me, expression unreadable, but says nothing. We sit down and he slices the pizza into triangles.
“That looks very professional.” I glance at the pizza cutter in his hand.
He shrugs. “I just can’t be bothered to cook. Pizza features a lot in my life.”
We sit in the warm afternoon sun and eat pizza and salad. When I’ve poured myself a second glass of sparkling water, he finally says, “You don’t drink?”
“Used to.”
He has this way of watching a person as if trying to read your face. Then he says, “Does this have to do with why you left your last job?”
No one’s asked me this before; no one’s noticed.
The answer is that I stopped because I’ve worked very hard to build credibility and professional respect. In all my life, only two things have sabotaged me: falling in love with the wrong men and, once recently, getting drunk.
I don’t plan on doing either, ever again.
All I say to Osian is, “Sort of,” hoping this half-answer puts an end to this line of enquiry.
“And is this… ‘sort of’”—he says ‘sort of’ in a good imitation of my answer—“why you’re having panic attacks?”
My God, he’s very fast, like a tennis player diving after a ball and hitting it back to score the winning point.
I’m almost afraid of what he might think of next. So I move the conversation to neutral topics. Safer topics, and no topic is safer than gardening.
“I found roses.” I leave the table and go to stand by the ornate stone balustrade. “Climbing roses. Lots of them.”
He doesn’t bite. I thought he might be intrigued enough to come and join me at the balustrade, but instead he leans back in his chair, expression lightly amused as if he knows I’m trying to change the subject.
After a moment, he asks, “What were you looking for when I found you? When you looked under the bushes.”
Oh, that! It’s hard to keep from grinning. “A slate border.”
Now he’s intrigued. In one easy fluid motion, he’s off his chair and by my side, scanning the wilderness. “And?”
“You can edge flowerbeds with anything. Grass, stone, rocks, bricks… even wood. The advantage of slate is that it’s thin, so the border is not visible from a distance. That’s an artistic choice. Which means—”
There’s an answering flame of interest in his eyes, and he answers before I’ve even finished talking. “It means whoever made it was creating something artistic; a shape in the ground.” He looks at the park again. “A shape only visible by its flowers.”
“Exactly.” My eagerness almost makes me hop on the spot.
“And slate, unlike the wood of the trellises, doesn’t rot.
It’s all there waiting to be uncovered.” I lean over the balustrade, looking down on the bushes beneath.
“Today I found roses. Climbing roses.” I draw a curve in the air to show him the approximate location and shape.
“Climbing roses? What the hell are they climbing on?”
“My guess is a—”
“A trellis,” he guesses.
“Not just that. An arcade. A tunnel of roses. I think this garden down there has been calling for someone to discover its secrets. That’s why my previous ideas didn’t fit, why I’ve been searching and searching in vain.
And”—I hug myself—“why the briars caught me earlier. To show me the key to this restoration. The roses and the flowerbeds – whatever that shape will turn out to be, I’m going to find it. ”
A warm breeze lifts the ends of my hair and a loose lock falls across my eyes.
Osian reaches over and catches it between thumb and forefinger to push it back from my face. “Evie…” His voice has gone rough.
I wait for him to continue, but he seems to be struggling with something. At last, he says, “Talking about this… I don’t know how but you’re glowing like a fire. This really is your dream job, isn’t it?”
“I told you.” I have to drag in a breath because he’s giving me a very intense look.
“I shouldn’t have doubted you. No one can fake this much passion about a flowerbed. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you the other day.” He folds his arms tight over his chest, and I think he’s doing that to stop himself touching my hair again.
My heart suddenly wakes up and thumps hard in my chest. I want to hug him. And I suspect he would hug me, too.
But he’s right. This is my dream job – my future – and I’m not going to risk it by falling in love with him. Not again.