Chapter Twenty-one
What am I doing? Shampooing my hair and applying a generous amount of my nicest fragrant conditioner so my hair will smell nice. As if preparing for a date. As if setting myself up for a fall.
Because this isn’t a date.
The look on Osian’s face when he suggested this talk was all business.
Just business. Otherwise, he’d have suggested something slightly swankier than the village pub.
No need to dress up. In fact, better dress down so there’s no false expectation in my mind. Clean jeans, trainers and a hoodie should be adequate.
The Caradoc Arms sounded like a little workman’s pub with a dartboard and pool table.
But it turns out to be a large and rather pretty pink-washed inn.
Flower baskets hang by the entrance, and the mullioned windows have bullseye glass.
We go through to the back room which has tables laid for dinner.
“I don’t think I’m dressed for posh nosh.” I glance down at my jeans.
“You look fine,” he says, with an irritating lack of concern.
“Why do men always say that?”
“Why do women always imagine they need to dress up for a simple drink?”
“Because we hate to be mistaken for the plumber.”
He gives me a once-over. “Nah! You don’t look anywhere near rich enough to be a plumber. They make a killing. Maybe a plumber’s apprentice.”
I laugh. “I hate you.”
“Come on, it’s a village pub; nobody cares.” He glances towards the bar. “What do you want?”
“Something citrussy and refreshing, please.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “A mojito? An orange margarita? Isn’t there some fashion rule about drinking trendy cocktails while wearing plumbing clothes?”
“You said I looked fine.”
“You look fine for a pint of lager, and fish and chips.”
“Wow. You’re treating me to fish and chips?”
“Nothing if not flash, me.” He puffs up his chest, making me laugh.
“Actually, I was thinking a jug of ice water with many slices of lemon.”
“You’re a cheap date.”
He didn’t really mean date. It’s blindingly obvious by his expression after the words come out of his mouth. I’m all too familiar with the way men regret words they didn’t really mean.
“If you find us a table, I’ll order the food.” Osian calls me back from my internal thoughts.
“Cod with salad instead of chips, please.” I swivel away and go in search of a table.
Now that he’s buying me dinner, it would have been nice to look a bit more presentable.
Then like a flash, I remember the pretty purple party dress I’d bought for our date sixteen years ago.
I push the memory away and lock my mental gates against it. The women he likes are adorable, flirty and sexy. Nora is closer to the mark than me. And besides, haven’t I learnt my lesson after what just happened with Marcus and Ian? Mixing work with love only leads to disaster.
In my life, only one relationship doesn’t end with disappointment; only one love that is requited and rewarding and gives me back twice as much as I put in. Gardens.
Osian comes over with a tray. On it are two bottles of water, one sparkling, one still. A jug half-filled with ice and lemon slices, a couple of empty glasses and a pint of lager.
“I forgot to ask what water you like.” He places both bottles on the table and asks with his eyes.
“Doesn’t matter, a mix would be good.”
He opens both bottles and pours equal amounts into the jug, making the ice float to the top and bubbles fizz around the lemon slices.
Who needs champagne?
He sits and takes a small sip from his pint, then licks the foam from his upper lip; I have to work very hard at pushing away thoughts of what else his lips can do.
“I wish I knew what you’re thinking.” His question makes my heart thump and heat flood my face.
“You have this way of disappearing inside your own head,” he goes on. “Sometimes, you can carry on a lively conversation while all the time your mind is somewhere else.”
“It’s very useful in TV. You have an earpiece that the producers and crew talk through,” I explain, glad of something to divert the question away from where my thoughts really had been.
“Sometimes they’re telling you things and sometimes they’re talking to one another.
You learn to keep talking to camera, even when there’s a whole other conversation going on about lighting and booms.”
“So what were you thinking earlier?”
I take a deep breath. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
The appraising look he gives me says he’s not fooled. “Earlier in the garden when Noel the tree surgeon told you about the trees, you looked like you’d worked out the riddle about the five colours.”
Osian, too, is not answering my question, not coming to the point. “You brought me all the way to Llancaradoc so you can ask me about the trees?”
“No, but now we’re here I might be having second thoughts about what I wanted to discuss.” This time his expression isn’t teasing but serious.
And slightly worried.
“Because it’s a personal question?” I hazard.
“Yes,” he says shortly. No sign he’s going to say more.
“Well, you’d better ask it, otherwise it’s going to keep me up at night.”
He considers this before appearing to make a decision. Finally!
“Are you worried about the amount of work?” he begins. “Your original plan to take the garden in stages doesn’t seem…” He leaves the last sentence hanging.
“Doesn’t seem practical if the fans are to be replanted?” I say, guessing his meaning. He’s right. For the fans design to work, it needs to be all of them. Anyone can see that. Otherwise, why have we dug up everything? And that’s before even thinking about the rose arcade.
“Yes.” I drink some cold water to help with my dry mouth. “Unless it’s all planted very soon, we’ve only made room for more weeds to grow.”
“So you’ll have to hire help.”
I pour myself another glass of water, holding a spoon inside the lip of the jug to stop all the ice from coming through. “The young boys from the village are very nice, but they have no interest in gardening. And their talents lie more in pulling up than planting.”
He nods his agreement because we both remember how eagerly they competed with one another to see who could pull out the most weeds near the slate borders.
“So unless I can grow six more arms and squeeze seventy more hours out of every day, yes I have to hire help.”
He hesitates to ask the next logical question.
“And yes, it’s going to cost more money than I can afford. A lot more than I have in my bank. I will have to take out a second mortgage on my London flat.”
It’s more information than I really need to give someone not directly involved in my life or my finances.
But I’m still at this early stage when I am thinking aloud, so the words just come.
There’s also another reason: part of me wants to know why he’s asking.
Why he’s been chewing this question for a few days, unable to ask it. What could it possibly matter to him?
“You seem very sanguine about this?” And his eyes continue to study me as if looking for something.
“You know what they say: if it can’t be avoided, it has to be accepted. And for me, if I must accept something then I may as well go all in and embrace it.”
“Make lemonade?” he asks with a soft smile.
“No.” Another sip from my water. “I’ll make limoncello, lemon martini, Petroni lemon cream, vodka lemon sour, drop de citrone and lemon fizz cocktail.”
His lips quiver. “For someone who doesn’t drink, you certainly know a lot of liqueurs.”
Yeah, the thought makes my mouth taste suddenly bitter like I’ve chewed on a lemon rind.
I used to be very good at making cocktails; it was a speciality. My ex used to joke, “Evie might be a disaster in the kitchen, but she’s a genius with a drinks cabinet.”
Had I not been hungry for love, I might have noticed long ago that this wasn’t a compliment.
Osian’s soft voice calls me back. “Evie? Where did you go?”
Where indeed. The memory is still so sharp, not even my autopilot can rescue me. I just search for words and nothing comes. Osian must notice the shadows of heartbreak behind my face because he leans forward and reaches his hand towards mine.
“Tell me,” he says, so softly – almost like the way someone speaks during lovemaking.