Chapter Twenty-two
Unfortunately, the waitress arrives with our food and we both have to sit back and clear space for the plates.
She unloads the plates, giving him the cod and me the haddock. “What condiments would you like? I can ask the kitchen for more tartar sauce,” she says. It’s unusual because pub staff rarely ask; they just plonk down a cup full of sachets.
“This is fine. Thanks,” I say, but her attention is fixed on Osian.
He reaches over to take my plate and swaps it with his. “We’re good.”
She takes time arranging extra napkins. In fact, she lingers so long that I memorise the design of a tattoo on her wrist. Two hummingbirds intertwined.
“I didn’t want chips,” I tell Osian after she’s gone.
“It comes with it,” he says, too casually. “I ordered the salad as an extra.” He points his knife at a plate of rather sad-looking leaves and a dollop of coleslaw.
“Can you do me a favour?”
He raises his eyebrows in a question.
“When you start growing your vegetables, can you please grow some interesting salads and herbs?”
“First thing on my list, believe me,” he says, choosing a sachet of mayonnaise to squeeze over his chips. “After living in so many countries, I’ve learnt to appreciate salads.”
I try to push the chips to the side of my plate. “Take my chips. You only ordered them for me because you worried I might eat yours?”
“Not at all.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He looks sheepish. “So I’ve been told.”
“Don’t let it worry you.” I grin at him. “It’s a good thing to be bad at lying.” I slide the chips off my plate to pile high on top of his own. “And thank you for all this.”
“You can’t thank me for chips that you’re giving away.”
“I mean for being a friend.”
His face colours a little. He clears his throat. “I was actually about to suggest a way I might help.”
“Help?” Surely, we’re not talking about food anymore.
I watch him cut a bit of his fish, spear another chip with the same fork and dip both into a little mayo then a little ketchup before putting the lot into his mouth. How do men manage to devour huge forkfuls and not look graceless? Even the way he eats is sexy.
“You know I have a group starting in a few days,” he says when he’s had a little more of his food.
“I was going to set them to preparing vegetable patches. But it would work just as well to make them plant flowers. The aim is to plant something, care for it and watch it sprout. So…” He shoots me a questioning look.
“They could work on your flowerbeds just as easily. That way you get ten helpers for free.”
He goes back to eating, giving me time to digest the idea.
Free helpers.
“Presumably you would supervise them?” I ask.
“Of course, especially in the beginning because they are not professional gardeners, just people who’ve expressed an interest in learning. I’ll have to teach them what to do. And you will teach me what you want.”
I think about this. “Why are you trying to help me?”
“Why not?” He shrugs, playing this down.
“Do you think I might not cope; that I might have bitten off more than I can chew?”
“We all need support from time to time,” he says easily. “It’s a wonderful project and it will benefit all of the Kendric Park community.”
“There are several new and wonderful projects in Kendric House. Leonie and her café. Alex and the very exciting mosaics. Raff, even. Why aren’t you helping any of them? Why me?”
There!
Something flashes across his eyes. An expression instantly hidden, but not before I saw it.
“It’s just an offer.” He tries to sound casual. “Let’s forget it.”
“You really are a terrible liar.” My tone stays serious. “Again, why are you trying to help me?”
He puts his knife and fork down, wipes his lips with the napkin then puts that down. Here we go, he’s finally going to come clean.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re tenacious?”
“Stop hitting the ball back to my side.”
He smiles. “Old habits.”
When he sees I’m still waiting he draws in a long breath, preparing to talk.
“Forgive me, it’s none of my business. But a couple of weeks ago, you had a panic attack just looking down on the size of the garden.
And that was when it was just going to be ploughed up and you had a free hand with whatever you planted.
Now it’s ten times harder recreating an old design.
You must be…” He gives me a searching look. “Aren’t you panicking?”
In a flash of understanding, I see why he’s concerning himself so much.
This is a man who gave up his tennis career to look after his sick wife.
He’s one of those natural carers. If he hadn’t been a sportsman, he’d have been a doctor.
Even his own planting project is about helping people with mental health issues.
After my panic attack, he now sees me as another person in emotional trouble.
“My panic attack had little to do with the actual garden challenge.”
He doesn’t look convinced. I could easily find nice words to tell him to mind his own business, and he would.
But it’s hard now after the four or five days of back-breaking work he’s put into helping me – I can’t suddenly freeze him out.
I’ve never been able to put up barriers between me and people.
So here we are; I’ll have to tell him. And our closer friendship makes it harder, not easier.
Thank God, the restaurant part of the pub is quiet at 4:30pm.
The only sound is the clack of balls on the pool table in the saloon part on the other side of the arch.
The waitress is nowhere and even the barman must have moved to the other side of the bar. We are almost alone.
I gulp down a lot more icy water. “A few months ago, I discovered my fiancé was cheating on me.”
His eyes snap to my face at the unexpected direction of the conversation. He’d been expecting something to do with gardening, no doubt.
“It’s a story as old as the Romans,” I continue. “But when it happens to you, it feels like you’re the only one that’s ever been so… ambushed by love.”
Ambushed, and stupid. My eyes sting. Very, very stupid.
“You see, Marcus had chased me like I was the answer to his dreams. After six months together, he took me to Paris for the weekend. That first night, we walked up the steps to the Sacré-C?ur and sat there admiring the view. That’s when he proposed.
I was charmed, swept up in the romance of it all.
The view of all Paris below us, the dropping down on one knee, the champagne. ”
The bitterness of this seeps into my voice, but there’s no mockery in Osian’s eyes. No hint of how corny this must seem.
His expression is full of understanding. “It does sound very romantic.”
I scoff. “It turns out he wanted a job in TV and hoped I’d be his ticket. And you know?” I swallow but the shame still fills my mouth with bitterness. “He was right. I helped him. I actually created a job for him.”
I take a big gulp of water and wait for it to go down.
“Once he was in, he got busy shagging every blonde in sight. It seems he had a clear preference.” I pull lightly on the ends of my own brown hair.
Osian’s eyes widen. “What a scumbag.”
The memory still stings. Not just because I was in love with Marcus, which after a year of flowers and attention, I probably was a little.
No, what really hurt at the time was thinking that my family were right. And especially my school friend, Tricia. All of the people who didn’t think me anything special. Marcus was far too charming and everyone liked him. Why did I think he’d fall for me?
Now that I’m halfway through the story, I rush the rest, wanting it all out and finished.
“Anyway, the day I found out, I just couldn’t face going home and confronting him. Not that same night. So I stayed in my office working late. Ian, a friend on the production team, found me in tears at my desk and dragged me to the green room.”
“Green room?” Osian asks. “Is that like a greenhouse?”
“In television, the green room is where people – I mean show people: presenters, guests and so on – sit and wait before and after filming. It’s like a hospitality lounge.”
He nods, waiting for me to continue.
“Ian managed to pick the lock on the drinks cupboard. He made me laugh because we were ‘tea leaves’ now.”
Osian frowns and his eyes move as if he’s trying to work something out.
“You’re really not a Londoner, are you?” I have to smile despite the story. “Tea leaf is rhyming slang for a thief,” I explain. “Anyway, we ‘thieved’ a bottle of Grand Marnier and sat on the sofa. It was a large bottle. We drank the entire thing.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself,” Osian says softly. “I’ve been there.” His face is full of kindness. The way he looked when he helped me with the panic attack.
“Yeah, but in this case, we got quite pissed.”
He crooks an eyebrow. “I’ve been there too.”
“And one thing led to another.”
He makes a tiny head motion, up and down. “And that too. In my busy dating days.”
“But you haven’t been here.” I bite the inside of my lower lip then say, “Not unless you were caught on the security camera. And the next day, everyone at work had seen the footage.”
He grimaces. “How revealing was the film?”
“Not very, but enough so there’s no doubt what was happening. A bra getting flung over the back of the sofa. Boxer shorts kicked off and falling on the floor.” I reach for the glass, but it’s empty, so I just play with it, turning it around and around on the table.
Osian takes the water jug and pours me more. One of the ice cubes falls in with a plop, making the water splash a bit.
He wipes around the glass with his napkin.
Then he moves his empty plate out of the way, reaches for mine and moves it to the side.
After a moment, when I haven’t said anything, he reaches across the empty table between us and lays a gentle hand over mine.
“It probably feels a lot worse to you. I doubt people working in the media are such prudes. Half of them will have been up to similar shenanigans at some point. The gossip will soon die down and be replaced by newer gossip.”
True. If that had been all. But there was a further complication. The real reason I started waking up in the middle of the night with my heart pounding.