Chapter Twenty-three
“The thing is,” I explain, “Garden Rebirth is a small niche programme. It airs on a channel with modest audience numbers.”
“I used to watch it,” he says. “Mostly because I liked your work.”
He winces. Clearly he understands because he too was once famous.
“That’s why you came here. To the middle of nowhere.”
“No, I came here because Kendric Park had this amazing opportunity,” I say with a genuine smile. “It was an unexpected bonus. But yes, you’re right. I had to”—I emphasise—“had to leave Styler TV. That drunken night ended my TV career.”
“You don’t sound sorry?”
It’s interesting that his attention is more on me and how I feel rather than the facts. I’ve never had a man care so much.
“I’m not sorry at all. That job had already evolved away from the original concept; it had become more show business than real horticulture.
But…” I purse my lips, remembering that resignation meeting with the Head of Productions.
“When I left at a tricky time of expansion, my bosses were not happy.”
“They threatened you?” He guesses fast like hitting a ball back, the ace tennis champion he used to be.
“In television, programmes are filmed several months before broadcast. Reliability is super important because it takes time to replace a presenter, particularly in a specialised programme like Garden Rebirth. So when I walked out with no notice…”
He frowns. “Didn’t your contract stipulate a notice period?”
I nod. “They said I’d have to forego three months’ wages. To me it was worth it. I couldn’t afford to be in the episodes with any of the celebrities or royals. But my boss made it clear I’d never work in television ever again. In our industry, reputation is everything.”
“Ah,” he says, getting the implication. “So you burnt your bridges.” Then his eyes fill with understanding. “And if you don’t make a success of the gardens here, you have nowhere to go. Hence the panic attacks?”
“That and the fear of going viral, becoming a national joke. Family and old friends seeing me as a ridiculous failure.”
His eyes widen with disbelief.
“I don’t mind that I failed. It happens. I just don’t want it so public,” I explain.
He squeezes my hand. “Evie, in my tennis days, I lost a lot of games. You can miss balls, double fault, even land flat on your face, but still win the match.” His voice softens.
“You falling for the wrong guy – and drowning your sorrow in a night of alcohol and casual sex – they’re just small lost balls in the bigger match. You still have it all to win.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, feeling very emotional.
“I appreciate you sharing your story. And you have my word: none of this will go any further.” He lets go of my hand, and I have to try really hard not to cling to his.
Just then, the waitress comes to clear our plates.
I wonder for a minute if she’s a different woman because she’s taken her hair down and has found earrings and more lipstick. Her skirt also seems to have become a lot shorter.
“Can I bring you the dessert menu?”
I don’t bother answering because all her attention is on Osian.
He shoots me a questioning glance. I shake my head.
“No, thanks.” He hands her the vinaigrette bottle.
“Ydych chi'n aros yn y t? mawr?” she asks, and I have the distinct impression that she’s speaking Welsh to exclude me.
Osian meets her eyes. “Yes. Kendric House.”
“Gallaf eich gyrru adref os ydych am gael cwrw arall.”
I don’t need to know Welsh to understand the frank look she gives him.
“That’s very nice of you, but I think we might be just leaving.” Osian looks at me. “The rain has stopped for the moment. Let’s go while the going is good.”
We push our chairs back. He says to the waitress, “Thank you very much.”
She gets the message and steps back because his body language couldn’t be clearer: he’s not interested.
It reminds me of that morning on the balcony when he seemed to retreat inside a glass bubble.
He must be used to this kind of come-on from women and has perfected the nice-but-discouraging signals.
As we walk past the table, I catch the waitress’s quick look at my clothes.
She’s probably wondering why someone who looks like me gets to ‘go home’ with a man so clearly out of my league.
Maybe I’m feeling a bit tender after discussing my failed engagement and the way Marcus had not really been interested in me.
The waitress’s judgement reminds me of my ex-best friend’s opinion that Osian was always out of my league.
That he never intended to take me out and was just being polite.
Was that what he’d done? Giving me nice-but-not-available signals which I never even saw because I was young and na?ve?
Either way, I get to see the signals now as we walk across the wet car park.
My thoughts, preoccupied with career change, try to work out why he became a gardener. It’s not exactly an obvious segue from championship tennis to weeding and getting your fingernails filthy.
“Am I allowed to ask you a personal question?”
The strangest expression passes over his face. “You’re worried I might not be safe to drive after a pint of lager.” His response sounds so much like friendly banter, if it wasn’t for the sudden chill.
This is the game he’s good at playing: pretending not to understand when he doesn’t want to answer.
The car unlocks with a small pip; he opens the door and offers me a hand to help me up to the Jeep’s passenger seat.
We drive through Llancaradoc village in an awkward silence.
What the hell happened? It can’t be that I wanted to ask him a personal question. He just made me tell him my green room fiasco story. Surely, this entitles me to a little trust from him.
Osian is preoccupied and he’s done that trick of his: withdrawing into himself so even in the small space inside the Jeep, he’s put an acre of wasteland between us.
The ten-minute journey seems to last an hour and a half until he drives up the hill that separates the village from Kendric Park.
A thought nags at me. Did he freeze after I asked him or before? Was he already silent when we left the pub, but I hadn’t noticed because I’d been deep in my own thoughts and memories? What if…
What if he began to freeze after the waitress tried to hit on him? What if that easily deflected offer also reminded him that our relationship had crossed into something more personal? Reminded him that he’d been holding my hand for the best part of ten minutes.
The more I think about it, the clearer it seems. He’s been carried away on a wave of care and compassion, my story of misfortune. And this caring man, who can’t resist helping, had forgotten himself for a minute and later realised it and pulled back.
As we drive through the ornate iron gates of Kendric Park, he suddenly breaks the silence.
“I’ll drop you off at the house, but I’m going on for a long drive; the car needs it to clear the pipes.”
The car needs it, or he does?
“Okay.” I do my best to sound unaware of the rejection. Not sure I succeed.
All too soon, he pulls up in front of the great double doors. My seatbelt is already unclipped, my hand on the door handle even before he’s stopped. If he doesn’t want me in his space, I don’t want to be here a second longer than necessary. But then he lays a hand on my elbow.
“Evie,” he says quietly.
A part of me wants to get out of the car anyway. Except leaving in a huff would make it obvious I’m upset. So I pause, one foot already half out.
“Close the door for a minute.”
I do. At least without letting myself say ‘okay’ again because that makes me sound meek and compliant.
He takes his time coming to the point; whatever it is can’t be easy. There’s that vertical frown line between his eyebrows. Finally, he speaks as if each word is wrapped in thorny rose briars. “I won’t answer questions about my wife, so please don’t be offended if… you know.”
“No, I’d never ask anything like that. Not in a million years. I promise you,” I rush to assure him.
He exhales as if he’d been holding his breath. “I just wanted to lay ground rules so there’s no friction later. That subject is out of bounds.” Already he sounds much more relaxed.
If there’s a clenched feeling of rejection around my heart, I push it down. “You don’t have to worry.”
He gives me a grateful look. Another one of those looks that make me want to hug him.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’d like us to be friends, especially if we’re going to work together.”
I want to offer him my hand to shake but am too afraid he’ll refuse it. So I just say, “Friends.”
He nods and turns the keys in the ignition to start the car. “See you tomorrow morning.”
“Good night.” I climb out of the car and go inside.