Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s like watching an earthquake play out on screen: the empty champagne glasses on my tray begin to shiver and shake so violently it’s as though the ground is moving. The glasses knock together, making a tinkling sound, and a few people in front of me turn around to look at what’s causing the commotion. And then it’s like a ripple effect, a wave of attention, which all too quickly reaches the people on the steps.
I see him glance my way briefly, and in the split second before he does a double take, I wonder if I’m mistaken, if he might be a lookalike or a long-lost twin. But then his eyes clash with mine, and his face freezes with shock.
I stare back at him, a mirror image of disbelief. His hair is shorter, not as shaggy or wild, but a few strands still fall carelessly into his eyes. He’s wearing a fitted white shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal the edges of his collarbone, and his skin is golden, his cheekbones high, his jawline sharp.
It’s Ash. It’s Ash. But how can it be? How can that man up on those steps be my Ash, my easy-going, salt-of-the-earth Ash? What’s happened to his accent, his attractive Welsh lilt? Who is that posh impostor?
The statue comes to life just as I back away, trembling, glasses chiming. Peter Berkeley has begun talking again and people have faced forward to listen, paying no more heed to the incompetent waitress at the back. As carefully as I can, I set the tray on the ground before I drop it. My hands have turned to jelly, but it’s my heart I fear for the most, it’s beating so hard and fast. I look back over at the steps in time to see Ash break free of his parents, the crowd surging as he pushes his way into the throng, but I don’t wait to see what happens next.
I make it to the rose garden before I hear his voice.
‘ELLIE!’ he shouts.
It almost brings me to my knees. I feel as though I’m having an out-of-body experience as I slowly turn around and see him striding towards me in a panic, his hand held up, begging me to wait.
‘Ellie,’ he says, coming to a stop a couple of metres away. ‘It’s you! It’s really you.’
‘Who are you?’ I ask in an appalled whisper, shaking my head. I can’t comprehend his upper-class accent. I’m vibrating with shock. What’s going on?
‘Ellie, it’s me. It’s Ash. Lisbon. Six years ago,’ he says desperately, misunderstanding my horrified bewilderment.
‘I know who you are,’ I reply unsteadily. ‘But I don’t know who you are. You live here? This is your home? Your name is Ashton Berkeley ? Those are your parents?’
He looks tormented as he gives me a single measured nod.
‘You sound different,’ I say hoarsely.
‘I’m still the same person.’
I shake my head. ‘No, you’re not.’
Heat hits the backs of my eyes.
‘Ellie,’ he murmurs, reaching out to me as my vision goes blurry.
‘No,’ I say quickly, backing up. ‘Was that Beca ?’
I’m almost too scared to ask.
He halts where he’s standing. He looks the same, a bit broader, perhaps, but his eyes are still peach-iced-tea brown, clear, flawless, and gleaming with what now looks like regret as he nods.
‘Is she your girlfriend now? Was she always your girlfriend?’ My heart jolts at the thought.
‘No!’ he exclaims.
‘She’s not your girlfriend?’ Which question is he saying no to?
‘No, she is, but—’
‘Or is she your fiancée?’
He seems to shrink a little, wilting. ‘Not yet.’ He sounds strained. He starts towards me and stops. ‘I am the same person, I swear.’
I shake my head. ‘Your voice. Your accent.’ I can’t get over it.
He hesitates. And then he says, in the exact same Welsh lilt I remember from my dreams, ‘Would it help if I spoke like this?’
I’m so taken aback at hearing him switch seamlessly from one persona to another that I reel backwards, staggering into a rose bush. And it hits me like a slap in the face that this is the reason why he didn’t turn up in Madrid, why he left me heartsick and broken. Because everything about him was a lie. We’re from two completely different worlds, and he knew it, even if I didn’t.
He lurches forward, trying to help me, but I’m so freaked out that I don’t want him anywhere near me. His strong hands circle my forearms and he pulls me out of the thorns.
‘Get off me!’ I shriek, but it’s too late, because he’s already setting me back on my feet. And now he’s right there .
I shove his chest to create more distance between us and he stumbles, his expression crestfallen.
‘ASH!’
We both look over to see Beca – Rebecca? Bex? – standing twenty metres or so away. Her expression is a picture of apprehension.
‘What’s going on?’ she demands to know.
Ash holds his palm up to her, a silent request for patience, but it’s all too much for me. I hurry away through the formal garden.
‘Ellie, wait!’
And now I’m running, instinct screaming at me to get away.
‘ Ash! ’ Beca calls, sounding hurt and incredulous.
‘I’ll be right back!’ I hear him shout at her.
He catches up with me on the dirt track leading to the walled garden. I left my shoes where they lay and I can’t run now on these stones.
‘Ellie, wait!’ he gasps as I gingerly but determinedly try to make my way home. ‘I can’t let you leave, not again.’
‘You don’t have a choice!’ I need space to get my head around this.
‘Ellie, please,’ he begs, and something in his tone has me looking over my shoulder at him.
I’ve never seen anyone look so frantic, so distressed. It stays me momentarily.
‘I cannot let you walk out of my life again,’ he says.
‘I’m not,’ I reply, my head buzzing, my thoughts scattered.
‘Not?’
‘Not walking out of your life.’ I nod down the track before meeting his eyes. ‘I live here.’
A flicker of confusion crosses his features, followed by hope.
‘You live here?’ he repeats.
‘In the workers’ cottages,’ I confirm.
‘Wait.’ He shifts his weight from one leg to another, still staring at me, still uncomprehending. ‘You work here?’
‘In the gardens.’
His expression morphs into wonder, and then a few seconds pass and his eyes soften, the tension in his shoulders loosening.
‘You did it,’ he whispers.
The look on his face unravels something in me. He’s proud, I realise.
My body begins to turn towards him.
But I don’t even know who this man is. He has no right to feel proud of me or my achievements.
‘Go back to your girlfriend, Ashton ,’ I say bitterly.
This time, he lets me go.