Chapter Eighteen
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I need time to process what’s just happened, but I don’t have it: Sian arrives home from holiday minutes later. It takes every ounce of strength I have to fix on a smile and pretend that nothing’s out of the ordinary.
‘Hello!’ she exclaims, bustling through the front door.
She’s about five foot three and curvy, with one of the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen.
‘Come here, roomie,’ she says warmly, dropping her carry-on bag to the floor with a thump and opening her arms. ‘Bring it in.’
I laugh and step into her arms.
‘Jesus, you’re tall.’ She releases me and cranes her neck as I straighten up.
Evan has just come in behind her with her suitcase.
‘How was your holiday?’ I ask, somehow managing to throw a lasso around the headfuck of thoughts wreaking havoc on my mind.
‘Too bloody hot. I’m not built for warm weather.’
‘We’ve had a few warm days here too,’ I tell her.
‘Urgh,’ she groans, pushing her hands into her thick dark curls and giving them a shake as she adds, ‘I’ve heard it’s going to be a long, hot summer. You’d better get the sprinkler on me, Evan,’ she calls over her shoulder as she wanders into the kitchen and picks up the kettle.
I like the way she says Evan. Bethan speaks so fast, but Owain – and Sian, it seems – have a slower, more melodic way of speaking. Their syllables are more pronounced, more deliberate-sounding: EV-aan.
Sian swirls the water inside the kettle indecisively and then goes to fill it from the tap.
‘Are you having a cuppa?’ she asks me.
‘Sure.’
He was broken when he lost you. While everyone else was grieving for Hugo, Ash was grieving for you.
I give my head a small shake and try to concentrate.
Has Beca really left Ash? It can’t be over between them. It makes no sense.
‘Sorry, what?’ I realise Sian has just asked me something.
‘You looked to be in your own little world there. Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk.’
‘Are you having one, Evan?’
‘No, I’m holding out for a beer.’ He leans against the kitchen counter and folds his arms, smiling at me.
There’s a jaunty knock on the back door, but Bethan doesn’t wait for us to answer it. ‘Sian!’ she cries, swooping in for a hug right past where Evan’s standing.
Sian laughs. ‘All right, all right, get off me, I’ve only been away two weeks.’
‘It’s been too long. I’ve missed you.’
‘You’ve missed my carrot cake.’
‘I have really missed your carrot cake,’ Bethan agrees wholeheartedly.
Ash is at the ranger’s cabin in the woods. He’s upset right now, but I’m sure you’ll console him .
I feel as though I’ve just gone downhill in a rollercoaster.
About half an hour is all I can manage before I crack and text him.
Are you OK?
I keep coming back to the message as the afternoon lengthens into evening, but there’s no indication that he’s read it.
Everyone who lives at the cottages is here tonight and the camaraderie is in full swing. When I’m three glasses of sangria in – Sian has been in Spain and she was insistent on recreating her favourite holiday tipple – I text him again. If Ash needs cheering up, this is where he should be.
Sian is back from holiday and we’re all having a BBQ , I tap out. You should come.
I hope he’ll understand that I still don’t want anyone to know about us, but I also hope he’ll see that I care.
But this message remains unread too.
I can’t do this. I have to see him.
My head is swimming, but alcohol has not deadened my nerves nearly enough as I go back inside. Luckily, I have the presence of mind to make sure my bedroom door is closed so Sian will think I’ve slipped away to bed, then I change into my gardening boots and grab my raincoat and a torch on my way out the front door.
The sounds of my new friends laughing and talking carry across the fields as I set off along the farm track, and if I look over my shoulder, I can still see light shining from the back of the cottages. But once I turn off onto the narrower track at the bend in the road, the high hedges on either side block out all artificial light. I reach into my coat pocket for my torch and hesitate, noticing that the clouds have broken apart to reveal a starry sky. I decide to give my eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness and they do, surprisingly quickly.
As the damp night folds around me, I leave the noises of the party behind, walking at a swift pace as the road begins to incline uphill. Tall trees loom out of the darkness and an owl hoots as I make my way into the forest. The starlight doesn’t stand a hope in hell of filtering down through the thick tree cover, so I have to turn on my torch, and weirdly, the artificial light makes my surroundings feel more ominous. I’m a little on edge as I search for the cottage, but when I find it, all is quiet and dark.
My heart sinks. What if Ash is asleep? What if he’s not even here? I feel dejected at the thought of turning around and walking the half-hour return journey without seeing him.
Bracing myself for disappointment, and hoping that I’m not going to piss off a very tired man, I walk up to the cabin door and knock.
Silence greets me.
I knock again and back away, looking up at the first-floor windows for any signs of life.
Nada.
Swearing under my breath, I pull out my phone, checking to see if he’s responded to my text messages, but I’m not even sure he’s read them. Should I call him? No, I can’t even do that, I realise: there’s no mobile reception.
So maybe he hasn’t received my messages. Then I see his motorbike. He must be around somewhere …
Skirting the outside of the cottage, I notice something beyond the tree trunks up ahead: long green grass. I realise that the trees stop at the edge of a grassy hilltop.
‘Who’s there?’ I hear someone shout from off in the distance.
‘Ash? It’s me!’ I shout back.
‘Ellie?’
I catch him in the beam of my torch. He’s right at the top of the hill, sitting up, using his hand to shield his eyes from the light.
‘Sorry,’ I say, quickly switching it off as I venture out from under the trees, hoping the stars will light my way again.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks as I approach. His voice sounds raw.
‘I texted you.’
‘Did you?’
‘Beca told me you were here.’
‘Beca?’ He’s taken aback.
‘She came to see me.’
He’s just a silhouette in front of me now, but he’s risen to his feet. I can barely distinguish his features in the darkness, but I can see how tall he is, make out the breadth of his shoulders, the shape of his hair.
‘What did she say?’ he asks edgily.
‘That she was going back to London.’
‘Yeah. She left me.’ He sounds as though he has the weight of the world on his shoulders.
‘I’m sorry.’
My eyes have grown used to the darkness enough to see that trees encircle this entire hill. My toes touch the edge of something and I realise that I’ve stepped onto a rug.
‘Can I sit?’ I ask him tentatively.
‘Sure,’ he replies heavily, settling down beside me.
‘Is this the clearing where you and Taran used to camp out?’
‘You remember?’
‘I remember everything.’
There’s a beat, and then he folds over and begins to sob, and it’s utterly heart-wrenching.
‘Oh, Ash,’ I murmur, rubbing his back.
He’s wearing a dark-coloured hoodie and my hand bounces up and down as his body shakes violently beneath it.
‘I’m so sorry.’
He’s inconsolable. I hadn’t prepared myself for this level of grief. I’m out of my depth. He’s so in love with her, in so much pain.
‘Don’t give up on her.’ My chest contracts even as I say it.
‘You don’t understand,’ he chokes out, roughly brushing away his tears with the sleeve of his hoodie. ‘Once Beca’s made up her mind about something, she doesn’t change it.’
How my heart recoils at hearing him talk like this.
‘But you’ll still try, right? You love her.’
‘Of course I love her. After Taran, she was my closest friend. That’s why I’m so fucking sad. I’ve just lost another friend.’ He buries his head in his hands and lets out an anguished sob.
‘Ash,’ I murmur again.
‘Sorry,’ he gasps. ‘I shouldn’t be crying to you.’
‘Do you want me to go?’
‘No,’ he replies adamantly. ‘No. I don’t.’
I drape my arm around his back, resting my chin on his shoulder, and after a moment he lets his weight fall against me.
We just sit there next to each other, in silence, and eventually his breathing settles into a slow, even pace.
My insides are a mangled, writhing mess, but I’m trying not to think about how much I’m hurting right now.
I lift my head to look at the stars. There’s a super bright one, right near the horizon.
‘Do you know what that star is called?’
‘It’s not a star, they’re two planets.’ His voice is still laden with emotion. ‘There’s a close conjunction between Jupiter and Mars tonight.’
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘It’s when the planets align. They look like they’re practically on top of each other, but they’re almost three hundred and fifty million miles apart.’
His tone has lifted a little and I realise that my questions might be a welcome distraction.
‘Huh. How interesting. I heard there was a lunar eclipse the night I arrived. Something about a rare spectacular blood moon? I saw pictures of it on TV the next morning.’ I’d woken up early and watched the news. ‘I was a bit gutted to miss it.’
‘You didn’t miss much. It clouded over in the night.’
‘Ah, okay.’ A few seconds pass. ‘The thing I really want to know,’ I say slowly. ‘The thing that has kept me awake at night …’
He tilts his head towards me, waiting.
‘… is how can it be called a full moon if it’s only half a moon that’s lit up?’
He releases a small laugh. ‘Do you really want an answer to that question?’
‘Have you got one?’
‘No.’
I giggle at him. He flinches and a second later he drags his hand over his face, leaving it buried in his palm. I’m worried that he’s going to start crying again, but he doesn’t. I can just hear his jagged breathing.
‘Another thing I’m curious about …’ I’m trying to stop him from retreating into his own pain again. ‘Why is it called moonlight when it’s actually sunlight that’s reflected back at us? Is there any such thing as moon light ?’
I’m staring up at the sky, but out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn his face towards me again.
‘I missed you,’ he whispers, and his voice sounds so plaintive, so full of longing.
And maybe I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself from sliding my arms around his neck. His hands come around my back and he pulls me towards him, but I wish we were closer. I give him a small squeeze and let him go before I do something stupid.
‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ I ask. ‘She said she knew who I was when she saw me at the party.’
I hear his heavy swallow. ‘Yeah, I used to talk about you a lot.’ He releases a long breath. ‘After Hugo had his accident, I was so fucked up, but I still believed I’d be able to get in touch with you somehow. I don’t think it really hit me until after the funeral that I had no way of finding you. I didn’t have Stella’s book, we hadn’t exchanged surnames or addresses. How did we not do that?’
‘I’ve asked myself the same question. So many times ,’ I reply disconsolately. ‘I think that sort of detail felt like small talk, inconsequential. We were in so much deeper than that.’
He leans his weight into me a little harder, bringing me closer. I rest my knees against his. My heart is jumpy and light.
‘Are you warm enough?’ he asks gently.
‘I’m okay. Still cooling down after the walk.’
‘You walked up here?’ he asks with surprise.
‘Yeah. Why? How did you think I got here?’
‘I hadn’t actually thought about it, but I would have assumed you’d brought a car.’
‘No. Walked.’
‘You just set off, in the dark, and hiked all the way into the woods to a house you’ve only been to once before?’ I can tell that he’s smiling.
‘Yes. Why are you smiling?’
‘I just like that about you. I like your adventurous spirit.’
‘You think I have an adventurous spirit?’
‘You slept on a beach with me.’
‘Well, we didn’t do much sleeping,’ I quip.
He lets out a laugh, but the sound cuts off abruptly, as though his thoughts have turned to Beca. He must feel like he’s being disloyal, thinking about us at our most intimate moments.
‘So Beca knew about me,’ I prompt, putting space between us by wrapping my arms around my knees.
‘Yeah. She saw me at my worst after I realised I’d lost you. I was obsessed with finding you. I was like that for years. We only got together at Christmas, so she couldn’t believe it when you turned up here.’
‘You only got together at Christmas?’ I ask with surprise, my mind half caught on ‘obsessed with finding you’ .
‘Christmas Eve.’
‘And before that?’
‘We were friends. She broke up with her boyfriend just before Christmas and she was seriously pissed off at him. We got hammered on tequila and … I don’t know how it happened, actually, but … Yeah.’
I don’t want to know the details and yet I’m morbidly curious to find out how their relationship veered into romantic territory.
‘I remember you telling me that you thought she might have feelings for you.’
‘That’s right,’ he replies quietly. ‘I loved her too, platonically. But I was under pressure from my parents to get married and have kids—’
‘And produce the twenty-second Viscount Berkeley,’ I interrupt him. I don’t mean to sound judgy.
‘You’ve been doing your research.’
‘Evan mentioned that twenty-one generations of Berkeleys have lived here. I’m presuming you’re the twenty-first, the next to inherit?’
‘Mmm,’ he replies shortly.
‘That’s a lot of pressure.’
He doesn’t say anything in response, but after a moment he rakes his hand through his hair. ‘Anyway, I thought we owed it to ourselves to give it a shot,’ he says brusquely.
I frown into the darkness, lost in thought. I’m holding my breath as I ask, ‘Were you going to propose to her on the steps at your parents’ anniversary party?’
‘No!’ He sounds alarmed.
‘It’s just that I heard a couple of people talking about it. “Berkeley and Bex will be next!”’
He groans. ‘You probably met some of the people I went to school with.’
‘I didn’t meet anyone. I was an invisible waitress.’
My words hang heavy in the air.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘Finish telling me about Beca. I’m sorry, we keep getting distracted.’
‘There’s not much more to say. She wanted me to talk to you. I suspect she thought I’d get some sort of closure if I did, but when I went to see her after you and I spoke last weekend, she was distraught. It was as though I’d failed a test I didn’t know she’d set me. Things have been really bad over this last week. She was so convinced I’d leave her to pursue something with you that she decided to get ahead of the curve.’
My mind is tripping and stumbling over his words, trying to keep up.
‘How could Beca think that you’d leave her for me?’ I ask, perplexed. ‘She’s known you all your life. I knew you for three days.’
He doesn’t answer my question. His face is tilted up towards the stars.
I wonder if Beca let Ash go because she believed that he’d come back to her. Does she think that if she gives him his freedom, he’ll realise himself that he and I could never work?
Because we can’t work. This isn’t a life I was born into, and it isn’t a life I would want my children to be born into either. I could never rub shoulders with the upper classes day in, day out. I don’t fit into Ash’s world and I have no interest in trying to.
Beca, on the other hand, was raised to walk through a life like this. She’d be a perfect Viscountess Berkeley, the sort of wife and mother of his children that Ash needs. And she’s his closest friend. He loves her.
They’re meant to be together. I’m the one who needs to walk away.