Chapter Fourteen
“I’ve never been anyone’s nemesis before,” Forrest says, holding on for dear life as the golf buggy rattles off down the gravel
track, deep into the wilder grounds of the castle. Our driver is a lad of about eighteen, who leapt behind the wheel with
suspicious amounts of enthusiasm.
“Last one there gets the drinks in,” one of his mates hollers, and yes, I am watching a golf buggy do a wheel spin and take
off into the night at, I don’t know, twenty miles an hour. I never thought I could feel so unsafe in an electric vehicle.
“Oh, you have,” I assure him, holding on to one of the canopy poles for dear life, while trying to look nonchalant. “People
like you always do. You probably just didn’t realise.”
“People like me?” Forrest asks.
“Yes, funny, charming, attractive,” I say.
“Worst insult ever.” Forrest grins.
“I mean, people like you have it easy.” I remember his lost wife. “A lot of the time.”
“I think that’s probably fair.” He nods. “It is true that I haven’t met many people who are as clear on their feelings about me as you are.”
Our driver, who—judging by his prowess behind the wheel—has ambitions of being a getaway driver, takes a sharp bend in the
track way too fast.
“Two wheeler!” He whoops with delight as I slide across the seat and collide into Forrest, who is forced to brace his arms
on the back of the kid’s seat to avoid exiting the vehicle completely. For a moment our faces are millimetres apart. I can
feel the muscles in his arms tense against my shoulder.
“It’s just that you threw wine on me,” Forrest says once I have scuttled back to my side of the buggy. “And I don’t hold a grudge. Okay, I hold a small grudge,
but I’m over it now. I mean, yes, I fundamentally disagree with everything you stand for, and I think AI will result in the
end of humanity, but I’ve never had any negative feelings about you personally, Ava. Or not many anyway.”
“Good for you,” I say as the buggy skids to halt in a rough grassy field and the kid jumps out to wave in his friends who
are arriving after him, with everyone else. I see Rani and Alex laughing together, and Hal hopping out of his buggy and staring
up at the sky in awe.
“Gemma used to say that I was born in the wrong century,” Forrest says, making no effort to get out of the cart, even as everyone
else begins to head over to the gate and into the field.
“Gemma was your wife?” I ask. It seems wrong to hurry him when he’s talking about her.
“Yes.” His voice drops a note. “Yes, she thought I was ridiculous too. We met at art college. There was I, still trying to paint like da Vinci and Michelangelo, and there she was, building these massive, incredible, abstract installations.” His smile, lit by the dim lights of the other buggies, is broad and full of affection.
“Gemma said I should have been born in fifteenth-century Italy, and even after we were married she never changed her mind about that. She was telling me I wasn’t meant for the twenty-first century right up until the day she . . .”
That frown returns, and Forrest drops his head into shadow.
“For what it’s worth, I am really sorry,” I say. “Sorry that you lost someone you loved so much, and truly sorry that I ruined
the shirt she gave you. If Rani can’t fix it, I’ll buy you an identical one. I know it won’t be the same, but then at least
maybe your daughter won’t notice the difference.”
“Thank you,” Forrest says. Ahead of us the others are heading off towards the middle of the field where a few lanterns direct
the way. “Gemma hand made it, she called it my renaissance man shirt, so . . . that won’t be possible. But don’t worry, it
was a gift to me from her and my daughter, but Artie was only a baby when Gemma passed. She won’t know.”
“Artie is your daughter?” I ask.
“Yes, short for Artemisia. She’s six now,” Forrest says. “I’m hoping she might get out here to join me next week. When she
heard I was going to live in a castle, she nearly exploded with excitement.”
“Castles are cool,” I admit. “So, you’ve been a single parent since your little girl was a baby?”
“Oh no, not really,” Forrest says. “It takes a village, right?”
“Guys!” our driver shouts, beckoning us over. “Come on or you’re going to miss it!”
“I didn’t think stars went anywhere,” Forrest says as he gets out of the buggy. He offers me his hand, which after a moment I take and let him help me out.
“Well, the stars in the Milky Way travel at around two hundred and fifty kilometres per second,” I tell him, as I climb over
the stile, a sort of ladder that people can climb, but sheep can’t, and get a glimpse of the telescopes set up in the field.
“This is actually going to be really cool.”
“Any chance of a truce for tonight at least?” Forrest asks. “It’s just I think stargazing would be so much more relaxing without
the whole mortal enemy thing.”
“The enormity of the universe does kind of make our petty troubles seem insignificant,” I say. “Fine, truce for tonight. Now
hurry up. I want to find out if we can see the rings of Saturn through one of those things.”
“We can see planets?” Forrest asks.
“Oh, you are about to have your mind blown, my temporary friend,” I tell him.