The Garden of Shared Stories

Chapter 1

EMMA

It had been an absolute horror of a day when it happened: clients demanding the impossible, my boss taking her frustration out on me and then, to top it all off, someone stealing my home-made salad from the communal fridge.

Now, as I stomped along the familiar path through the park towards home, I couldn’t get the injustice of it all out of my head.

Luckily, the more distance I put between me and the office, the more the fury began to subside, gradually reducing from a raging torrent to a trickle, until, in its place settled an exhaustion so intense I thought my legs might give way.

I stopped dead in the middle of the path, suddenly desperate to sit down.

To my right, a group of pre-teens were playing a rowdy game of rounders.

To my left, a few metres away, was the rose garden, inside which stood the bandstand that only occasionally hosted any music, but was a popular choice for teenagers to smoke and snog, away from parents’ prying eyes.

It was empty right now though, so I hurried towards it.

A cool breeze stirred the roses, and the sun hovered above the treetops like a large round of cheese as I sank gratefully onto the bench, closed my eyes, and tipped my face up towards the light.

As the evening sun warmed my skin, the tension began to leave my body, draining away like bath water down a plughole.

The light behind my eyelids glowed orange, and an occasional cheer from the rounders game drifted through my mind, barely causing a ripple.

In the old days, before Greg died, I would have wanted nothing more than to go straight home and off-load my worries and stresses of the day onto him.

He would have done the same in return and, although he rarely let the little things get to him in the way I knew I often did, it always helped to know we had each other’s backs, no matter what.

But these days the only thing I had to hurry home for was another depressing meal for one, a glass of wine, and re-watching episodes of Fleabag until my eyeballs shrivelled up.

It wasn’t the most appealing or enticing thought.

In fact it made the space inside me where Greg should be swell a little more, so that I felt even emptier than usual. I swiped at my cheek and took a deep breath in and—

‘Are you all right?’

My eyes flew open and when I turned my head there was a man beside me, watching me with a strange expression on his face. I hadn’t heard him approach and I felt suddenly vulnerable, sitting there with a damp face and no idea where this man had sprung from. I looked away without replying.

‘I’m really sorry to disturb you.’

I wanted to berate him for having disturbed me anyway, but I didn’t have the energy so instead I gave a small nod and stared out across the gardens. I hoped he’d get the hint and move away, but I could still feel him there, and eventually I looked back at him, saying nothing.

‘Sorry, I’m not a weirdo,’ he said, with a small smile. ‘I just hate seeing people sad. I should leave you be.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. But thank you.’

He hooked his right ankle onto his left knee and spread his fingers across his calf.

They were long and slender and, I couldn’t help but notice, ringless.

I glanced down at my own ring finger where the gold band I should have taken off months ago still sat, etching a groove into my skin.

A reminder of everything I’d lost. I don’t know why I did it to myself.

We sat in silence for a few minutes and I watched the rounders match in the distance, which seemed to have become more shouty since I’d sat down.

A little to the left, a dog squatted in the grass, its owner waiting patiently with a green bag.

I thought about Greg again, and how he would always laugh at people who carried bags of dog poo round with them, swinging from their belts like some kind of turdy treasure.

Despite my sadness, I felt a smile spread across my lips, marvelling at how something as simple as a dog doing its business could bring Greg so vividly into my mind again, as though he was still right beside me.

‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ said the voice.

The image of Greg popped like a balloon as I shook my head.

‘I’ve not lived here long,’ I said, more out of politeness than because I particularly wanted to start a conversation with this stranger. ‘I’m just on my way home from a shitty day at work.’

‘You too hey?’

I nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at me. Then: ‘You can tell me about it if you like. I’m a good listener. At least, that’s what people tell me.’

What I really wanted to do was get up and walk home and lock myself away from the world again. But I didn’t say that because I’m far too polite. ‘I’m okay, thank you.’

‘Fair enough.’ He leaned forward and I caught a glimpse of his dark blond hair out of the corner of my eye as he lifted a small rucksack from the floor onto his lap. ‘I know you’ve probably been told never to accept sweets from strangers, but would you like one?’

I glanced over at the bag he was offering me. It was a paper bag, blue, with yellow writing on it picking out the words ‘Pic ’n’ Mix’ and I smiled again despite myself. I peered inside the bag and raised my eyebrows at him.

‘Fizzy cola bottles, eh?’

He grinned, his teeth slightly crooked. Dimples appeared at the side of his mouth. I looked away again. ‘What can I tell you? I’m a child.’

I laughed and stuck my hand inside, pulled out a fizzy worm and a cola bottle and popped the worm in my mouth.

As I held it there a moment, letting the sugar fizz on my tongue, I tried to work out what it was that was snagging on my brain; what was slightly off about this moment.

But I couldn’t grasp it, and in the end I let it go and chewed my sweet slowly.

‘God, I haven’t had one of these for years,’ I said.

‘What?! You don’t know what you’re missing.’ He held out the bag again and this time I chose a fried egg sweet.

‘Sweets like this bring back memories,’ I said, pressing the sweet onto my tongue.

‘Good ones?’

Were they? Childhood images of me throwing up in the car after eating a giant bag of pick n mix my dad had bought me on holiday in Harrogate one year, my brother and I shovelling sweet after sweet into our mouths as we traipsed, bored, round Ripon Castle; hours spent agonising over whether to splash out on a 10 pence Wham!

Bar, a twenty-pence piece clutched in my damp palm; Greg presenting me with a bag of Haribos for our first year of being together, slipping the ring sweet onto my finger and asking me to marry him.

‘Mostly,’ I said.

‘Good.’

He set the bag down on the bench between us. ‘Help yourself.’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Please. I can’t stop once I start. You’ll be doing me a favour.’

‘Well, if you put it like that,’ I said, diving in once more and grabbing a few soft chews between my thumb and finger, holding them in my palm.

It was unexpected, this moment. It wasn’t often I spoke to strangers, and especially not to men.

Since Greg had died more than two years earlier, I’d locked myself away from the world, and certainly didn’t welcome chats with random men on the way home from work.

Rachel, my best friend, said it was because I was terrified of someone asking me about Greg, but it was more than that.

Since Greg died, I didn’t feel as though I had any room inside me to take on any more people.

What if I let someone in and they did even more damage?

I’m not sure my poor, fractured heart could cope with that.

Yet there was something about this man that felt calming; that felt as though sitting in silence, chewing sweets together, was all that needed to be happening at this moment in time. It was a surprise.

I watched a bird hop across the patch of grass in front of us. The sun had dipped even lower now, behind the row of trees, and I shivered as a breeze made its way through the gaps between the slats of wood.

‘Would you like to borrow my jumper?’

‘Sorry?’ I turned to find him holding out a blue sweatshirt. I was on the verge of saying no, on autopilot, when instead I blurted out, ‘Thank you.’ I took the jumper and slipped it over my head gratefully, the scent of washing powder filling my nose.

The kids were packing up their game of rounders now, pulling on coats, picking up bags and heading in different directions across the park. I should probably be going home too. But something was holding me here a little longer.

‘I’m Nick by the way. Nick Flynn,’ the man beside me said, holding his hand across the gap between us.

I looked down at it for a moment, then held my own out.

As our skin touched I felt a jolt of something, like a spark of static, and I flinched.

I wasn’t sure whether he’d noticed anything.

His skin felt cool to the touch, and something inside me felt odd, a little out of place.

‘Emma Vickers,’ I said, tucking my hands beneath my legs against the cool grain of the wood. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You too. So, you said you’ve just moved in round here?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How are you finding it?’

I shrugged. ‘It’s fine.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

I sighed. I never talked about Greg. It hurt too much even to think about the hole he’d left inside me.

Rachel told me it would be good to tell people about him, that talking about him, about how much he loved me, about the happy times we had together, would be much better for me than keeping everything all scrunched up inside.

But somehow I just couldn’t find the words.

How do you tell someone that you’ve lost the person who made you you, without sounding like you’ve gone insane?

‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry,’ Nick said, and I realised I must have been quiet for slightly too long.