Chapter Twenty-Eight
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
June blazes into July and the temperature soars. In the middle of the month, Wales experiences its hottest day on record.
But despite what the weather forecast says, the climate at work and at home remains frosty.
I’ve been spending most of my free time up at the cabin. It’s more bearable in the woods.
‘Have you been in touch with your dad since you started working here?’ Ash asks one evening as I lie on the sofa, my head in his lap.
He’s lazily stroking my hair and I don’t want to move, even though the sagging seat cushion is doing my back in.
‘No, only before I left, but my parents’ PA texted me out of the blue yesterday to tell me that one of my sofa ranges has been featured in ELLE Decoration magazine.’
It was actually nice to hear from Alison. She sent me a screenshot of the article.
‘That’s cool. Which one?’
‘The Stella range.’
‘Oh, I like your Stella sofas. I saw them when I googled you. Hot pink and black, right?’
‘That’s right.’ I smile up at him.
‘Why the hot pink? I had a feeling there was a story behind it.’
‘Colour of her lipstick on some of our favourite nights out. The black is a nod to her winged eyeliner, and, of course, they’re modern wingback sofas, so the design is a nod to it too.’
‘You’re so talented. Your Lisbon range is my favourite. I love the curved tram shape of the canary yellow and the contrast with the light brown. Why did you use that colour?’
I feel my cheeks warming as I lift up his T-shirt and press a kiss to his flat stomach.
‘Are you trying to distract me?’ he asks with amusement, tugging his T-shirt back down past my face and touching my jaw with his fingertips. ‘Why brown?’
‘It’s the colour of the peach iced tea I was drinking on the rooftop of the hostel when we met.’
‘Oh, right!’
I bite my lip, looking up at his face. ‘It’s also how I remembered the colour of your eyes,’ I admit.
‘Aw! Are you serious?’ he asks with a sweet laugh.
I’m laughing, too, as I reach up to touch his cheekbone. ‘I didn’t do them justice.’
He takes my fingers and kisses them, then picks up a lock of my hair. ‘I looked for this colour everywhere. My mother was right. I did go heavy on the red in the Georgian garden.’
‘I still can’t believe you recreated my grandmother’s lupin rainbow.’
‘It’s the only time I’ve ever been involved in a garden scheme. I hoped you’d see it one day. And now you have. And you will do again, and again, and again.’
He’s looking down at me with such adoration in his eyes. It’s blinding.
‘How would you feel if I bought the Lisbon range for up here?’ he asks, glancing over at the threadbare armchair. ‘This furniture is in dire need of updating.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ I agree, arching my back to relieve some of the tension.
‘Would you mind?’
‘No, I’m proud of Lisbon. It would work well up here.’ I look around his living room. ‘Shame I can’t get you a discount.’
He strokes his hand over my hair. ‘How much have you tried to reconcile with your parents?’
I avert my gaze. ‘I haven’t, really. My dad and I tick along, touching base but never really talking, not about anything that matters. And my mum and I don’t speak at all.’
‘Do you try calling her ever?’
‘No,’ I reply bluntly. ‘And she’s never once tried calling me.’
‘Maybe she’s too proud. She might need you to make the first step.’
This conversation is making me tense.
‘What if we went to see them in person?’ he suggests. ‘I could come with you for moral support.’
I recoil. ‘There’s no way you’re going anywhere near my parents.’
He frowns. ‘Why not? You’re not still embarrassed about me, are you?’
‘Are you kidding? My parents would have kittens if they found out I was seeing the son of a viscount. The number of times they shoved me in the direction of rich, well-connected boys at school,’ I say bitterly.
A memory comes back to me of our school play, the spring I’d turned fourteen, and the boy who was cast in the lead role.
I suddenly feel cold.
‘Are you okay?’ Ash asks with concern as I sit up, agitated.
‘I don’t want to talk about this any more,’ I reply, swinging my legs off the sofa. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I call over my shoulder as I head into the kitchen.
I need something to take the edge off my internal chill.
He follows me as I fill the kettle and flick it on.
‘Ellie.’
If I answer him, I’ll snap, so I don’t.
‘Hey,’ he says gently, placing his hands on my shoulders from behind.
For a split second, I feel trapped, but the feeling passes when I remember who I’m with and I twist in his arms, burying my face against his chest, letting his warmth surround me.
‘It’s okay,’ he whispers, cradling my head against him as I take several ragged breaths, twisting his T-shirt in my hands.
But it’s not okay. The following week, Beca comes back to Wales.
Ash calls me on Monday to cancel our dinner plans because she’s invited him over. He’s determined to make amends where she’s concerned, but it’s hard to take a step back.
I decide that rather than risk letting him see how insecure I feel, I’ll stay down at the cottage for a few days. I need to prove to myself that I’m still capable of standing on my own two feet, so I suggest giving him some space to catch up with Beca. I don’t like how easily he agrees that it’s a good idea.
The weather is unbearable and the heat and airless nights make it even harder to switch off my mind. My colleagues and I have taken to waking at five and finishing earlier, but it’s too hot for most of our volunteers and we have to find jobs out of the sun for those who do come.
We’ve been strimming edges, deadheading, weeding, chopping back herbaceous plants and planting annuals, plugging the gaps from earlier flowering bulbs like alliums, tulips and daffodils. Everyone’s cranky and sluggish and it’s an effort to stay hydrated.
Ash asks me to sleep up at the cabin on Thursday night and I spend the whole day looking forward to it, but that afternoon, he texts to cancel.
I’m so sorry, I can’t see you tonight after all. My mother has invited Beca and her parents over for dinner. I really have to be here.
I’m taken aback by the force of my disappointment. I don’t know how to reply, so I don’t.
He calls me early that evening. I’m still feeling on edge as I answer the phone.
‘Hi.’
‘Hey, are you okay?’ he asks, sounding wary.
‘I’m all right,’ I reply.
‘I’m sorry about tonight. Can we do something tomorrow instead?’
‘Sure.’ A moment passes when neither of us says anything. ‘Where are you?’ I ask at last.
‘At the house, just waiting for the Bramptons to arrive.’
‘Do I have anything to worry about?’
I could kick myself for letting the question burst from my mouth.
‘Of course not!’ he exclaims. ‘They’re old family friends. I’m just trying to smooth things over.’
I’m so angry at myself. I hate feeling this needy. It’s like I’m a teenager again, wracked with insecurities.
‘Ellie?’
‘Honestly, it’s fine. I hope you have fun.’ My voice sounds stronger, if a little cool.
‘I’ll text you later.’
‘Okay, bye.’
I get off the phone and force myself to take several deep breaths, then I reach for A Court of Mist and Fury , the sequel to A Court of Thorns and Roses , which I finished rereading last week, finally making it through the last chapter.
Although it pained me to know that Stella’s handwriting was missing from the front of the book, Ash was right, it did make me feel closer to her. Plus, it’s been a good distraction while I’ve been here at the cottage.
I still feel an uncomfortable degree of separation from Sian, who hasn’t suggested another Glee marathon since she found out about Ash. Things aren’t right with Bethan either, and Evan and Harri are both still giving me a wide berth.
I haven’t tried hard enough to repair any of these friendships. The thought of attempting to reconcile and getting rejected is just too much for my current fragile state. There’s no doubt that what happened with my parents has had an impact on me. I suspect it will for the rest of my life.
I’ve considered continuing with the counselling sessions I had in the wake of Stella’s death, but there’s something about the notion of exploring my feelings and digging into my childhood that makes me feel unsettled.
Thumbing through the book until I find where I last was, I begin to read.
I’m so caught up in the story that I lose three hours to it. Stella would have been obsessed with this sequel. I loved ACOTAR , but the follow-up is even better.
Sometimes it’s the little things that pain me the most when I think about what she missed out on due to her life being cut short. She died just months before A Court of Mist and Fury was published, and realising this brings on a rush of emotion. There’s no point in trying to stifle my grief tonight – it needs a release. I close up the book, curl into a ball and let myself cry.
I end up falling asleep and forgetting to set my alarm, so I’m in a panic when I wake up and see that it’s four forty-five and I only have fifteen minutes to get myself outside to the walled garden.
But by six o’clock I’m in the swing of it, chopping back bright pink geraniums, purple Nepeta and the other herbaceous plants in East Court that will put on a second flush.
I’m just getting my bottle of water out of my trug when I see Beca coming in my direction.
My heart lurches unpleasantly. What is she doing here at this hour?
‘Oh! Hello,’ she says, her eyes widening at the sight of me.
‘Hi,’ I reply warily as she slows to a stop.
She’s more classically beautiful than I remembered, with fine facial features and pale blonde hair floating past her shoulders.
‘You’re here early,’ I say, my senses on high alert.
She looks awkward. ‘I stayed over.’ Her voice sounds husky as she adds, ‘Hit the tequila a bit hard.’
I stare at her, reeling. She and Ash did tequila shots the night they first slept together.
How can I be doubting Ash? I’m even less secure in our relationship than I thought.
‘I’d better go,’ she says, making a move to walk away. ‘Maybe see you sometime,’ she adds hesitantly.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I reply.
She carries on towards the car park.
My stomach is churning, but I force myself to work for another half an hour before breaking for tea early. I don’t go to the Mess Room; I head straight to the cottage. I left in such a hurry earlier that I didn’t even check my phone, but now I see there’s a missed call from Ash – he rang at 10 p.m. but didn’t leave a message – and a text he sent at just after midnight.
I read the text.
Hey, sorry it’s late. Just to say that things went well tonight but Beca’s pretty drunk so she’s crashing in a guest room. All good though. Miss you. Speak in morning.
The flood of relief I feel is immense. I reply right away.
Only just read your text. I saw Beca leaving earlier. What time should I come over?
It’s so frustrating that he has no reception up at the cabin. It could be hours before I hear back from him. Resentment begins to simmer at how on edge all this is making me feel. I decide to take my phone back to work and hate myself for it. There is no chance that I’ll lose myself in gardening today.
But as soon as I arrive at Maple Garden, my phone buzzes with a message. My stomach falls when I realise it’s from Ash. How does he have phone reception?
He’s answering my question about what time I should come over.
As soon as you finish work?
I reply immediately. Where are you?
It’s a few moments before his response comes.
At the house, having breakfast with my mother.
I feel as though I’ve been scalded.
You and Beca both stayed there last night?
My phone begins to ring. My hands are shaking as I answer it, but I wait for Ash to speak first.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Not really,’ I reply.
‘Where are you?’
‘Maple Garden, behind the orangery.’
‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’
He hangs up.
I’m relieved I’m alone because I dread to think of anyone else seeing me.
Few perennials can compete with globe thistles for drought tolerance and our Echinops are thriving, even in the heatwave. I’m severing the stalks holding up a sea of round, spiky blue heads the size of golf balls when Ash appears around the corner of the orangery.
‘Hey,’ he says, his expression full of trepidation as I get to my feet.
He looks hungover, and when he pulls me into a hug, I can smell alcohol on his breath.
I’m stiff in his arms, breaking away before he’s ready to let me go.
‘I swear to you there’s nothing to worry about,’ he says fervently, gripping my biceps and staring me dead in the eyes. ‘I slept in my room, she stayed in a guest bed. I didn’t even see her this morning.’
‘But it went well last night?’ I ask nervily.
He nods, but seems reserved. ‘We got on, had a laugh, on a purely platonic level ,’ he stresses.
‘On your part, maybe.’
He shakes his head, but doesn’t try to convince me that his ex is not still romantically invested in him.
‘Please be okay with this, Ellie. I don’t want to lose her friendship.’
I can’t help wincing at this and he tugs me back into his arms.
‘Trust me,’ he murmurs in my ear, holding me close. ‘I want you . It’s you . It’s only ever been you .’
He presses his lips to my temple, my cheekbone, my jaw. I’m breathing shallowly as his mouth finds mine and then he’s clasping my face in his hands and kissing me hard, telling me with his body that this is not fizzling out.
I give it back to him just as urgently, my heart beating fast inside my chest as though it knows how all things that burn brightly must fade with time.
And right now, I feel as though our time is slipping away.
Suddenly I don’t care that he tastes of the tequila he drank with his ex last night, I just want him to consume me.
He walks me back against the orangery wall, presses me up against the warm cream stone, cups his hands under my thighs until my legs wrap around him, and then he rocks against me hard, not just once but again and again, and I feel as though I’m seeing stars as he makes love to me fully clothed.
CLAP.
We freeze, startled.
CLAP.
We slide our mouths apart.
CLAP.
We look in the direction of the sound and see his father coming towards us, his hands creating one last resounding CLAP as he comes to a stop.
My whole body goes rigid as his steel-grey eyes lock with mine.
‘Do I need to give you lessons in discretion?’ Peter Berkeley asks acridly, his gaze roving to his son as Ash, muscles taut with tension, carefully sets me down on my feet and straightens my top. ‘And you should be at work,’ he says to me.
He tuts, which is condescending enough, and then he begins to wag his finger, adding insult to injury.
‘Father,’ Ash cuts in backing up a few inches.
‘Off you scoot,’ Peter Berkeley says, giving me a dismissive wave.
‘Do not speak to her that way,’ Ash warns through gritted teeth, placing his hand on my hip.
The gesture is meant to be reassuring, but I push him away, unable to fight against my body’s sudden strong repulsion at being touched.
Ash glances at me with confusion, his expression wretched.
‘I hope you’re not getting attached, Ashton,’ his father says drolly, regaining his son’s attention. ‘I don’t think Rebecca will stand for it.’
‘Rebecca and I are not together,’ Ash snaps, taking my hand and tugging me close to his side, ever so slightly behind him.
This time I let him touch me, but I’m as stiff as a board.
Peter Berkeley’s eyes dart between us. ‘Oh dear,’ he says, and I can see his mind recalibrating. ‘This won’t do.’
‘Ellie, you should go,’ Ash says, his voice strained.
But I’m glued to the spot, unable to move.
He’s just a man , I try to tell myself as my heart pounds hard and fast.
But it didn’t help before and it doesn’t help now.
‘Ellie,’ Ash prompts sharply.
Peter Berkeley laughs as I jolt to attention.
‘I’ll come and find you later,’ Ash promises.
I feel his father’s eyes on me as I quickly hurry away.
Ash finds me in the walled garden, plucking off the brilliantly coloured daisy-like flower heads of Argyranthemum as though they’ve personally insulted me. The adrenaline pumping through my body is making me work at breakneck speed. I’m in full sunshine and the factor 50 I plastered on earlier will be wearing thin, but the heat is a distraction.
I feel dazed, confused, out on a limb. I feel fucked.
Ash pulls me into the shade of the apple orchard and takes me in his arms. He’s cool, not hot and sweaty like I am. I’m guessing he’s come from the house.
‘I spoke to my father,’ he says. ‘I told him in no uncertain terms that Beca and I are over, that you and I are together, and he’s just got to accept it. I explained about Lisbon.’
I tense up and try to pull away, but he holds me tighter.
‘There was no other way. I had to try to appeal to him somehow.’
This is the beginning of the end. I feel it in my bones.
A few days later, I’m up at the cabin, waiting for Ash with a spare key he gave me, when he returns, distraught. He looks shocked to find me napping on his bed, and not at all happy – I think he wanted time to recover.
‘What happened?’ I ask urgently, scrambling to my feet.
He shakes his head, his eyes bright with tears.
‘Is anyone hurt?’
‘Everyone’s fine,’ he assures me. ‘It’s okay, I’ll sort it out.’
‘Ash. I need you to tell me what’s wrong. I can’t trust you if you keep things from me.’
He sits down on the edge of the bed, looking utterly traumatised as he meets my eyes. I sink down beside him.
‘He’s threatening to sell the land. The cottages and sawmill.’
‘Oh, Ash,’ I murmur, a wave of nausea sweeping through me.
‘Owain and Gwen have lived at number one for thirty years. We’ve supported our workers for over a century, provided jobs and housing for generations. The sawmill and workshop are a family business, the sort of family business I would have given anything to be a part of. It’s what I’m most proud of and he wants to throw it all away.’
He’s on the verge of breaking down.
‘Does he need the money?’
‘Things are tight, but we could make other cutbacks, or he could parcel off a different piece of land. He’s doing it to get to me. He says he’ll put this place on the market too.’
‘Why would he want to hurt you so much? He’s your father!’
The look on his face is tearing me apart.
He lets out the saddest of laughs. ‘He claimed to be doing it for my benefit. He said he has to do something to make me see sense.’
‘See sense about what?’
‘You. Beca.’ His voice has become a monotone.
‘What about Beca?’ I can hardly stand to ask.
‘He said if I give you up and marry her, he’ll sign over the sawmill and cottages to me now. Along with this place.’
There’s a vice around my throat, tightening, suffocating.
‘I won’t do it,’ Ash says vehemently. ‘I won’t give you up. But though it kills me to say it,’ and now his eyes are bright with agony, ‘I think you should look for another job.’