The Man I Fell in Love With

by Kate Field

  ‘Ethan?’ Daisy looked directly at me for the first time, surprise in her eyes. ‘I’d forgotten all about that. What made you think of him?’

  I wished I knew how to stop thinking of him. He had haunted my thoughts for pretty much the entire drive back from Cornwall – a very long time to have the same image trapped in my head. But there had been something about his expression as I drove away that I couldn’t define or forget – something raw, something honest, which had dug into me and then opened up like an umbrella, so I couldn’t pull it back out. I’d hoped that Daisy would distract me with gossip, but clearly I would have to resort to Plan B – alcohol.

  The usual blue car was parked on the road as I pulled onto the drive, and I couldn’t help envy Mum that her companion for the night didn’t have a glass body and a cork head. As I switched off the ignition I caught a flash of dark hair in the window, before the curtains were yanked closed. I looked up at my house: heartless grey windows stared back, challenging me to blink first. The house bore a resentful air of having been left alone too long: empty, lifeless, unloved – the similarities didn’t escape me.

  I unfastened Dotty’s seatbelt and pulled her onto my knee, kissing the top of her fluffy head.

  ‘It’s just you and me, Dotty,’ I said, hugging her closer as she turned and licked my cheek. ‘Just you and me.’

  She whimpered in reply, and I couldn’t blame her. I wasn’t looking forward to the next two weeks either.

  Lunch with Jonas brightened the next day. We met in a cosy old-fashioned pub in Manchester – his choice, and a good one, though I tried not to think about how my little boy knew the local pubs. While he wolfed down his food, as if he hadn’t eaten for a month, I devoured the sight of him. It was a little over three weeks since I’d seen him, but already he’d changed. He had a lick of city varnish over him: his hair, glossy and black like mine, had a sharper cut; his clothes were new; he asked after Ava and the grans with genuine interest and more confidence than I’d ever seen. It was hard to believe that this handsome young man was mine – was the placid baby who hadn’t cried when he was born, but had looked up at me with enormous blue eyes so clear and trusting that I had promised in that moment never to do anything to let him down.

  He told me all about his job in a café, and very little about what he had been doing outside work, although the name Sam cropped up enough times to make me suspicious.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said, putting down my spoon and abandoning half my tiramisu. ‘Are you trying to tell me something? Are you gay too? I mean,’ I added quickly, folding my paper napkin into quarters and laying it down on the table, ‘it’s fine if you are, absolutely great, it doesn’t matter to me at all.’

  ‘Chill, Mum, you can cut the PC.’ Jonas slid my plate over to his side of the table and tucked into the remains of my pudding. ‘I’m not doing a Dad.’

  Doing a Dad? Since when had Leo’s actions become a verb?

  ‘So Sam’s just a friend?’

  ‘No, Sam’s my girlfriend. Sameira,’ Jonas said, in the special tone he usually saved for my mum.

  ‘A girlfriend!’

  He sighed and pushed the empty plate away. There was a speck of chocolate on his cheek, but I let it be: a young man with a girlfriend wouldn’t appreciate me licking my napkin and cleaning his face.

  ‘I’ve been dating since I was thirteen. Dating girls.’

  ‘Thirteen?’

  Jonas laughed at my squeaky question.

  ‘You can’t disapprove. How many times have you told us that you were that age when you met Dad?’

  And look how that had turned out! But of course I couldn’t say that.

  ‘There’s no need for you to rush into anything though, is there? Take your time. Enjoy being by yourself. Try going out with all sorts of different girls, so if you ever decide to settle down, you can make an informed choice.’

  ‘Cool. Permission to sleep around.’ Jonas grinned. ‘Most of my friends have had the opposite lecture.’

  It wasn’t exactly what I’d meant, and twelve months ago I’d have given the opposite lecture too. I didn’t want him to leap into bed with every girl he met – if I could lock him in iron underpants until he was thirty, I would. But how could I hold up my life as an example for him to follow? I had to hope for a better outcome for him. If he ever decided to commit to one person, I wanted it to be a decision based on experience, with full knowledge of what other lives were available, and absolute confidence that he had chosen the one that would make him happiest. I didn’t want him to ever have any niggles of ‘what if’. He might not be as good at burying them as I’d been.

  A terrifying thought jumped into my head.

  ‘Ava doesn’t have a boyfriend, does she?’

  ‘Not that I’ve seen.’ That was no comfort – she had a well-developed secretive streak. Like father, like daughter, as it turned out. ‘Too busy pouting and giggling.’ Jonas pulled a face. ‘Sam might come with me to Dad’s wedding, if she can get the day off work. You won’t be embarrassing, will you?’

  ‘Embarrassing?’

  ‘Yeah, you know. Don’t ask a million questions. Don’t fuss.’

  ‘I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

  It was only a few weeks now until Leo’s wedding to Clark. I’d blocked it from my mind, years of practice standing me in good stead, until Leo had reminded me yesterday. Amongst the excitement of the Alice Hornby manuscript, he’d slipped into the conversation that the colour theme was red, as it was Clark’s favourite colour. The two grooms and the other best man – an actual man, on Clark’s side – were wearing red waistcoats and cravats, and they’d like me to wear red too. So after lunch with Jonas, my mission was to go shopping and find a fabulous red dress – and some heavy duty make up that I could layer on thickly enough to hide any emotion on the day.

  The waitress cleared away our plates, and flirted with Jonas in a way that made me feel at best invisible, and at worst an ancient old crone. Would anyone ever flirt with me again? Had anyone ever flirted with me in the first place? It hadn’t been Leo’s style, but then, I’d latched on to him with such single-minded tenacity that he hadn’t needed to make any effort at all. I stifled a pang of longing. How lovely it must be to be pursued, wooed; to be certain that someone had actively chosen you, rather than merely failed to resist your advances.

  ‘Are you bringing Mr Ferguson?’

  ‘Bringing him where?’

  ‘Dad’s wedding.’ Jonas rolled his eyes, the one trait he shared with his sister. ‘Are you still seeing him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It had been more a case of him seeing me, and the memory of Breastgate still chilled me to my toes. But hadn’t I vowed to give it another try? Perhaps not at Leo’s wedding, though. It was too public. There would be too many curious eyes on me as it was, watching to see how I handled standing at Leo’s side as he committed himself to someone else. I couldn’t handle the scrutiny of being on a date as well.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Jonas said, pushing back his chair and stretching out his long legs. He was taller than me and Leo now, approaching Ethan’s height. ‘You’ll find someone else one day. You’re not that old.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Jonas grinned.

  ‘And you’re near the top of the list of fit mums.’

  ‘You have a list! That’s disgusting!’ I folded my arms and shook my hair away from my face. That done, of course I couldn’t resist. ‘Who’s at the top?’

  ‘Oliver Perkins’ mum.’ Jonas shrugged. ‘Head and shoulders above the rest. Sorry.’

  Head, shoulders and bust would be more accurate. Her enormous breasts defied gravity and bounced seductively as if operated by an invisible puppeteer. It was fair enough that she topped the list – but she was a stepmother, barely ten years older than Jonas and his friends. I was absurdly flattered to fall within the shadow of her bust, which only helped to emphasise how sad my life had become. Or had it always been this narrow, a series of flat stepping stones
of small pleasures, rather than mountain peaks of delight? Something stirred in my chest. I didn’t want to gingerly pick my way over stepping stones anymore. I didn’t even want to climb mountains. I wanted to soar over them, until the sun burned my back, my lungs screamed for oxygen, and for once I felt truly alive.

  Before I soared over mountains, though, it was time to drive through the rolling hills of Lancashire and visit the Archer’s bookshop. I hadn’t made an appointment this time, as there had never been a soul in the place when I’d visited previously. So it was quite a surprise when I pushed open the shop door and was greeted by the welcoming jingle of the bell and the curious gaze of five or six customers.

  Mrs Archer was parked behind the desk, guarding the till, while Bridie circled round the customers, proffering an assortment of books.

  ‘You’re busy today,’ I said to Mrs Archer, putting my tin of goodies down on the desk. I had made a fresh batch of scones this morning, and brought them as a thank-you, along with some Cornish clotted cream and strawberry jam.

  ‘Witch,’ Mrs Archer muttered. I looked over my shoulder, but there was no one else nearby. Did she mean me? What had I done to offend her now? I’d be taking the scones back home if she was going to be rude.

  Bridie dashed over, pink-cheeked and flustered.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you,’ she said, with marginally more warmth than her mother. ‘We’re rushed off our feet.’

  The customers appeared quite happy browsing by themselves, but I nodded with what I hoped was a sympathetic expression.

  ‘You’re busy for a Monday,’ I said.

  ‘It’s the Witch Festival,’ Bridie replied. ‘We’re on the trail for drivers and walkers.’ She thrust a leaflet into my hand. ‘We’ve an extensive selection of books about the Lancashire Witches if you’re interested.’

  I wasn’t, but at least it explained the muttering from the old lady – I hoped. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I gestured at the tin.

  ‘I’ve brought you some scones, and Cornish jam and cream.’

  Mrs Archer manoeuvred nearer the desk.

  ‘Fresh?’

  ‘Of course. I baked them this morning.’

  ‘Let’s see them.’

  I opened the cake tin and held the scones out for inspection. There were a dozen delicious golden scones, evenly baked and uniform in size. I’d laboured all morning to make them so perfect they could win prizes. Mrs Archer peered into the tin and sniffed.

  ‘They’ll do.’

  I snapped the lid back on the tin. Checking that no customers were in earshot, I perched on the desk.

  ‘Thanks for sending the parcel with Alice’s manuscript. I can’t tell you how exciting this is. We’ve been looking for the missing book for years.’ I ploughed on, despite the wary faces in front of me. ‘Do you have the original copy?’

  ‘Aye, it were left to our Florrie, right and proper,’ Mrs Archer said, beady eyes narrowed, challenging me to suggest otherwise. I wouldn’t have dared.

  ‘We’ve a letter to prove it,’ Bridie added.

  ‘Have you?’ Another letter from Alice! How much more treasure was hidden away here? ‘May I see it?’

  Mrs Archer nodded at Bridie, who disappeared into the back and returned a minute later with a folded paper in her hand. I slipped on the gloves that I’d brought, just in case, and carefully opened it out and read it. It was a letter from Alice to Florrie, entrusting the manuscript to her care.

  ‘Guard this well,’ the letter said, ‘for my heart beats on every page. Do with it as you wish, when I am gone, but until then, bury it deep and let no human eye cast a beam upon it. I will face God’s judgement, but no other. You alone know what I have suffered over this work, and now there will be no more. I cannot write of happiness, when my soul no longer believes that such a state of being exists.’

  I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, and handed the letter back to Bridie. We’d known that the death of Alice’s sister had affected her, and that she’d retired from society as well as from writing afterwards, but to see her grief set out in this letter was amazing and incredibly moving.

  ‘What did you think of it?’ Bridie asked. ‘Alice’s book. Is it any good?’

  ‘It’s the most beautiful, heartfelt, and satisfying of all her books,’ I said. ‘I loved it.’

  ‘Good enough to publish?’ Bridie glanced at her mother, who gave another twitch of a nod.

  ‘Without a doubt.’ I hesitated. This was exactly what I’d wanted to talk to them about today, so it was a huge bonus that they’d raised the issue first. But I had to be cautious. I wanted Leo and me to be involved with the publication; it would mean the world to both of us. I couldn’t risk scaring the Archers off now. ‘Is that what you’d like? For the book to be published?’

  ‘If we could get a bit of money out of it, it would help,’ Bridie admitted. ‘Help us keep going here a bit longer.’

  ‘Enough to see me out,’ Mrs Archer added, surprising me with a gummy grin. ‘Bridie can do ’owt she wants with the place then.’

  I explained that we would need to take the original manuscript and have it authenticated, which brought on a few more sniffs even though I was at pains to emphasise that it was routine and not a slur on either them or Florrie.

  ‘And once it’s been authenticated, we can look for a publisher,’ I said. ‘It may need some editing too, just to tidy up a few inconsistencies and repetitions.’

  Mrs Archer pulled her blanket round her shoulders and shook her head.

  ‘No changes,’ she said. ‘No muck. None of that wet-shirt malarkey. It is as it is, and it mun stay that way. Tell her, Bridie.’

  ‘We don’t want any shades of smut adding,’ Bridie said, and she actually wagged a finger at me – quite unnecessarily, as I didn’t know any smut to add, even if I’d wanted to. ‘That’s not what Alice is about.’

  ‘I know, the book doesn’t need that at all. The passion and the longing are intense and powerful enough without any sex. I promise you can trust us to look after Alice.’

  Chapter 21

  The first week on my own dragged by. The weekends without Jonas and Ava hadn’t prepared me for this endless stretch of hours that needed filling. There was no shape to the day; time was marked only by meals, and I looked forward to them with undeserved joy. My outstanding work for Leo was completed in a day when I had no other distractions. I volunteered to do extra meals on wheels shifts to cover holiday absences, but that only filled a few extra hours on a couple of days. I needed a project, I decided, when by Friday Dotty had taken to hiding when she heard me pick up the lead for yet another walk. So I popped to the nearest DIY shop and bought some cans of paint, and set about transforming my bedroom. It was time to make it mine, and erase the ghost of Leo.

  I worked through the day, humping furniture around and stopping only to let one coat dry before applying the next, and couldn’t believe it when the front door bell rang and I saw it was after seven. I dashed downstairs and opened the door. Ethan was standing on the doorstep clutching a Booths’ bag for life to his chest. His jeans and T-shirt were soaked, and water dripped from his hair and trickled down his face.

  ‘Is it raining?’ It had been fine when I’d last let Dotty out into the garden.

  ‘Either that or a gang of yobs have attacked me with heavy duty water rifles for the last five minutes.’ He smiled. ‘Can we discuss the weather when I’m inside and not experiencing it first hand?’

  Reluctantly I stepped back and let him in.

  ‘It wasn’t raining when I set off,’ he said, putting down his bag and taking his shoes and socks off in a way that suggested he was planning on staying. ‘I’d just reached the village when it started lashing it down and I had to run. I hope this has survived.’

  He prodded at the bag with his big toe.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Chilli. I made too much, so I thought I might persuade you to share it.’ He opened the bag and we both peered in. The chilli clearly had
n’t benefitted from the run: it had escaped the casserole dish and globules of it were splattered all over the inside of the bag. Ethan laughed. ‘You’re tempted, aren’t you?’

  I tilted my head and found two amused eyes perilously close to mine. I straightened up.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘You’d have been better using Tupperware.’

  ‘You see, Mary, if you hadn’t been avoiding me all week, you could have taught me some practical things like that.’ He smiled, and I looked away. I had avoided him, ignoring his calls and pretending not to see him when he’d waved at me in the village while I was delivering meals. ‘Talking of practical things, what are you up to? Is that paint on your cheek?’

  He reached across and wiped my cheek with his thumb.

  ‘I’ve been painting my bedroom,’ I said, chucking the words at him as if they were weapons to hold him off. ‘It seemed a good time when everyone was away. It was time for a fresh start.’

  ‘A fresh start?’ Ethan rubbed some water off his neck. ‘Why, are you expecting a visitor in there?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting a visitor at all,’ I replied, staring at him pointedly.

  ‘You’ve got me whether you want me or not.’

  What could I say to that? My hall had never seemed so hot, so small, or so thrumming with tension. Or was it just me? I clung to the practical.

  ‘You’d better borrow a towel,’ I said. ‘There are some in the airing cupboard in the bathroom.’

  He jogged up the stairs, leaving a trail of drips behind him, and I picked up his bag of chilli and took it into the kitchen. I emptied the casserole dish into the bin, filled the sink with soapy water, and washed it, scrubbing at the sticky bits with fierce determination. If only I had a scourer to wipe away the unwanted thoughts in my head.

  I was rinsing the bowl, splashing cold water everywhere, when Mum gave a cursory knock on the back door and toddled in.

  ‘Are you busy, Mary? I wondered if you were free to come over …’

  Before she could finish, Ethan wandered in through the other door.

  ‘Your bedroom looks great,’ he said, before noticing Mum. ‘Hello, Irene.’