‘I know,’ I say at last. ‘I know.’
Chapter Nine
It’s one of those mornings that the weather people call unseasonably hot, even though for the last decade at least we’ve had a few every spring. On my bed is a huge pile of summer clothes that I don’t seem to fit into any more, and Ella, now able to sit unsupported, is right in the middle of them, happily banging two lipsticks together, stopping only to flop a discarded T-shirt on her head and chew the corner. Through the open window I can hear Gareth singing ‘Motorcycle Loneliness’ and I wonder if he’s hinting. Since Fergus coming home like that yesterday, and after everything we said to each other, it just seems as if maybe I was getting a bit carried away with all this mock flirting. It seems as though the best thing to do would be to leave him to it for a couple of days and then start my gardening again with a bit more distance. Start acting like a grown-up, because the last thing I want is for Fergus to get the wrong idea.
After everything he said yesterday, it turns out that Mr Crawley can’t even come today. He and Tim have gone to Potten End to give a quote on an extension to a house that is quite big enough already, in my opinion, and on to which I have transferred all my anxiety about him leaving. I always knew that Mr Crawley would be going one day, but now that he has only a week or so of work left I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do without him. I concentrate on getting ready for a visit from Clare and try and push the thought out of my mind.
I look at myself in the mirror. Before Ella, hot weather like this – unseasonable or not – would have inspired me to wear as little as possible, a bootlace strappy top, maybe, and a flirty summer skirt. I’d have washed my hair and let it dry naturally wavy, and if it was a weekend I’d have flounced around Sainsbury’s buying a picnic for the park, and if it was a work day, I’d have lounged languorously on the tube as if at any moment the heat might get too much for me and I’d be forced to rip off all my clothes. Before Ella and Fergus of course. Now eighteen months and two stone later I don’t feel quite the same way. In fact, if there is an opposite way to feel, I feel it. None of my pre-E clothes fit me without new eruptions of lumps here or bulges there. I have discovered that now I have to think very carefully about the pros and cons of sleeveless tops. If I wear my jeans they hold the bottom of my tummy in but the top spills out over my belt. If I wear my denim skirt it gives me a waist but the bulge of my tummy makes me look like I’m still half pregnant. I laugh out loud and shake my head. Half drunk as I was with Gareth yesterday I’d forgotten I wasn’t that Kitty any longer. I’d lounged on Fergus’s sofa giggling and fluttering just like old Kitty would have, except that now I was wrapped in layers and layers of extra flesh. What a fool I must have looked.
I sigh and squint at my half-naked reflection. I think I can still see her there, the old me, Kitty with all her artifice, her coloured hair and eyes, her lipsticked cupid’s bow and pencilled brows. When my love for Fergus had first stripped me bare of all that it had taken me so long to create, I had been grateful, light-headed and delirious; relieved and relaxed to be loved just for being, rather than for being me. Now, though, one wedding later, when I look at myself I see a stranger. A face a little heavier than mine ought to be, eyes bruised with shadows. Glorious red hair that I’d forgotten was out of a bottle faded to mid-range brown. Now, when I have a second to myself to think about myself, I sit au naturel in front of my bedroom mirror, looking for the insecure, longing-to-be-loved Kitty. The girl who prayed every day that that would be the day she would meet the right man, the woman who spent each empty hour wearing pretty clothes and doing exactly what she wanted whenever she wanted. The kind of girl who turned heads when she walked by.
You don’t realise how important feeling sexy is until you don’t any more.
‘What shall Mummy wear, hey baby?’ I ask Ella, but she’s unresponsive, crashed out in the middle of playing on my bed, cinnamon spice lipstick still clasped in one hand, her cheeks pink with teething roses. She looks so helpless and vulnerable, and for a moment the sadness and horror left to me by my mum crowds the corners of the room in shadow.
‘Mum,’ I say out loud. ‘I love you, and don’t worry, I know. I know you wouldn’t have left me if you’d had any choice. I know.’ I watch the sunlight dapple the windowsill for a moment, waiting for some kind of sign, I suppose, but then the shadows are gone and the voices from the garden fade in again and the moment has passed.
‘Kitty! Where are you?’ Gareth shouts up the stairs. Ella twitches but doesn’t wake up, only rolling over on to her side. I stand stock-still holding a T-shirt to my bra-only chest.
‘Kitty? Are you up there?’ For one moment longer I stand frozen in front of the mirror and then I hastily pull whatever item of clothing I’m holding over my head and go to the door; after all, it’s only the gardener not the KGB.
‘Coming!’ I stage-whisper. I lean over the banister pressing a finger to my lips. ‘Shhh, the baby’s asleep.’ Gareth smiles up at me, the improbable white of his teeth glinting in the shadows.
‘You look nice,’ he whispers back, his eyes running briefly over my torso.
‘Oh … thanks,’ I reply hesitantly, aware of my tangled hair and unwashed face and still feeling embarrassed about how I behaved, no, how I felt, yesterday. Gareth must have laughed all the way to the pub. When I look down at my hastily put-on top I see I picked one of my old-life T-shirts, far too tight for me now – pink glitter jersey with Las Vegas printed on the front. Back then it was ironic. Now I look like genuine white trash or a Vegas table dancer who’s strayed into a not-so-flattering hall of mirrors. I hunch my shoulders over my chest and fold my arms, taking a couple of steps back as I realise that he’s coming up the stairs.
‘God, sorry. I look a fright,’ I say nervously, pointlessly. ‘I’ve just been deciding what to throw out.’
He appears unconcerned.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Gareth says as he reaches the top of the stairs. ‘You look good, you should wear stuff like that more often. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, my mum used to say – is this a spare room? Can I go in here?’ I look away from him wondering if he can really mean his compliments as he slides past me into the so-called guest bedroom at the back of the house. And anyway, what exactly does he want with me in the spare bedroom?
‘Well, come on then,’ he says, still in a whisper. I look at Ella sleeping peacefully on my bed. She looks as if she’ll be out for a good while yet. I should really move her into her cot, but if I pick her up she’s bound to wake up. A couple of minutes won’t hurt. I push open the door.
‘Well?’ I say. Gareth is leaning on the windowsill looking at his handiwork.
‘Well, I thought from up here you’d get a better view of the garden, like a bird’s-eye view, see?’ he smiles at me happily, clearly excited. An irresistible smile that it’s impossible not to return. I go and stand by him at the window and look down at the garden.
‘My Christ, it’s carnage,’ I say. Below me, what was once a wilderness of waist-high grass and weeds is now what looks like a muddy field at Glastonbury after a rainy weekend after two hundred thousand sales managers posing as hippies have trampled all over it. The cherry trees are still there, but other than that it’s apocalyptic. It’s not as if I didn’t know what havoc we had wreaked, it’s just that seeing it from up here makes it seem all the more total. I turn to look at Gareth open mouthed, but he only smiles, and his amber eyes alight with fire.
‘Now you see, to the untrained eye, Kitty, yes it does looks like carnage, but to you and I, to gardeners of the heart, Kitty, of the heart and the soul and the mind, it looks like a blank canvas.’ He reaches down and picks up a folder he had leant against the wall. ‘A blank canvas on which we can paint … this!’ With a proud flourish Gareth hands me his plan of our garden.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say with a gasp, noticing how pleased he is with the success of his theatrical unveiling. He nods, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet. He’s handed me
a bird’s-eye plan of the garden painted in vibrant watercolour, showing each plant and where it will go, its name written alongside it in both Latin and English, and down in the bottom corner is a thumbnail sketch, a little painting of what it might look like when it’s finished. I stare at the piece of paper and then at the expanse of mud and it’s all I can do to stop myself from flinging my arms around him in gratitude. Somehow Gareth Jerome has come up with the perfect garden, the garden I have always dreamt of.
‘Oh, Gareth, it’s fantastic. I never knew you could do this – it’s even better than Alan’s; sorry Alan.’
Gareth shrugs with faux modesty and eyes me with obvious satisfaction.
‘Oh well, you know. I always like this bit, the planning. It’s more involved than you think, you know. You’ve got to plan a colour scheme, what’ll be in flower when, how it’s gonna look in winter …’ He stops himself and smiles, lowering his eyes. ‘Sorry, I just love it out there, you know? I get all passionate about it, all carried away.’
I smile back at him, swept up by his enthusiasm and self-assurance.
‘Don’t be sorry, I think its wonder—’ I’m interrupted by an ominous thud from my room. I clap my hand over my mouth. ‘Ella!’ My worst fears are confirmed when after a second’s silence my baby’s high-pitched wail hits me in the gut and wrenches out my heart.
‘Oh shit! She’s fallen off the bed!’ I race into my room to find Ella lying arms and legs akimbo in the middle of a pile of dirty laundry, her face red with shock and fury. Guilt-ridden I quickly pick her up and try to rock her.
‘Oh darling, darling baby. Naughty Mummy left you and you fell off the bad, bad bed!’ I soothe her, rocking her against my chest until her cries become resentful snuffles. Gareth watches me from the door frame.
‘She all right? I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have come up here.’
Ella’s crying has stopped, and instead she stands up on my lap and begins to try and pick the bits of Lycra out of my top. I examine her closely.
‘She looks okay. I think if she’d broken anything she’d be more upset, don’t you?’ I ask him anxiously, the way I would Mr Crawley. Gareth laughs.
‘Oh, course she’s okay! Apart from the fact that she fell on a big pile of pants! She’s fine.’ He looks at us for a moment longer, shaking his head, his reassuring lack of concern over my daughter’s health somehow comforting and disconcerting all at once.
‘Right, I’m off to stake out the lawn, are you helping today?’
Ella nuzzles her head into my neck, which I mistakenly take as a sign of affection until she starts to chew earnestly at the neckline of my top. I set her down on the bed again.
‘Um, I, well, see, a friend of mine called me about coming round for coffee,’ I lie. I’d called Clare as soon as I’d found out Mr Crawley wasn’t coming and asked her to come over. I thought having someone else here would be the perfect way to keep my distance from Gareth. ‘She’s been on at me to have her over for ages, and what with one thing and another it’s got delayed, so anyway, she’s coming later. So no, I can’t help.’
Gareth examines my face closely and I avert my eyes from his scrutiny, fearing that I’m an open book.
‘You didn’t get into trouble, did you? For having me round when he got home last night?’
I swallow and shake my head vigorously. No, I didn’t get into to trouble I don’t think: Fergus had far more to think about than wondering if his fat wife is shagging the gardener. ‘Don’t be stupid!’ I manage a laugh.
‘Cos I did,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘Bloody hell, nearly got my balls ripped off, thought I was never going to shut her up, but I did in the end. Wasn’t worth all the effort as it turned out. I’d much rather’ve been having a laugh with you.’ He turns on his heel and bounces down the stairs, leaving me standing stupidly in the door frame, collecting my wits one by one off the floor.
‘Come on now, Kitty,’ I say out loud. Somehow I’ve let this stupid crush turn into some ridiculous fantasy, and now it’s dangerously close to getting totally out of hand. I’m sure Gareth isn’t really interested in me, he can’t be. But he must be able to see me acting like a stupid kid. He must be able to see it, and I bet he thinks it’s a right laugh. Well, enough is enough, it’s got to stop.
I’m just brushing my hair when Fergus’s doorbell chimes, filling the hallway with what is apparently an exact replica of the bells of Canterbury Cathedral. Ella and I look at each other and she screws up her nose as she gives me a single-toothed grin.
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what he was thinking.’ As we reach the bottom of the stairs, the dying chimes of the bell have given way to rhythmic thuds against the front door.
‘I’m only telling you once …’ I hear Clare warn her son, and as I open the door Ted’s legs flail against thin air as he struggles to be free of the constraints of his buggy. Clare grins at me.
‘I swear he’s whatsit. Hyperactivehyperattentiondeficit-annoyinglittlebugger-thing.’
I grin as I help her lift the buggy into the hallway.
‘Or it’s being nearly one, one or the other,’ I tell her.
‘Are you all right? Is this all your house or is it flats?’ She looks around the high-ceiling hallway. ‘It’s bloody massive.’
I shuffle awkwardly. I still can’t get used to the fact that I live in this house, and the thought that it is actually, technically at least, mine is something that seems so ridiculous I don’t even consider it.
‘Um … It’s all mine, ours, I mean. But we couldn’t have afforded it if Fergus hadn’t bought it so cheap off an old lady.’ Clare raises an eyebrow. ‘Not that we cheated her or anything. I mean, she was dead and it needed a lot of work.’
Clare shrugs. ‘It’s lovely,’ she says. ‘I hope Ted doesn’t totally wreck it before we leave.’
I laugh and show her into the kitchen.
‘I shouldn’t worry. I’ve been looking for an excuse to get the builder to stay on longer. He’s like a male fairy godmother, I swear. Every time I get all of a dither about something, he goes and sprinkles his magic dust on it and it’s all okay again. Do you want tea?’
‘Yeah, cheers,’ Clare says, and her eyes widen as Gareth opens the door.
‘Need a glass of water – it’s boiling out there!’ He catches sight of Clare and I watch with interest as his eyes travel swiftly over her before he treats her to one of his rakish grins. ‘Hello there, I’m Gareth.’ He rubs the palm of his hand down his jeans and then holds it out to her. Momentarily Clare appears to have had both of her hands welded on to the handle of Ted’s buggy, then she giggles and takes his hand.
‘Oops, silly me. Hello, Clare. I’m Clare.’ As she takes his hand I suppress a little smile as I see her cheeks flush. ‘That’s me, Crazy Clare to my friends!’
Gareth laughs at her and then, dropping her hand, drinks his water down in one.
‘I’ll get back to work then,’ he says, looking at me. ‘Seeing as I’m on my own today. Nice to have met you, Crazy Clare.’ For a second his amber eyes appear almost luminous in the direct sunlight as he lets his gaze linger on Clare for just a fraction of a second more than is polite. As he walks back outside he takes another look at the sky and strips off his shirt. I try very hard not notice his stomach.
Clare looks at me open-mouthed.
‘Fuck me, he’s gorgeous. Cover your ears, Ted.’ She bends and releases her son from his buggy, putting him on the floor next to a very reserved Ella. ‘I wish you’d told me you had a fit bit of totty half naked in the garden – I’d have made a bit more effort.’ She fans herself and sinks on to a stool in a mock swoon, tugging at the high neck of her loose cotton top.
‘Do you really think he’s fit?’ I say casually. ‘Not really my type.’
Clare gawps at me.
‘You’ve got a pulse, haven’t you? Trust me, if you’re a bird and you’re alive he’s your type.’
I shrug, shake my head and put a cup of t
ea in front her, enjoying my pretence.
‘Once, maybe, before I met Fergus and realised that having a boyfriend didn’t have to mean night after night of angst-ridden waiting followed by messy and humiliating partings. No, I mean, objectively I can see he’s quite fit, but he’s a bit too obvious for me, and what’s all that hair about? No one has long hair any more.’ Today Gareth had tied up his hair with an elastic band, revealing the straight line of jaw and the shadows of his cheekbones. I blink and shake my head, returning my attention to Clare.
‘I like it, something to grab hold of!’ Clare giggles again. ‘It must be because you’re so happily married,’ she says as she spoons in sugar. ‘Your love for Fergus, it must blind you to his beauty.’
I like her reasoning, and even though I see his beauty as if it were a forty-foot billboard five inches from my face, I agree with her. In fact, it’s his in-your-face beauty that’s the trouble, that combined with the fact that he’s clearly up for anything with anyone. It would have been all right, maybe at a pinch, to have a half-fantasy type crush on some other type of man, one not so good looking or … oh, I don’t know, say, real? But with an actual person in your actual house while your actual husband is out most of the time, it’s not on. It’s childish and pointless and it’s got to stop. And as I can’t get Fergus to quit his job so that he can remind me how much I love him twenty-four-seven, I’ll have to think of some other way of keeping Gareth off-limits.
‘Yep, that must be it.’ I glance at the children. Ella sits agog as Ted pulls himself up on a kitchen cupboard and begins to edge his way round the kitchen. Clare smiles at him.
‘Don’t drink any bleach,’ she says cheerily before turning back to me and raising an eyebrow. ‘So, it’s your turn next to bring the cakes to the club. What are you baking? Something by McVities?’
After Ever After Page 14
