by Celia Hayes
‘Yes, sir!’ I snap, annoyed by his authoritative tone. ‘Given the way you go on, you shouldn’t be surprised if your fiancée does flirt with the gardener.’
‘I didn’t say I was. In fact I find it completely consistent with your psychological profile.’
‘One thing’s for sure: Joe could teach you a lot about how to treat a woman.’
‘So now I’m supposed to ask the gardener how to handle my relationships.’ He shakes his head, incredulous.
‘Your relationships? I’d start with something easier, if I was you, like learning basic good manners. Things like “don’t knock over old ladies on the zebra crossing.” If you want to run, you need to learn how to walk first.’
He doesn’t answer, but starts walking faster over to the corner where the washing machine and dryer are.
‘It should be that one.’ He points to a wooden shelf high on the wall, then goes away and starts wandering around the room.
‘Where did you put the ladder?’
‘It’s usually here,’ he answers, looking behind the washing machine. ‘Wait… Yes, here it is. Damn it, it’s stuck!’
‘Be careful!’
‘I’ve got it!’
‘What was that noise?’
‘A bucket or something falling down, I imagine.’
‘Come on, hurry up – this place gives me the creeps.’
‘Come here, hold this,’ he says, giving me the flashlight. ‘Point it up there, at the highest shelf.’
‘Like this?’
‘Yes,’ he mutters as he climbs the ladder. When he’s on the highest rung, he leans on a shelf and starts searching among the boxes and jars, sending up a little cloud of dust.
‘Can you be a little more careful?’ I snap, covering my head and nose with a hand.
‘I can’t find them,’ he justifies.
‘That’s no reason for choking me.’
‘Point the torch over there to the right. More. To the right I said!’
‘That is the right!’
‘My right!’
‘In that case you should have said left.’
‘No, because I’m the one talking – you should take my position as a reference.’
‘Who says?’
‘Common sense?’ he offers sarcastically.
‘I wonder what noise your collarbone would make if I gave this ladder a push.’
‘Shush! I think I’ve found it. Point the torch back over here,’ he says, leaning forward and poking about among dozens of cables. ‘Bingo!’ he exults shortly after, taking an old tin of fuses packed in cellophane, from a box and climbing back down.
‘Thank God! Can we go now?’
‘Hold on a moment,’ he says, brushing the dust off his jeans.
One look at it is enough to see what a state the fuses are in.
‘Are you sure they’re still going to work?’ I ask.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ he answers, ‘but we’ll find out soon enough. Let me get upstairs and check.’ He races away.
‘Wait… where are you going? How am I going to get back to my room without a torch?’
‘Didn’t you have a mobile phone?’ he shouts down from the stairs.
‘Yes, but the battery’s dead!’ I say disconsolately, stamping my foot. I try to turn it on one last time, but there’s no sign of life. ‘No, it’s dead! Damn it, you’re not going to leave me here alone, are you?’ I shout, in panic. ‘Thomas…’
‘I would stay,’ he whispers, finally granting me a reply, ‘but I absolutely need to find a plumber willing to give me a quick course in Business Project Management by tomorrow morning, or I won’t be able to chair the meeting of the Board of Directors.’
And off he goes, abandoning me down there.
Chapter 12
Today I woke up in a foul mood, and it didn’t improve at all during the day. The day started off with an argument with my mum on the phone, then I spent hours wandering around in the incessant drizzle in search of a printmaker and I even lost one of my favourite earrings. The best part was when Annette, a girl from the Garden House staff, came to my room to bring me a note from Thomas who, as a way of apologizing for his bad behaviour, had decided to drag me to dinner with his friend. What could be worse than spending an evening with a bunch of sociopathic snobs who are probably physically unable to even talk to anyone who doesn’t have at an American Express Platinum card in their wallet? Easy: going there with Thomas, who will of course do his best to make me feel uncomfortable, just the way he used to when we were kids.
Remembering those evenings still makes me feel queasy. It was always the same story – every Saturday evening Sir Roger would invite some friends over for dinner to give my parents some company. We would gather in the dining room and Thomas would sit there, staring daggers at me as he chewed his vegetables. He already knew what was about to happen, just like I did, sitting sadly on the other side of the table drinking my dandelion and burdock. The starters would go by unproblematically, but the main course would always give the count the opportunity to tell one or two stories about the last hunting season, and then along with the dessert would come the climax, because whatever we had been talking about, the conclusion was always the following:
My mother: ‘It’s amazing how much Thomas has grown since last year!’
Sir Roger: ‘He takes after his father! And let me just say that Sandy is looking more and more like you.’
My mother: ‘They certainly grow up quickly…’
Sir Roger: ‘It seems like only yesterday when they were begging us to stay up “just another five minutes”. But ten years have already passed since then!’
My mother: ‘It’s so nice to see them still together, after all this time. They’ve known each other since they were little.’
Sir Roger: ‘Those are the types of relationships you keep for your whole life. It fills my heart with joy to think that our friendship will pass down from generation to generation. Don’t you agree, Thomas?’
Thomas: silence.
My mother: ‘Don’t you agree, Sansy, darling?’
Me: silence.
Sir Roger: ‘Why are you so quiet, Sandy, dear? You’re probably missing your home and your friends, I imagine. Unfortunately Canterbury’s not much of a place for children of your age. Thomas, why don’t you ask Sandy to go with you tonight? Aren’t you going to a party at Madeleine’s?’
Thomas: silence.
My mother: ‘Did you hear that, Sandy? Thomas invited you to a party. What do you think? Would you like to go?’
Me: silence.
Sir Roger: ‘Of course she’d like to go! I’m sure you don’t want to force her to stay with us the whole evening, she’d be bored to death! They’re young. They need to go out, meet people…’
My mother: ‘You’re right. Go on, go and get ready or you’ll be late!’
At which point I had no choice but to obey, otherwise the conversation would carry on in my room, where my mother would say things like ‘Don’t you realize that your behaviour is making Sir Roger uncomfortable?’ or ‘Don’t you see you’re upsetting Sir Roger?’ or ‘Poor Thomas! Why are you always so mean to him? You’ve probably really hurt his feelings!’
And if he tried to get out of it, things were pretty much the same: the conversation would carry on in his room. Same dialogue, same angry faces, same conclusions. The only difference was that for him it was less of a pain, since we would be spending the evening with his friends, who in any case disliked me just as much as he did.
I’ve often wondered what the origin of our mutual aversion was, but none of the answers I’d come up with over the years convinced me, so I’d decided we were just incompatible.
When we were young, we used to fight all the time. He would pull my pigtails, I would put frogs in his bed. As we grew up, we maintained our traditions by modifying the reasons for arguing but leaving the results of each little row unchanged. It was all perfectly predictable. Our backgrounds are too different. We grew
up in two very different worlds. We dress differently, the way we talk is different and, most of all, our tastes couldn’t be further apart. He listens to classical music, I like heavy metal. He likes salty food, while I love desserts. He’s a cat person, I like dogs. He’s a Virgo with Libra rising, I am a Taurus with Scorpio rising.
Even our star-signs stars show what an awful match we’d be, for crying out loud!
If I’m honest, there was a period when we almost got along. I was about fourteen I’m not sure what happened that year – it was probably the first signs of adolescence. We just found ourselves grown up, all of a sudden. We were clumsy, and ridiculously shy. We didn’t know how to behave around each other anymore, since all the reasons for bickering that had kept us apart had unexpectedly vanished.
We’d changed so much we could hardly recognize each other. We would study each other from afar, pretending to be terribly busy. We spent most of our time not saying a word to each other and then, when we finally found the courage to speak, it was always too late, and we had to do something or go somewhere. Something would inevitably divide us, leaving an inexplicably sour aftertaste in my mouth. That year I found myself thinking that maybe, after all, deep inside, I didn’t dislike Thomas that much. I didn’t know why, but every time I caught him looking at me, I would blush and turn the other way. If we’d said a couple of words to each other during the day, at night I would think of those words again and again, unable to sleep. And that was the summer when I had my first kiss. It was the first and last time I felt something different and inexplicable for Thomas, but what happened next ruined our relationship, and made it even worse than it had been before, until we drifted apart forever. It was terrible, that’s the only word for it.
We’d spent almost three days in peace, which was unusual. We’d go for walks or ride together. We wouldn’t talk much. We probably sensed that even one inappropriate word might ruin things. I don’t think there’s any way to describe exactly what was going on.
And then, that bloody Friday happened…
I’d stayed in the garden until sunset. I hadn’t noticed how late it had got as I was lying by the side of the pool, completely engrossed in a book. Dinner time came and I still hadn’t got changed. Thomas came to call me. I suppose my mother had sent him, as she couldn’t stand me being late for dinner. As soon as I saw him, I sat up and put my hands between my legs in an attempt to hide my trembling. He didn’t say anything, just walked over and sat down beside me and started staring into my eyes. I can’t say how long we stayed like that, I only remember that at some point he took my hand and held it firmly in his. I tried to stand up. I wanted to run away, but he kept me there, caressed my face and kissed me. Unfortunately it didn’t go the way I’d always imagined. We were both clumsy and uncertain, and when the kiss was over I felt deeply embarrassed about what had happened and, my heart in my throat, I ran off and locked myself in my room until the morning after, inventing a sudden tummy ache to avoid having to see the others in the dining room. I had been waiting for that moment for so long, always hoping it would be unforgettable, but then I’d ruined everything.
What would he think of me? I agonized over the question the whole night.
The following day I was forced to face him, but somehow managed to avoid us being left alone. It actually wasn’t that hard, which made me think that he must be avoiding me too. When the evening came, I went back to my room, determined not to go downstairs until morning. Sir Roger had organized a party, which many of his friends and some of Thomas’s schoolmates were attending. At about ten, my mother knocked at my door. She brought me a piece of cake and for the first time seemed to understand how I was feeling.
Before I even realized what I was doing, I burst into tears, and she held me close until I had calmed down, then smiled and whispered, ‘Why don’t you come downstairs? There’s music. And I think there’s someone who can’t wait to see you. He’s been moping about in the garden and by the look on his face, I think he needs some reassurance!’ Then she winked, giving me the courage I needed to stand up. I’d never done it before, but that night I decided it was worth it, so I put on a skirt, stole some lipstick from my mother’s bag, combed my hair carefully and looked at myself in the mirror: my eyes were sparkling. I had just become a woman.
I practically ran down the stairs, walked across the entrance hall and joined the crowd around the refreshment tables. A lost expression on my face, I searched for him until I met the eyes of my father, who gestured to a group of benches near the gazebo. I smiled back, then headed towards them, my excitement building. I didn’t know what was about to happen, but it didn’t matter. It was as though I’d sensed my destiny and could do nothing but follow it through.
I walked past the benches without finding him, then reached a group of hedges and saw him. He was there with a couple of friends. They were talking in low voices, but I could hear laughter. Someone must have noticed me, because one of them lifted his head and pointed me out to the others, who also turned to look at me. I stood there petrified, unable to move, and heard the same boy who had pointed to me say, ‘You not going to your girlfriend, Tom?’ in a mocking tone. Thomas gave him an annoyed shove, and replied, ‘Who? Her? Give me a break!’
I have never known what they said afterwards. I ran away before I could hear any more and decided I never wanted to have anything to do with him again. On the rare occasions I was forced to spend time with him, I would sit in a corner on my own, reading a book, pretending I couldn’t hear his friends’ jokes and waiting for the evening to be over. We would go back home without saying a word, and then I would go straight to bed without even saying good night. All this went on until I was old enough not to have to go on holiday with my parents anymore. From that moment on, I never went back to Canterbury and Thomas Clark became just a bad memory that I had hoped would never torment me again.
But obviously I was wrong.
I spend the day in a state of increasing agitation. All I can think about is this bloody dinner party. My head is buzzing with questions – will it be the same people? What will they be like now? What will they think when they see me? How will they react to the news that I’m Thomas’s fiancée? What should I wear?
For once I’d like to walk in, head held high, and leave them all speechless. And maybe find out they’ve all became obese, bald and incontinent, But the sad truth is that I’ll be surrounded by charming, elegant, terribly rich people, and the only thing that will surprise them is finding out that I’ve somehow managed to drag Thomas to the altar.
In an effort to find an answer to these existential questions, I fling open my wardrobe, but all I see are piles of viscose and the odd sprinkling of matted wool. I have no intention of spending money on clothes I’ll never be able to wear again, but I don’t want to be criticized for wearing something inappropriate, so I choose a black sheath dress and a handmade shawl my grandmother gave me years ago. I fell in love with it immediately and have preserved it carefully ever since. It’s the only keepsake of hers I have left.
Clementine knocks at my door at about eight.
‘Miss Price, Mr Clark asked me to inform you he’s waiting for you downstairs in the hall.’
‘Clementine, how many times do I need to ask you to call me Sandy? Please, at least you. I feel like I’m living in Emily Brontë world.’ She doesn’t know what to say, so I apologize – it seems the only appropriate thing to do: I’m anxious, and I have every reason in the world to be, but that’s no excuse for making everyone around me uncomfortable.
I walk quickly down the stairs to find Thomas waiting, hands in pockets and an inscrutable expression on his face. He studies me carefully, but shows no emotion.
‘Shall we go, then?’ I say, trying to hide my nerves behind a gruff tone, having no intention of putting up with his silly scrutiny a moment longer.
He looks at me askance and says disdainfully, ‘Next time, please hurry up a little. I absolutely hate being late!’
‘And
I absolutely couldn’t care less.’
Chapter 13
Contrary to my expectations, it turns out not to be a simple dinner party with a few close friends or a chat over a glass of wine – it’s a charity dinner in favour of I don’t know what weird species of endangered animal which has been organized in the most luxurious hotel of the area. Of course Thomas ‘accidentally’ forgot to mention all this in his note. I should have suspected something when I saw how he was dressed – far too smartly for a simple reunion with old friends. But then again, how could I have guessed when for him ‘kicking back and going crazy’ means unbuttoning the top button of his shirt?
Great. I’m about to take part in a charity event wearing a plain black sheath dress and a pair of earrings that I bought in Camden Town market. I wish I could just disappear off the face of the Earth.
‘This way,’ says a waiter, directing us towards one of the two rooms leading off the main lobby.
‘Mister Clark, such a pleasure to see you again,’ says the maître d’ upon seeing him. ‘Please let me take you to your table.’
We arrive at a table for eight in the middle of the room, where some guests are already sitting, and at first glance I don’t recognize anyone, which is reassuring.
‘Casey…’
‘Thomas! You’re here, finally,’ exclaims a young man with a cheerful voice, getting to his feet as soon as he sees us approaching.
‘Let me introduce you to Sandy. Sandy, this is Casey Hughes, head physician of the paediatric ward at Eastbridge Hospital.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I greet him, shaking his hand.
‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ he answers kindly.
‘Thomas, why don’t you introduce Sandy to us too?’ moans a blonde dressed in red from behind me, looking me up and down with a disagreeable smile.
There you go. I knew it was too good to be true.
‘Sandy, this is Agatha Turner and her sister Felicia. They’re at Turner & Davis, the notary’s office in Canterbury.’
