by Anita Notaro
‘How long have you been doing this kind of work?’
‘Nearly a year now.’
‘I’d say it’s hard. What did you do before?’
‘It’s a long story and I’d only bore you to death. And you’re right, it is hard sometimes, but I love it. The early mornings are best, the smells and the air and the peace, although the balmy evenings, with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, are quite alluring too.’
Libby had the grace to blush. ‘Well, I’m not really a morning person, never have been.’ She looked to see if he was laughing but he was absorbed in his food.
‘You should give it a try. There’s not much to beat walking in your bare feet on the grass on a summer’s morning.’ She couldn’t ever remember doing that and he looked at her without a trace of envy. ‘You’re lucky having such a beautiful space in the city.’
‘Actually, it’s about to go up for sale.’ He didn’t ask any questions. That reminded her of Annie, and she was drawn to his easy acceptance of situations. Most people wanted a lot of information about her.
She was just about to tell him more about the house and then wasn’t sure, so she changed the subject and they chatted on. She didn’t get to know much about him, although she told him about her parents’ modern house and striking gardens and he seemed interested.
He left about eight and apologized for yawning. ‘That food finished me off. I’ll be in bed by nine-thirty.’
There was something odd about him. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Why wasn’t he going clubbing or – what was that much-loved phrase? – ‘down the pub’? He was younger than her, early thirties she guessed, and he wasn’t married, otherwise he wouldn’t have mentioned cooking for one. She was certain he didn’t spend his evenings going to bed at nine-thirty.
The rain had stopped. Andrew breathed in heavily as he stepped out into the garden and thanked her for supper. She wanted to walk with him and that surprised her so she hung back, flustered. He didn’t seem to notice, simply said goodnight and strolled down the driveway.
And when he turned and waved casually she felt he knew she was watching him. She felt foolish, and quickly went inside.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
FRIDAY WAS LOOMING large on Libby’s horizon and she doubted anyone would remember. It would be six months since David’s death and she’d been thinking about him all week, dreading the anniversary the following day. Today had been particularly bad and by five she couldn’t take it any longer so she poured herself a large glass of wine and wandered around the house, stopping at various windows and watching Andrew Harrington.
As the alcohol took effect she began to fantasize about him, wondering what it would be like to have an affair with the gardener, fancying herself as a modern-day Lady Chatterley. She giggled, then sat in a chair and pretended to be absorbed in something as she watched him move around, confident, assured, relaxed. At one point he stood up, arched his back and stretched his shoulders. He looked very alive and rugged and she thought about having sex with him. It aroused feelings she never thought she’d have again. The feelings unnerved her and she rang Annie.
‘I’m in need of help. The gardener is beginning to look very attractive.’
‘Well, he is cute, you’re not wrong there, but I’d say you need to get out more.’ It was a joke but they both knew that Libby hadn’t been anywhere socially since David had died.
‘Yeah. It’ll be six months tomorrow.’
‘I knew that, I was going to phone you anyway. It’ll be hard. Anniversaries are always tough. How are you doing?’
‘Not so good today. Did you really remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks. That means a lot.’ The chat helped and they planned a walk at the weekend because Annie was on location for twelve hours the following day.
Later, Libby contemplated making an excuse to go outside and talk to Andrew, just so she could explore her feelings; then she felt guilty and stupid and busied herself in the study. When she looked again, he’d gone. As the evening wore on she became more morbid and later more self-critical and the feelings made her drink faster in an effort to reach the much safer, numb place in her head that seemed the only way to ease the discomfort. She went to bed early and slept soundly for a few hours. Then she woke thirsty and groggy, and lay wide awake and thought about the day six months earlier when her world had changed for ever. Today was not going to be easy.
* * *
She was up and dressed and walking in the garden on her third cup of coffee, still feeling dreadful, when Andrew arrived at seven-thirty. She was back in black.
‘You’re late.’ It felt odd to be joking with him and she was glad he hadn’t caught her in her bare feet on the grass. She’d been tempted to try it out but it felt disloyal on this of all days.
‘I had a lie-in till six-thirty seeing as it’s Friday.’ He had just showered and his hair was wet. His skin glowed and his shirt and trainers looked too good for the job he was doing. Even his watch looked expensive but Libby couldn’t get close enough to inspect it. As he rolled up his sleeves he slipped it into his pocket and she had the feeling he was hiding something.
‘You’re up early.’
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
‘How come?’ He looked interested but not nosy and she wanted to tell him.
‘My husband . . . died . . . a couple of months ago – six months ago today, in fact. It’s been looming all week. Last night it finally hit home.’ Saying it aloud calmed her and she even managed a tiny smile. ‘Sorry to dump that on you before breakfast. I’m not usually so . . . forward with people I . . . don’t know very well.’
He looked at her for a long time. ‘That must have been very tough.’
‘It was.’
‘Was it sudden?’
She nodded. ‘Very. He went out to dinner and never came home. Heart attack.’ The memories washed over her and she bit her lip.
He took a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket – another surprise – and she took it even though she didn’t need it.
‘That’s a lot to have to deal with.’
She rubbed her forehead tiredly. ‘I’m not dealing with it, that’s the trouble. Big coward, really.’
‘I think anyone would be frightened of the future if that happened.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiled. There was nothing else to say and she liked it that he didn’t feel the need to make small talk all the time.
‘Cup of coffee?’
‘I shouldn’t, I’m late already, but if you’re making one, it seems too good a morning not to sit and admire it for a few minutes.’
She was glad he’d accepted. A few minutes later she returned with a tray of freshly brewed coffee and a plate of scones she’d defrosted and heated. Andrew was already working but stopped when he saw her and took the tray and put it down on the grass. He eased himself down and stretched his arms.
‘I’m not usually so lazy,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get a run in this morning so I’m only half awake.’
‘I’d say you’re a very boring person to be in a relationship with.’
‘How d’ya mean?’
‘You’d make someone feel very inadequate, all this early to bed and early to rise nonsense.’
‘Well, you know what they say.’ He quoted the old proverb and she grinned at him. ‘Yeah right, and boring as hell.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I didn’t mean you are.’ She laughed. ‘I could do with some of that discipline myself, I can tell you.’
‘You should try it, it works. You’ll feel great.’
‘I’d settle for drinking a bit less.’ She didn’t know where that remark had come from.
‘Are you drinking a lot?’ He didn’t sound even vaguely shocked or judgmental.
‘I was, then I wasn’t, but now I am again. It numbs the pain.’
He seemed to understand.
Libby felt uncomfortable and changed the subject. ‘So, what are your plans for the w
eekend?’
‘Nothing much. I’m going sailing on Sunday, weather permitting. I’ll probably go and see my folks at some stage. All very dull.’
‘Do you have a partner?’
He didn’t seem surprised at the question, although she was.
‘Not at the moment,’ he told her.
‘Sounds like a story there. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘It’s OK. I was in a relationship for a couple of years. It wasn’t right. Simple as that.’
‘Did you get hurt?’
‘Not in the way I think you mean, but I don’t think you ever really emerge unscathed from an important relationship. It leaves a mark.’
‘I really only had one significant one and that was with my husband. It was love at first sight and it was . . .’ she paused and couldn’t find the word: ‘Magic, I suppose.’
‘You’re lucky to have had it.’
‘I guess I am. I miss him so much.’ She looked away.
‘There hasn’t been anyone else since?’
She wanted to laugh out loud but it would have been a grotesque sound. It was such a male question. ‘Are you mad? You’re practically the only stranger I’ve spoken to.’ She shook her head. ‘There’ll never be anyone else. He was an impossible act to follow.’
Andrew said nothing. She was glad he didn’t offer any of the usual clichés. He simply buttered a scone and she drank her coffee and the sun was warm on her neck and she didn’t want to leave when it was over.
The day passed with few interruptions. Annie sent her a beautiful bunch of white lilies, and rang during her lunch break. She thought that her mother, or Carrie, might have remembered, but it wasn’t really any anniversary. She kept busy and tried not to think of the evening stretching ahead; she wished Annie had been free.
Libby buried herself in yet another of the much-loathed voiceover scripts and it was six-thirty before she realized she was hungry. She had only another hour or so to do, so she headed for the kitchen and a spot of caffeine. A tap on the side door startled her, before she realized it must be Andrew.
He stood there with a huge handful of flowers from the garden. In any other man’s arms they would have looked sissyish but in his they seemed perfectly natural. ‘I’m just off. I don’t like to cut flowers much but there’s so many and I thought you might like them, especially today.’
‘Come in. They’re beautiful. I’ve never even noticed half of them, can you believe it.’ She felt like an oddity. ‘What sort of woman am I that I pass these every day and don’t notice the colours or the scent?’ She sniffed them deeply. ‘They’re exquisite.’
‘Most people are so busy they take them for granted. And your garden is vast. But you’re right, they are absolutely stunning.’
She got a huge crystal bowl, filled it with water and arranged them as he watched. There were still masses over.
‘Got any more of those?’
‘Eh, yes, in the sitting room.’
He came back with two tall hand-blown vases and plonked two big bunches into them: somehow they looked arranged, as garden flowers always seem to. ‘Right then, I’ll leave you to it.’ He made for the door. ‘What are your plans for the evening?’
Libby was embarrassed and began to lie, then stopped. ‘None really. Watch some TV, I suppose.’ It sounded pathetic.
‘Have you reminded any of your friends of the date?’
‘My friend Annie is working this evening, but she rang me earlier.’ Libby liked talking about her. ‘Actually, I . . . don’t really have a large circle of close friends. I thought I had lots when David was alive but now I realize they were more social acquaintances. My friend Carrie from school moved away and now she lives in the country with masses of dogs and children, so we don’t get to see each other as often as I’d like.’
‘Would you like to have dinner with me, perhaps?’
It sounded oddly formal and a little old-fashioned but it was a life-saver. ‘I’d love to. Why don’t I cook something?’
‘No, that’s the only condition.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t think it’s a night for cooking. Give me an hour and I’ll shower and change and bring you for some of the best pasta you’ve ever tasted.’ She doubted that but it sounded like the most fabulous idea in the world.
‘OK.’
‘Fine.’ He opened and closed the door and she wondered for just a second if she’d been drinking and fantasizing again.
Chapter Forty
LIBBY CHEATED SLIGHTLY on what should definitely have been a solid black day. After a quick shower she put on a black pinstripe suit with a black and cream Lycra top. It looked completely wrong, way too formal, so she cheated further and changed into a little white strappy T-shirt and topped it with a white stretchy blouse. Black hipster jeans with high boots offered the only mark of respect for the date, combined with a chunky low-slung belt she’d seen on Naomi Campbell and just had to have on her last visit to New York.
She did her make-up lightly, then caught sight of herself in the mirror: she was shocked to see the first spark of anything on her face for months. She felt like a traitor and the tears, never far from the surface, were a damp, salty aperitif. Here she was, feeling a sense of anticipation for the first time in six months, and it would have been so much better if it could have been with her much-loved husband, instead of a stranger who was taking pity on her. The reality of what now made her happy made her sad.
After a minute or two she returned to the mirror and tried to cool her swollen, red rims with eye-drops. Then she re-did her make-up.
She asked for God’s help in a mumbled childhood rhyme and felt somewhat better after the tears. The bell at the gate jolted her back to reality.
‘Hi, it’s Andrew.’
‘Come in.’
She watched as a car made its way slowly up the driveway as if unsure of its welcome. It was a modest family saloon, and although new, not at all what she’d expected a boy racer to be driving.
She let herself out by the side door, where they always managed to meet. He got out and greeted her.
‘You can change your mind about going out, you know. I won’t be upset although it is the first time I’ve worn a suit all week and it seems a shame not to spill something on it, as I always seem to do when I eat Italian.’
She laughed, liking the image.
‘I’m fine, thanks. Will we go?’
Andrew held the door open and waited until she was inside, another unexpected gesture. As he got in beside her she smelt the cool, clean smell of him and was nervous. He negotiated the sweeping driveway and she glanced across. His suit was far too expensive – black, beautiful fabric, exquisitely tailored. He wore an open-neck pale shirt and he’d washed his hair again. She wanted to touch it and the sensation worried her. She felt like a traitor.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked quickly.
‘Wait and see. As long as you’re not pretending to like Italian all will be fine.’
‘I love Italian.’
‘Good. Then sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.’ He flicked a control on the steering wheel and the sound of Rachmaninov filled the space; he flicked again and something more contemporary took over. It was equally soothing and Libby wondered if the classical stuff had been an irritating glitch on the radio tuner. He didn’t seem like the piano concerto type.
He drove along the coast towards Sandycove, where he pulled into a tiny side street and found a space easily.
‘This is it?’ She couldn’t see a restaurant nearby.
‘Try not to sniff, please. It’s very off-putting.’ Libby was mortified and then realized he was teasing her.
They went into what looked like a disused building, with no sign outside. As soon as the door opened the noise and the smell hit her and she stepped back as if she’d been cattle-prodded. There had been no hint of the vibrancy within.
‘I forgot to mention the noise. I promise it won’t be too bad.’
The building was obviously a converted warehouse and the original stone and brickwork exposed. There were lots of nooks and crannies and bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar on shelves and huge sacks of strong flour and polenta and pasta stacked around the floor. Bunches of garlic and dried chillies hung from the beams, and tins of tomatoes and jars of passata were stashed in little alcoves. Fresh herbs grew in pots; as they were shown to a table they brushed past thyme and coriander. The smell mingled with warm bread and something pungent like olives or anchovies. The music was pumping so hard that the walls were almost vibrating. Libby had never been anywhere like it in her life.
The waiters all wore Day-Glo orange boiler suits. One of them, tall and very black, sauntered over and smiled at them in a manner so relaxed he might as well have lit up a joint at the table.
‘Hey, you guys. The specials tonight are skewered scallops with prosciutto and a warm basil dressing and eh, let’s see, ricotta, spinach and egg ravioli. And if you’d like a starter we have a gorgeous tomato, red pepper and pesto soufflé. Otherwise it’s all here.’ He put what looked like plastic blackboards in front of each of them. ‘Now, can I get you folks a drink?’
‘I think I’ll have a beer to start. Libby?’
‘Beer is fine.’ She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had it. As the waiter departed, Andrew leaned across and grinned at her. ‘What I really want is some of whatever he’s on.’
‘I was just thinking the same thing myself. How on earth did you find this place? It’s a hoot.’
‘I know. It always cheers me up. The atmosphere is crazy but the little nooks mean you can actually talk in peace. Most of the noise is coming from the bar over in the far corner and by the time it really hots up we’ll be safely tucked up in bed.’ He realized what he’d said and grinned and looked sheepish just as the drinks arrived. ‘That came out not quite as I’d intended. Sorry. I hope you understood what I meant.’ That politeness again: it seemed at odds with the rest of him.
‘That’s a relief.’ It sounded like an insult and she immediately tried to rescue it. ‘At least I—’
