by Eleanor Ray
He shook her hand. “Wear the ring,” he told her, his voice kind again. “It’s very beautiful.”
Amy nodded, then turned around and left the office.
* * *
AMY LEANED FORWARDS over the small potted geraniums, trying to pick the best one from the selection in the garden center. She’d taken the ring out of the sandwich bag, feeling rather ridiculous. Now it dangled around her neck on a chain again and caught on the flowers. Amy untangled it and tucked it back inside her shirt, doing up another button to keep it safely inside. This ring had got her nowhere. Tim was still gone; the ring couldn’t tell her where he was or why he’d left. Maybe Jack was right. It was nothing more than a pretty piece of jewelry.
Amy bit her lip and tried to focus on the flowers. She’d managed for all these years without him. Without knowing. She’d just have to continue like that. It hadn’t been so bad, once she’d found her rhythm. And she’d made sure that no one would ever hurt her like that again. Her precious things certainly wouldn’t.
Amy picked up a geranium plant covered in buds, then walked past the selection of terra-cotta pots with barely a second look. They were nothing special, she told herself, and she had plenty already. In fact, that was the point of this expedition. She had chosen one of her pots and she was going to plant it up to give to Richard and the boys as a thank-you for agreeing to fix the fence. She didn’t like the idea of relinquishing it at all, but at least it would be close to home. She hoped they’d put it in their front garden so she could still admire it each day.
The pot she’d chosen from her collection had a beautiful wide neck and lovely curves down to its dainty base. It was a deep blue, like lapis lazuli, with little white stars etched into the glaze. The geraniums would have small white flowers, like little clusters of stars itself. The boys would love it. At least, she hoped they would.
And if they didn’t, they could always give it back. It would look rather fetching in her own front garden.
Amy fought the urge to buy a second geranium to keep—she had several already—but did allow herself a little browse through the assortment of seasonal plants. Strawberry plants were on special, with dainty white flowers and little berries ripening. She selected three healthy specimens, one for herself and one for each boy, wondering if she could spare two more small pots to plant them in before she gave them away.
Of course she could, she decided, feeling generous. Maybe she’d even give them one of her small watering cans. She couldn’t bear to think of the strawberries going thirsty, the plump red fruits shriveling like raisins.
“No pots today, love?” The man at the garden center till grinned at her.
“No,” she said firmly, then hesitated. Panic began to rise up in her throat. One pot had been broken. She was giving away one more with the geranium and two small ones for the strawberries. Her stock was dwindling.
The man saw her hesitation. “We’ve got some lovely pots on special,” he said. “Three for two.”
That was a good deal.
Her hand went back to the ring, dangling around her neck.
“I’ve got enough, thank you,” she replied. She paid for her purchases and carefully put them in bags, hurrying towards the bus stop in case she changed her mind.
* * *
AMY USED A pair of scissors to slice into a sack of topsoil in her back garden. Picking up a small shovel, she lined the selected pot with earth before carefully turning over the geranium and shaking it free from its plastic pot. She planted it carefully in its new home, topping up the sides with fresh soil and patting it down. The strawberries were next, each going into one of her small pots: a red one for Daniel, white for Charles. Some stems already had small berries protruding, others were still in blossom. The plants were wilting, so Amy lifted her watering can and gave the thirsty plants the drink they longed for.
Amy wiped her hand across her forehead and found she was sweating. She’d already changed from her usual uniform of black leggings and a loose T-shirt into an old pair of denim shorts that she’d found and a vest top. But she was still far too hot. And as thirsty as the plants had been. When she used to help out in her grandmother’s garden, her grandma would bring her fresh lemonade to cool her down. Even when grandma was suffering from arthritis, she still insisted on squeezing lemons by hand. Amy remembered helping, the sour juice sometimes escaping and stinging her eyes. Her grandmother would always kiss them better.
“Hello!” Charles poked his head through the gap and grinned at her. “Dad is putting up the new fence this afternoon.”
“That’s good,” said Amy.
“But there’s still time to change your mind,” he told her. “If you’d like to keep a gap.”
“No,” said Amy. “I think it’s for the best.”
“Okay,” said Charles. He watched her as she poured more water from the watering can onto her newly planted pots. “Can I help?”
“All done,” said Amy. She picked up the geranium. “This is for you,” she said. “For all of you, to say thank you for the fence.” She passed it through the gap, feeling a little wrench as she let go.
“I have strawberry plants for you too,” she continued, determined to follow through with her plan. “One for you and one for Daniel.” She lifted the pots, one in each hand, and passed them through the gap.
“To keep?” asked Charles, sounding incredulous as he reached out to take one. “Forever?”
“For as long as you can keep them alive,” said Amy, feeling concern rising up in her. “You must water them every day. Not too much though—”
“Daniel!” Charles was shouting to his brother. “Come and see what Amy got us.”
“That’s lovely.” Richard’s head appeared over the fence. “How kind of you, Amy.”
“It’s nothing,” said Amy.
“It’s the best present ever,” said Charles. “After my digger and my fire truck and my—”
“We get the idea,” said Richard with a laugh. “Amy, I thought you might like to inspect the fencing I’ve chosen.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Amy, secretly hoping it would be tall enough that he wouldn’t be able to see over it.
“It’s your side really, so I thought you might like to make sure it’s to your liking.”
“Oh,” said Amy. She paused. “I’ll pay you for it, of course.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Richard. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. I’m the one with little escape artists chasing down your cat.”
“Smudge is not my cat,” said Amy again. She found herself blushing. He probably kept getting it wrong because she was a woman living alone and therefore he assumed she was a little old cat lady. “I’m probably younger than you think,” she muttered to herself.
“What?” asked Richard. “Listen, pop on through while you still can. We can chat over here. Maybe you’d like some lemonade?”
Amy started at the offer. The family next door seemed to have an uncanny ability to read her mind. “Okay,” she said, unable to resist, and made her way to the gap in the fence.
Amy was disappointed at the other side. The lemonade was not in a glass jug with fresh lemons and clinking ice cubes like her grandmother used to make; it was a rather warm can of 7UP that Richard tossed in her direction and she failed to catch.
“She likes pineapple juice,” Charles scolded his father, picking up the can, brushing off the grass, and handing it to her.
“Sorry,” said Richard.
“I like lemonade too,” said Amy. She held the can awkwardly, aware that if she opened it she ran the risk of spraying them all with sweet wasp bait. She looked up from it and glanced at Richard for the first time.
“Oh,” she said. He was wearing denim shorts, flip-flops, and that was it. She quickly looked back to the can of 7UP.
Charles looked at her, then at his father. “Dad,” he said. “You’re so cringe.” He passed his father a T-shirt.
“Sorry,” said R
ichard, putting on the T-shirt. “Sun’s out, guns out, and all that.”
“You don’t have guns,” said Charles.
“It’s fine,” said Amy, trying to quell her blushes. “It’s your garden, you’ve a right to… I’m not an old lady, you know.”
“I can see that,” said Richard, then he looked down and up again. His eyes lingered for a moment on Amy’s long legs, so rarely on display. She caught his eye, and they both looked away. She looked back. Color was creeping up his own cheeks, only partially hidden by his beard. He made a funny sound that Amy thought was probably an awkward attempt at a laugh. “I mean, we’re all old to these tykes.” He ruffled Charles’s hair.
“I’m three and a half,” piped up Daniel.
“That’s almost four,” explained Charles.
“Indeed,” said Amy.
“Good maths,” agreed Richard. He laughed, more naturally this time. “So, what do you think of this fencing panel? I went for a plain wood.”
Amy found she had nothing much to say on the subject of fencing panels. “I expect my ivy will cover it in no time,” she said.
“You hate it,” said Richard, with another laugh.
“Dad, you’re being boring,” said Charles.
Nina came into the garden wearing a little white dress and huge sunglasses. “Gorgeous weather,” she said. “Oh, hello, Amy,” she said, glancing at Amy’s legs. “Here again? Making use of the hole in the fence, I see.”
“Amy said we can still visit whenever we like,” Charles told her. Amy frowned. She didn’t remember saying that.
“You too, Richard?” asked Nina, putting her arm around Richard’s waist. She let out a small peal of laughter that was probably designed to be pleasant.
“Dad likes Amy,” said Charles. “We all do.”
“I have to get going,” said Amy. “Thank you for your hard work.” She paused a moment. “And the lemonade.” It was still unopened, and she dithered, wondering whether it was more polite to hand it back or take it with her.
“That’s yours now,” said Charles. “Next time you come there’ll be pineapple juice. I promise.”
“Good-bye, Amy,” encouraged Nina, waving. Amy slipped through the gap in the fence.
Amy looked at the piles of pots, lopsided now she’d given some away. She picked up a small pot that sat inside a large one near the ground, causing panic among a family of wood lice who’d been sheltering there, safe from the elements. They scurried this way and that, bumping into each other several times before fleeing down a drainage hole to the safety of the earth below.
She almost gasped with joy.
There they were. Two large fragments of her broken pot, lurking inside this one. Perhaps she had enough to fix it now. She lifted them out.
Something else was underneath.
An envelope. It was muddy and had been nibbled around the edges, probably by one of Rachel’s mice, or perhaps a snail, and there was a hole in the corner. It had clearly been wet at some point, and the ink had run. But she could still make out her own name and address, printed on the front in block capitals.
Amy sat back and ripped open the envelope. Inside was a photo. She frowned at it.
It made no sense. A bit of park, or woodland perhaps, at sunset. It could have been anywhere. She looked more closely. Some sort of big car or truck at the edge of the picture. It meant nothing to her.
There was something else in the envelope.
A letter.
The writing was smudged. It must have been hiding inside that pot for a long time. Rain had leaked in, mud was smeared over it, some sections were missing completely. She could make out very little of it.
But that handwriting.
She’d know it anywhere.
July 2003
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” suggested Amy tentatively. “You’re onstage in five minutes.”
Tim knocked back another shot of tequila. “It’s just what I need,” he replied, wiping his mouth. “Where’s my pint?”
Amy passed it to him, then took a sip of her white wine from a clear plastic cup and looked at the tequila bottle. They’d bought it on the way to the gig and it was already half-empty.
“It’s buzzing out there,” said Chantel, storming into the dressing room—really a glorified closet. She turned her back and stripped off her office uniform of a blazer and shirt. Underneath was a sparkly low-cut top. “Oh, and in here too,” she said, turning back round and spying the bottle. “Some for me?”
“Course there is,” replied Simon. “Pretty thing like you.” He refilled Tim’s shot glass and passed it in Chantel’s direction
Chantel downed the shot, holding out her glass for more. “Where’s the rest of the band?” she asked.
“Idris and Phil couldn’t make it,” said Tim.
“Artistic differences?” joked Chantel.
“Something like that,” muttered Simon. “Twats.”
“Oh,” said Chantel. “But don’t you need a drummer and another guitar player?”
“We’ll manage,” said Tim. “We’ll have to.”
“You’ll be brilliant,” said Amy. “You always are.”
“Come on, Tim,” said Simon. “Let’s get out there. Take your pint with you. The fans are waiting.”
* * *
“THE EQUIPMENT WAS faulty,” said Amy through the door of the cubicle in the men’s loos. “It wasn’t your fault.” She tried to peer under the door, but she could just see a pair of mucky trainers. She straightened again, keen to avoid the anonymous fluid on the toilet floor.
“We’re shit,” said Tim. “We’ve always been shit. It just didn’t show so much when Idris and Phil were being shit too.”
A man came in, and for a brief moment the open door allowed the noise of the club in. Just as suddenly the volume fell again. The man glanced at Amy, then undid his flies and used the urinal anyway. She tried not to look.
“People shouldn’t have been so rude,” said Amy. “And that bottle. That’s assault.”
“It barely touched me,” said Tim. “And I’m pretty sure it was aimed at Simon.”
“You sounded brilliant,” said Amy loyally.
“They were rubbish,” said the urinal man, zipping his flies and failing to wash his hands. “Total dogshit.” The noise rose again as he opened the door, then faded.
“Ignore him,” said Amy, hearing a wail from the cubicle. She paused. “I think it was just the microphone. It must have been faulty. Shall I go talk to the manager?”
“For God’s sake, no,” said Tim. “Amy, stop telling me I’m great. I have ears. It drives me crazy when you try to wrap me in cotton wool like I’m a delicate little flower. Respect me enough to be honest, at least.”
“But you’re so talented—”
“Stop talking, Amy,” said Tim. “And listen.” He paused. “If we can’t be honest with each other…”
His voice trailed off. Amy stood still. She felt as though she’d been punched in the gut. “You don’t mean that,” she said.
The noise rose again and his answer was lost. Chantel appeared. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere.” She glanced at the cubicle. “Is he in there?”
“He won’t come out,” said Amy. “I’ve been trying for ages.”
“I’ve got half a bottle of tequila with your name on it, Timmy-boy,” said Chantel. “So get out of this piss-drenched hole and come with me.”
The door opened and Tim stepped out. “Come on then,” he said, head hanging.
“Don’t you think you’ve had—” began Amy.
“No,” said Tim. “You coming?”
“No,” said Amy. “I’ve had enough.”
* * *
AMY WAS CURLED up in bed. Wide-awake. She glanced at her phone—3 a.m. She shifted her position, but it wasn’t the bed that was making her uncomfortable. It had been happening more and more recently. Tim drinking and smoking while Amy looked on nervously. She was annoying him. He was annoying her.
Perhaps it was over.
Amy took a sip from the glass of water next to the bed. It couldn’t be over. She loved him.
She closed her eyes, but it was just a performance for herself. She knew there’d be no sleep.
She listened to the pipes. Someone somewhere in the building had flushed the toilet.
The noises became jangly, and Amy realized that now someone was at the door. Simon and Tim both lived here, and she wished intently for it to be Tim coming home. And at the same time she didn’t. She closed her eyes, ready to feign sleep. She couldn’t face an argument. Not now.
The bedroom door opened, and she couldn’t help but peek. Tim stumbled in the darkness.
“Hello,” said Amy, feeling a current of love overwhelm her as he bent down and gave her a kiss that smelled of smoke and tequila and something sweeter. “Come to bed.”
“Chantel’s here,” he told her, standing up again. “We’re just going to have a little smoke first. Maybe a nightcap. There’s some rum in the cupboard.”
“Really?” asked Amy. “It’s late.”
“Just one. About tonight…” he began. The sweet smell grew more intense and Amy felt something brush her face. “I wanted to buy you flowers,” said Tim. “To say sorry. But everywhere was shut.”
“It’s three in the morning,” said Amy.
“That would be why,” he said. “So I picked you these.”
Amy took what he held out and flicked on the bedside lamp. Tim crinkled his eyes in the light, and it took Amy a moment for her own eyes to adjust. She was holding several stems of honeysuckle, covered in elegant white flowers that made her think of ballerinas. She breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent.
“I hope the neighbors don’t notice they’ve gone,” said Tim.
“They are beautiful,” said Amy, feeling some of the stress of the night melt into the fragrance. “Thank you.”
“I told you she’d like them.” Amy saw Chantel’s figure in the doorway. “Hi, Amy,” she said. “Sorry for leading Tim astray.”
“It doesn’t take much,” said Amy. “But the flowers are lovely.”
