‘I’ll leave them here,’ he says. ‘My mum’s not very good at that kind of thing.’
‘Not very good at what?’ Mandy laughs as she steps out of the patio door of the main house, snapping off her marigolds. ‘Oscar, I told you not to make a nuisance of yourself. Is he being a pest?’
‘Not at all. Good as gold.’
She smiles. Her eyelashes flutter. They’re so big they cause a breeze. ‘Oh, you’re so good with him. He didn’t stop talking about you after last time he was here.’
I scrunch up my nose sceptically, finding this hard to believe.
‘He loved your friend too.’
‘My friend?’
‘The one who can moonwalk.’
‘Oh. He’s not my… he’s just the delivery man. He’s nobody. Well, not nobody but…’ Then an idea occurs to me. ‘Hey, would you mind if I took a photo for Instagram? My account is mainly about gardening and I think people would like it.’
‘You want to put Oscar on it too?’
I shrug. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t include any details, just his first name maybe.’
She turns to Oscar. ‘What do you reckon, buddy? Will you be Ellie’s helper for the internet?’
‘YES!’ he replies, as Mandy peers at him and says, ‘I think we need to give that nose a wipe first though.’
ELLIE HEATHCOTE
Today, I had a helper. He’s called Oscar and he’s five. I noticed he was bored, so I thought I’d see what we could come up with to occupy him and we ended up planting out these tomato seedlings. He’s a lot younger than I was when I was first introduced to horticulture by my Grandma, in this very same garden.
I was about nine or ten when she taught me the basics. She started me off on easy, fast-growing varieties – sugar snap peas, marigolds and everyone’s favourite, sunflowers. I think I’d assumed at that age that all plants would grow that quickly and easily. If only, hey? But I’ll never forget the thrill of that moment when I measured myself against my first sunflower’s oversized stem and discovered that it had grown taller than me. It felt as though there was magic in the soil. Have you introduced your kids to gardening? What kind of projects have fired their enthusiasm? #kidgardener #gardenersofinstagram #Englishcountrygarden #tomatoes #femalegardener #thisgirldigs #Englishgardenstyle #gardener #gardening #garden #gardenlife #flowers #plants #gardens #nature #gardendesign #growyourown #gardeninspiration #instagarden #gardenlove #growyourownfood
I publish the post and click on a new photo of Guy. He’s standing on his head in a brightly lit studio, his legs twisted above him like a corkscrew. I pick up my laptop and turn it upside down, confirming that he is still outstandingly hot even with gravity working against his jowls. His caption reads:
Wake up and decide that today is going to be as beautiful as life itself. Live with a heart full of hopes and a soul full of dreams. Happiness lives within you, waiting to burst forth like a bright sun.
I gently bite the fleshy inside of my mouth, hoping that Lucy doesn’t stumble on this. I probably shouldn’t read his captions anyway. In the hour since this has been published, his groupies have descended like the Brides of Dracula. Their responses range from the fawning – ‘so inspiring!’ to the completely bewildering: I still haven’t entirely worked out what ‘Vinyasa Flow’ is, beyond a certainty that it isn’t anything to do with what size tampon you should buy.
He’s liked all of them, which he started doing religiously after I told him that to succeed on here he has to engage with as many people as possible. I’m starting to regret that piece of advice. Ironically, the only person Guy no longer chats to on here is me. This is based on an important, unwritten rule – that, once you start sleeping with someone, you do not continue to communicate with them on a public forum. I’m above that now. The last thing I want is to have to vie for his attention online, like I’m no more important than the woman who casually commented that she’d downward dog with him any time he likes.
Our private messages are showing no signs of abating and, in addition to this, we have carved out two days of the week – Tuesday and Thursday – when Guy will come here to see me in person, come rain or shine.
As that’s the only time when he’s guaranteed to be free from other commitments involving the studio or Elijah, they have become ‘our’ days. The very best of days. He has made one or two attempts to suggest we meet elsewhere for these, but each time I’ve managed to casually steer him back to my place without too much fuss (though I’m a little concerned that he might think the reason for this is my enthusiasm for the physical side of our relationship).
Obviously, I wish it was more. I’d see him every day given the choice. But I am old-fashioned enough to never say this out loud; being needy is not a personality quirk I want him to add to any of my others. That said, I did casually mention that it was my birthday this Friday and that I had nothing special planned. He held my gaze for a moment, then brushed his lips against mine and murmured, ‘Is that so?’
I am trying not to let my expectations rise.
Looking for a distraction, I click onto my search bar and type in google.se – Swedish Google – before searching for the name Jamie Dawson. I’m rewarded with several pages of links offering the book he illustrated for sale. Danny och isbjörnarna – Danny and the Polar Bear – was written by an Ulrika Sjöblad and is clearly as big as it gets in the Swedish children’s book market, five to seven age bracket.
It’s got hundreds of five-star reviews and, when I click on the image on the front I’m slightly surprised by what I find. When he said he worked in watercolour, I expected something traditional, like those old-fashioned Ladybird books they used to stock in every primary school library. But this illustration is theatrical and mysterious, with layers of pencil and paint. The intricacy of the drawings suggests a vivid imagination, a fine attention to detail and something else – a warmth. None of the Swedish websites deliver to the UK, but I manage to find a copy of the book on eBay. ‘Buy now’ it urges. So I do.
When I click back to Instagram one last time, I note that the post featuring Oscar’s greenhouse has over fifteen hundred likes, which already makes it my most successful in months and it’s only been up for an hour and a half. I carry on scrolling to read the responses, most of them telling me how cute and adorable he is.
‘He’s a peach!’ says @hopsandhouseplants. ‘Absolutely the image of you!’
* * *
My mum and dad don’t argue a lot. They occasionally bicker but only recreationally, and never snipe like some of my friends’ parents did at school, venting opinions on dishwasher-stacking techniques or underpants dropped on the bathroom floor. But they’re by no means always of the same opinion, something that becomes apparent as I let myself into the house and overhear sharp voices above the hiss of a stir fry.
‘Don’t you think it would open up a can of worms?’ Dad asks.
‘It might. Is that necessarily a bad thing?’
‘She hasn’t spoken about it for years, Harriet,’ Dad says. ‘She doesn’t want to. She’s been quite clear on that.’
‘But that’s part of the problem, don’t you think? Not talking about these things ever… I’m no expert but that can’t possibly be good for anyone.’
‘I disagree. Why would anyone want to rake over it?’
‘If you don’t mind me saying that’s a pretty male attitude, Colin. And if—’ She stops abruptly.
‘Ellie? Is that you?’ Dad asks. I hear urgent footsteps approaching the door, and start backing away when it flings open. ‘It’s okay!’ I say brightly. ‘I’ve just realised I need to do something. I’ll leave you to it.’
‘No! Come in and have some dinner,’ Mum insists, removing the wok from the heat. ‘It’s only a Pad Thai but I’ve made tons of it.’
‘Yes, come on,’ Dad says gently, beckoning me in.
‘I don’t know what you overheard but it’s nothing to be concerned about,’ Mum says.
‘Don’t worry, it’s fine. I’ll
catch you both later,’ I add breezily, already on my way back to my annexe.
Chapter 22
‘Happy Birthday!’ Lucy toasts me with her cocktail, then narrows her eyes. ‘Have you been having sex?’
I feel my complexion deepen, unclear about how she worked this out while she’s six and a half thousand miles away in Malaysia and speaking to me through a video call on her phone.
‘What makes you say that?’ I’m also in a dressing gown, haven’t yet brushed my hair and am wearing flip-flops jammed over socks. I’d like to think that if I was recently post-coital I’d have made a little more effort.
‘There’s only one thing that makes a woman’s skin glow like that and it’s not a spray tan,’ she says.
‘Don’t,’ I tut.
‘Just let me say this: I’m happy you’ve even got a sex life. Even if it is with someone who says, “the moon exists in the soul of each and every one of us”,’ she chuckles. ‘He is a card, isn’t he?’
‘Why are you pouring scorn on what could be the best thing that’s happened to me in years?’
‘Oh, you know I don’t mean it. Look, I’m the last person who wants you sitting at home polishing your chastity belt. I just want to know this: is he nice?’
‘He’s more than nice. He’s amazing,’ I say.
‘Well, that’s great. So what’s he said about your agoraphobia?’
When I don’t answer she leans in. ‘You have told him that you have agoraphobia, haven’t you?’
‘Not yet, no.’
The liquid in her straw slips downwards. ‘But you’ve been seeing him for, what, a month?’
‘It just hasn’t come up.’
‘Oh come off it, Ellie! It’s up to you to bring it up. Doesn’t he want to go out?’
‘Of course he does, but he hasn’t mentioned it for a while, thankfully.’
‘Believe me, he’ll mention it again soon, so you need to get in there first. Either that or…’
‘Or what?’
‘Why don’t you go back to your therapist again? Try to knock this thing on the head.’
‘You say it as if it’s as simple as giving up chocolate for Lent,’ I say.
‘Sorry.’ She slumps in her seat. ‘I know it’s not that easy. I do understand, Ellie. We all understand. It’s not your fault, any of this. I think you forget that sometimes.’
‘How’s your holiday?’
She’s there with her best friend Emma Wraithmell, with whom Lucy first started travelling during their gap year. These days, Emma is married and a mother of one, but in Lucy’s eyes that hasn’t changed anything; she’s still somehow ended up on holiday with her, along with her husband Andrew and their son William.
‘It’s fantastic. It’s a gorgeous place and we’ve met some great people. A couple of girls from Edinburgh who are a real laugh and a guy from Barcelona, who runs his own marketing company.’ A coy, soft look appears on her face. ‘He is hilarious. He had me in stitches the other night.’
‘Have you slept with him?’
She pulls a mock sad face. ‘No.’
Something catches my eye from outside the window. Guy is walking down my path. On a Friday!
‘I need to go!’ I slam shut the computer as I pull off the flip-flops, followed by the socks. I dive into the bathroom and brush my teeth for twenty seconds, before there’s a knock on the front door.
‘Just a minute!’ I throw on yesterday’s jeans and a T-shirt, then dart to the door and open it.
Guy has his hands in the pockets of a pair of linen trousers that sit low on his hips. A slow smile brushes his lips. ‘Hello, birthday girl.’
I smooth down my hair self-consciously, as Gertie circles around his feet, yapping for attention.
‘What a surprise! I wasn’t expecting you.’ I’m conscious that my parents haven’t even come over yet. Much as I’m desperate to fall into his arms and take him to bed immediately, I can’t do that when my dad is liable to turn up with an armful of presents at any moment.
‘I wasn’t going to miss your birthday,’ he says, sliding his hands around my waist. He kisses me on the neck and I feel a burst of concentrated, mindless bliss. ‘I have a surprise.’
‘Oh?’
He reaches to his back pocket and takes something out. ‘You and I are off to the Mind & Body Show at London Olympia.’
I blink at what appears to be two tickets. ‘What’s the Mind & Body Show?’
He turns one over and begins to read: ‘“Join us for an array of world-class workshop leaders, presenting new ideas on awakening, inspirational living, meditation, yoga, angels and NLP.”’
I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. ‘When?’
‘Today.’
I realise I haven’t released my breath for several seconds.
‘Is that all right?’ he asks.
I nod rapidly. ‘It’s great. Thank you. That’s… so kind of you.’
‘No problem. I’m looking forward to it.’ He kisses me on the lips briefly, then nods to the kitchen. ‘Mind if I help myself to a coffee while you’re in the shower?’
I look down at myself, noting that I really do need a shower. ‘Sure, go for it,’ I say, watching him head to the coffee machine as Gertie jumps up at his legs, refusing to give up.
I turn around and walk to the bathroom. I close and lock the door. Then I numbly take off my clothes, turn on the shower and step under it, rivulets of water soaking into my skin as I wonder how the hell I’m going to get out of this one.
Chapter 23
I hear voices in the living room while I’m dressing. I pull a cardigan over my summer dress and prise open the door to see Guy with his arm over the sofa, a mug in his hand. Mum is leaning on the kitchen work surface, nodding as he talks. Something about her demeanour seems strained, her smile forced. I realise why when I hear him telling her about the plan for today.
I push the door slightly open to try to hear more, when she looks up sharply in my direction. ‘Oh, hi there!’
I straighten my spine and open the door wide. ‘Morning,’ I say. As I head into the living room, she approaches to envelop me in a hug.
‘Happy birthday, you! I’ve brought some presents over,’ she says, gesturing to several small, prettily wrapped parcels on the coffee table. ‘Your dad’s on his way though so maybe wait until he gets here to open them.’
‘I was just explaining the plan for today,’ Guy says.
Mum’s worried gaze fixes on me. Neither of us move but I am pleading with her with my eyes, begging her to get me out of this, to do anything she can to make it go away.
She inhales deeply and turns to Guy. ‘Sorry to be a pain, but we actually have a family get-together organised for today. I hope you understand. You’d be very welcome to join us for dinner though, later. Hopefully you’ll be able to get a refund for your tickets?’
Disbelief spreads across Guy’s face like spilt milk. ‘I… I doubt it,’ he replies eventually, before turning to me. ‘Ellie – I thought you’d said you weren’t doing anything today?’
‘I just meant I wasn’t going out. I’m so sorry, Guy,’ I say, looking mortified – which I am. ‘Thing is, we always do this for my birthday. It’s a family tradition. A big posh dinner. Mum goes to so much trouble.’
From the expression that flashes across his face, it is clear that he is pissed off. Trying not to show it, but definitely pissed off. It reminds me exactly of the look I saw on Jo’s face more times than I could count all those years ago. I feel a crunch of despair.
‘Oh, hang on!’ he exclaims. ‘If it’s dinner rather than lunch, we can leave now, stay for a few hours and we’ll get you back in time.’
My temples begin to throb. I turn to Mum, who catches my eye briefly but looks away. ‘Look, why don’t I leave you to discuss it? Let me know what you decide, Ellie.’
The logical part of my brain knows I should be capable of dealing with this, but I feel a stab of resentment as she clicks the door closed. It occurs to me
that she could well see this as a positive thing. That this might finally be the incentive I need to step out of my comfort zone. As if it were that easy.
‘There we go, all sorted,’ he concludes.
‘Okay… I’ll go and put some make-up on,’ I mumble, with an acidic churn in my stomach.
I get ready in the bedroom, where I am gripped by violent stomach pains that feel like a staple gun is puncturing the lining of my gut. On top of all my other thoughts, I become fixated on the terrible, unpredictable consequences of the human digestive system in this state of high anxiety. On the idea of being out with Guy, in London, and for my body to simply fail me – in front of him and everyone else.
‘All set?’ he asks.
‘I’ll get my keys,’ I hear myself saying.
Before I am even conscious of releasing my breath, we are outdoors, then at the end of the path, through my gate and I’m in the passenger seat of his car. My heart is pounding in my ears and all I want is to be in bed, cocooned in my duvet, safe, secure.
He is about to drive away, when he reaches over to kiss me. His hand touches the inside of my knee and he slides his fingertips gently upwards, tracing my bare skin. I try to respond as though I’m enjoying it, but an erotic rush is entirely absent. He withdraws. ‘Must keep my hands off you,’ he smiles. I force a laugh to lighten the mood, before he puts the car into gear and pulls out onto the road.
It is a beautiful day. The meadow outside our house is replete with wildflowers, harebells and foxgloves that peep out from the long grass like a swathe of tie-dyed chiffon. The air smells of high summer, hot and over-sweet.
I open the window to force a blast of cold air on my forehead as we approach the village, then the duck pond and the pub. We pass young mothers with pushchairs, couples strolling in the sunshine, a postman unloading letters from a pillar box, a builder working on the roof of the village store. We pass the church and its war memorial, then the community library, as an elderly couple emerge, struggling with a bag of books. It occurs to me that these vignettes of village life have continued for two years and will continue to continue, with or without me.
The World at My Feet Page 11
