As we leave the pub and start to head home, my thoughts are misty from wine and the feel of the heat of him against my arm. The moon is a shimmering disc of light, turning the meadows mint green as we begin the trek uphill. We walk slowly, and chat for most of the way, about the similar somethings and nothings that have peppered the whole evening. We are halfway home when I feel Jamie’s hand on my elbow.
‘Come here,’ he says and before I can argue he’s climbing over a gate, offering me a hand.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, but take it anyway. I climb over to the meadow on the other side, where we are just a few steps from the banks of the River Misbourne.
‘Lucy and I used to drink from this water when we were kids,’ I say, walking towards it, the grass swishing against my ankles. ‘It’s filtered through the underlying chalk, according to my dad. That’s what makes it so pure and clear.’
I tiptoe over mounds of anthills that sprout tiny yellow rock roses, then pause as I stand next to Jamie on the grassland, to take in the view. We are surrounded by hills to the west, where the valley dips and undulates in a soft, patchwork blanket. The outline of a church spire is just visible among a dark frill of trees and the scent of chimney smoke perfumes the night air. And above the woodland and fields, the ridgeway tracks and the wildflowers, the stars are incandescent, shining pearls in a black, velvet sky.
England, I think, you really are beautiful.
I become aware that Jamie’s eyes are on me and turn to meet his gaze. The way he looks at me recalls the moment back in summer when he reached out to take the strawberry pip from my cheek with his fingertips. Warmed by the memory, I hazily, unthinkingly, reach out to touch his face in the same spot that he touched mine.
My fingertips barely brush the skin beneath his eyes, just above the line of soft bristles. I sweep them gently, less than an inch across, and his eyelids close involuntarily. His mouth parts, releasing the faintest noise from the back of his throat. I lower my hand and take a step closer, until the buttons of my coat catch against his sweater. His eyes open heavily and scan my face. My breathing slows and I feel his left hand slip into mine.
It is in this strange, sultry bubble that my conversation with Lucy returns to me like a crack of lightning. Panic rushes up in me.
What is it that I’m doing here, I think – standing drunk in a field with heat throbbing through me? What about Guy, the closest thing I’ve had to a boyfriend in years? Someone for whom I was driven to confront my demons, to return to Colette, to leave my house time and again, even back in the days when I was convinced it might kill me.
What, exactly, am I doing here?
I take a step back, shaking Jamie’s hand away from mine. I cough, bring myself back to my senses.
‘Well,’ I say cheerfully, ‘I can’t wait to see Colette after tonight. I should get an A plus for this.’
He blinks, his thoughts a second or two behind mine. ‘Sorry… what?’
‘Tonight was this week’s homework.’ I grin.
‘Oh,’ he says, taking this all in. ‘You mean like the walks we went on when you first started seeing her?’
‘Yes!’ The smile lines by his eyes have disappeared in the glow of the moon. ‘Obviously, it goes without saying that I wanted to go out with you anyway. But this – yes, it was homework. It’s been fun, though, hasn’t it? And I’m really grateful – again.’
‘Um… yeah,’ he says, but now he sounds vague enough to make me worry that I’ve offended or hurt him. I try to think of a way to explain.
‘Because I’m going to a wedding with Guy in a couple of weeks, it’s obviously really important that it goes well,’ I begin babbling. ‘So Colette suggested I have some kind of trial run, with someone I trust. I can’t think of anyone I trust more than you, Jamie. I really mean that.’
But he has the air of the man who has been kicked in the balls, wounded and speechless. It’s the last thing I wanted but before I can say anything else, he shakes his head and takes a step away from me. ‘I don’t think I can do this anymore, Ellie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean… you’ve got a boyfriend.’
‘Yes, I know, but you’re just my friend, so what’s wrong with that? There’s nothing more to it between you and me – and he certainly hasn’t got a problem with it.’
His jaw moves imperceptibly.
‘What is it?’ I press on. ‘Seriously?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Am I supposed to guess?’
I can tell from the way he’s breathing that he’s angry or upset, or some other emotion I don’t recognise in him. ‘Look, I’m not one for big speeches, Ellie. But I…’
His voice trails off but he doesn’t need to finish his sentence. As we stand in the moonlit countryside I realise I already know. I’ve been denying it because I couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing him anymore, which is what I’d have to do in the light of Guy. But I’ve known for a long time. Lucy was right. And it’s going to ruin everything.
‘You’re not… allowed to fancy me, Jamie,’ I say, illogical in my frustration.
He laughs, incredulous. ‘What?’
‘I just mean: I’ve got a boyfriend. I’ve got Guy.’
His chest rises. ‘Yes, I know. And that’s fine,’ he says, though it sounds anything but. ‘I do realise, Ellie, that you don’t feel the same way about me as I do about you. I can live with that. Almost. But I tell you what, that… prick just doesn’t deserve you.’
I gasp. ‘What did you call him?’
‘I’m sorry, but he doesn’t.’ He is defiant, entirely unapologetic.
‘Have you been speaking to my sister?’ I demand.
‘What? No. My friend Gail does yoga at his studio. He’s constantly flirting with other women there, Ellie. He sounds like a real lech if you ask me and—’
‘A… lech? Are you serious? Fucking brilliant. You’re basing your judgement of a man you’ve never even met on some bullshit your friend Gail has told you?’
Because it absolutely is bullshit. I don’t need to go to the studio and watch Guy teach his students with my own eyes to know that there isn’t a grain of truth in this. He has a naturally warm, flirtatious manner, a playful nature and a personality that is magnetic. People, men and women, want to be around him, including me. Unapologetically me. That, whatever Jamie has convinced himself, does not make him a lech. As I fizz with indignation, a trace of regret appears in Jamie’s expression.
‘Look, Ellie,’ he sighs. ‘I’m not going to stand here like an idiot and list all the reasons I think you are… say the things I want to say to you. You already know what I think of you. It’s already obvious. And yes, it is a punch in the gut when I see you to know that it is entirely unrequited. But do me a favour and at least find someone better than that guy.’
I am gripped by an incendiary rage now. How dare he.
‘Don’t you tell me what to do,’ I say, my jaw set. ‘You have absolutely no right, Jamie. No right at all. Besides, what is it you’ve got against him? Aside from envy? Are you jealous because he’s got loads of followers on Instagram and a six-pack?’
He lets out a bitter laugh. ‘I do not give a shit about his followers on Instagram and I do not—’ He glances down briefly. ‘Okay, I do hate him for his six-pack. But that’s not the main reason. The reason I resent him is because you think the world of him and he is completely undeserving of that opinion. He swans in and out of your life, turning up twice a week like it’s some kind of one-stop shop, and worst of all, he doesn’t make you happy. He just makes you insecure.’
‘One-stop… how dare you! He absolutely does make me happy. All of that makes you the prick here, Jamie. Not him. You.’
My head throbs with regret now that I ever shared my thoughts and fears about my relationship with Guy. Angry tears swell in my eyes and he’s about to fire something back, but stops and raises his hands in surrender. ‘Okay. You’re right.’
Now I’m crying. I’m nearly gasping for breath, trying to push great big sobs of despair down my throat, but it’s not working. I’m furious with him. This could have been a perfect evening yet he’s ruined it with all this crap.
He lowers his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
I don’t say anything. I can’t bring myself to. Instead, we walk in silence back to Chalk View and mumble our goodbyes by the gate, before he makes to leave.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ I sniff, business-like.
He just stops still, his big frame silhouetted against the moon. When he finally answers, I can no longer see the shadows on his face.
‘It’s like I said. I can’t do this anymore, Ellie. I’m sorry. I just can’t.’
Then he turns and crunches his way back down the hill.
Chapter 48
Oscar has finally got to pick his tomatoes. He is beside himself over his little crop, and tells me proudly that they’ll help him hit his five fruit and veg a day.
‘I also had a Jaffa cake this morning,’ he adds, which is the first thing all day that has made me smile.
Two weeks after the row with Jamie, I’m still not feeling right and this can’t only be attributed to nervousness about the wedding party tonight. I’m continuing to go out for my walks. I’m persevering with the CBT exercises. I’ve been to Colette once, had Guy over three times and even went to the little arthouse cinema in Chesham with Lucy, to see a movie and pick at some popcorn. None of these things have prompted a tidal wave of anxiety, at least nothing I can’t cope with.
Anxiety isn’t the right word to describe how I feel about what happened. I don’t think there’s even a name for it, not a single word anyway. It is a kaleidoscope of emotions: indignation, fury and, above all, sadness. I am bereft without him, heartsick at the idea that I’ll never see him again, but simultaneously so angry and raw that it feels as though there’s no going back. How could I pick up the phone now to place an order for a heavy-duty garden arch, just so he has to deliver it?
As the wedding has crept closer, there was a point when I’d have done anything to talk to him about it. But what he said hasn’t just stopped me from baring my soul to him, now or in the future. It put a different perspective on all those moments we’d had in the past.
‘Are you still going to come to one of my assemblies?’ Oscar asks. ‘There’s one after half term.’
‘Okay then. I’ll be there.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Yes.’
He grins. ‘I think you’ll like it. There will be lots of singing,’ he says, launching into a rendition of ‘Baby Shark’, thus guaranteeing that its chorus will be jangling around my head for at least a week. Oscar has been here most of the morning. It’s an inset day at school, which Mandy hadn’t realised when she booked a doctor’s appointment straight after cleaning. I said I’d keep an eye on him for half an hour, but then he begged to stay, so she took the opportunity to get her eyebrows threaded too.
‘These carrots are coming along nicely,’ he says, parroting me as he examines the vegetable patch.
‘We’ll dig them up in a few weeks and cook something with them,’ I tell him. ‘A vegetable curry maybe. Speaking of which, you must be hungry?’
‘Starving,’ he says.
‘Come on then. Take your wellies off at the front door and I’ll whip us something up while you wash your hands.’
I chop up some carrots, celery and pitta strips to dip into little pots of hummus and peanut butter. I’ve been snacking on this a lot lately in a bid to take my mind off not smoking. But after the Jamie debacle the chickpeas just aren’t cutting it and I came very close last night to digging out one of three emergency cigarettes I have stashed in the shed.
My phone pings and I open up a text from Guy.
I’ll collect you at 6.45 for the wedding tonight, that okay?
Jamie’s accusations have left me sensitive to every nuance of Guy’s texts, and I feel a stab of concern about the lack of seductive undercurrent – or kiss. Should I be worried about the fact that he used to text me at all times of day or night to tell me how he couldn’t get me out of his mind? It would leave me thinking about him for hours afterwards, picturing the sinews in his arms, the tight knit of his body, those endless eyes. Although there is absolutely nothing wrong with this text, Jamie – bloody Jamie – has left me paranoid about everything.
Great. See you tonight. Looking forward to it xx
I also can’t stop thinking about the other accusation. Much as I’m convinced it’s rubbish – gossip from his friend Gail would hardly stand up in court – the idea that I’m being played for a fool is horrible. After the seed was planted, it has somehow taken root and started to make me question my own feelings about Guy. I occasionally feel as if I’m looking at a beautiful, critically acclaimed painting that, for all its dazzling qualities, no longer touches my soul. And I question whether he makes me feel all the things you’re meant to when you meet someone: in love with the world, with life, with yourself.
I shake the thought from my head as I bring the plate of crudités to the table. As Oscar makes fast work of them, I whiz up some raspberry lemonade from the glut of soft fruits I froze after picking them a couple of months ago.
‘Gosh, you really were starving, weren’t you?’ I say, filling a glass and putting it in front of him. He’s finished the entire peanut butter pot, so I take it to the kitchen to replenish. When I bring it back, he dips his celery in and scoops it up into his mouth. ‘I love hummus,’ he says, gurning as it sticks to the roof of his mouth.
‘That one isn’t hummus, but feel free to keep eating as it’ll stop me from stuffing my face with it.’
‘Why do you want to stop eating it?’ he asks.
‘It’s pretty high in fat, that’s all, so I shouldn’t eat too much when I’ve got a dress to fit into tonight. You don’t need to worry about that though. Help yourself.’
‘What is it if it’s not hummus?’ he asks.
‘Peanut butter,’ I reply.
He stops chewing and lowers his celery stick. ‘Are there any nuts in that?’
‘Yes, of course. Why?’
He swallows, a long and hard movement that gives the impression that something remains lodged in his throat. ‘I’m allergic to nuts,’ he says.
I feel a sudden and heightened sense of the blood running through my body, rushing into my ears.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘I’m allergic,’ he repeats. ‘To nuts.’
‘But… you’ve just eaten a whole bowl of peanut butter. Two, in fact.’
‘I thought it was hummus.’ As the sunlight shines through the window, I register two pink patches on either side of his neck. My mind races. Nut allergies don’t have to be serious. I know that. I think I know that. Do I?
‘Are you sure about this?’ I ask. ‘Wouldn’t your mum have said something?’
But she hadn’t known he was staying for lunch. He’s never eaten here before and had no plans to do so. Why would she have mentioned it?
There was a piece in the local newspaper recently about someone who’d nearly died because they were simply on the same flight as someone who’d opened a bag of nuts. All it took was for them to breathe in an infinitesimal fragment and it left them in a critical condition. I look at Oscar and try to remain calm, or at least give the appearance of it.
‘So this allergy. What happens when you eat nuts?’
He sees the panic in my eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ he replies, looking worried.
‘How do you know you’re allergic then?’
‘I don’t know,’ he repeats, his voice getting higher.
‘You must know!’
He sits up, shocked. Frightened.
‘Sorry. Sorry,’ I mutter reassuringly, rubbing his back. ‘I’m sure it’s absolutely fine. But look, do you get poorly or something? Has your mum or a doctor told you not to eat them?’
‘You should phone her,’
he suggests.
‘Good idea.’ I pick up my phone, fumbling as I scroll to Mandy’s number.
‘Are you feeling all right?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. I feel really weird.’ His face is definitely redder. The blotches underneath his ears are getting bigger.
‘In what way?’ I ask, pacing. ‘Can you breathe all right?’
He starts panting.
‘I feel dizzy.’
‘Okay.’ I press dial.
‘And I’ve got a headache.’
‘Oh God,’ I mutter.
‘I think I need to lie down,’ he adds.
‘No don’t do that,’ I say, as the phone goes to voicemail. ‘Or maybe… do. Oh, hi Mandy. I wondered if you could give me a ring back urgently please. Nothing at all to worry about… though I need to speak to you immediately if possible. Thanks.’
I put the phone down and he is now lying on the sofa groaning. ‘What’s happening?’ I ask.
‘My toe hurts,’ he says. ‘But also my tummy too. I feel really hot. Urgh!’
I pick up the phone again and leave another message for Mandy. Then I try Mum and Dad, even though there’s little they can do from their walking holiday in the Cotswolds. I consider Jamie for a moment, but instead decide to Google nut allergies, briefly alighting on an NHS article that says it’s not necessarily serious, which then diverts to several more alarming news stories. ‘Maybe I should phone an ambulance,’ I mumble, which he hears and begins moaning about his toe again.
It’s this that convinces me that it can’t be serious. I’m going to look like an idiot if I phone an ambulance. But what if I’m that person, left in charge of a small human being for the first time and who’s screwed it up so badly that it has critical consequences? What if I’m sitting here contemplating all this while he’s dying on my sofa?
‘Okay, Oscar, let’s go.’ He groans and looks up.
‘Let’s go where?’
‘I’m going to drive you to hospital.’
Chapter 49
I find Mum’s car keys on the table in her hall and pull the door closed. I still have no idea whether Oscar is sick or not. One minute he’s groaning, the next it’s as if he’s forgotten the whole drama and starts weeding the path.
The World at My Feet Page 23
