‘Well,’ she said, as Fintan parked the car. She was jetlagged and exhausted. ‘Well, I can see how people might think he was a dickhead.’
She looked up. ‘He likes dogs.’
‘Mate,’ said Fintan. ‘Only psychos don’t like dogs. I didn’t accuse him of being a psycho. Just a dickhead.’
They turned onto the little soil path up the hill to the farm. Bramble and the other family dogs immediately went utterly bananas. Flora almost raised a smile at that.
‘Don’t upset Dad,’ said Fintan.
‘Why?’ said Flora, instantly stricken. Her father had been very down after the death of her mother three years ago.
‘No reason,’ said Fintan. ‘Only, he’s so happy that you’re settled – and Joel’s someone Mum would have liked.’
‘Unless she thought he was a dickhead,’ said Flora mournfully.
‘Well, yeah, that’s possible too,’ said Fintan. ‘Anyway.’
Innes and Hamish came wandering in from the fields cheerfully. Since the farm had been bought out, the cushion of a little money, plus a new, guaranteed home for their organic produce, had taken a lot of the strain and worry from their lives. Farmers’ lives were never without worry, of course – but even so, you could see a lightness in Innes’s happy face as he took off his big boots and waved at them. Agot was inside the farmhouse.
‘ATTI FLOWA!’ She jumped up.
‘You are not still watching Peppa Pig,’ said Flora, smiling, and she picked the girl up in her arms and whirled her round.
‘I’S LOVES PEPPA.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it.’
Agot looked around mischievously then leaned towards Flora’s ear and announced in a loud stage whisper, ‘YOU GOT PRESENT FOAH AGOT?’
‘Agot!’ said Innes. ‘Literally that was the exact and precise thing I told you not to say when Flora walked through the door.’
The imp looked utterly unrepentant. ‘BUT LIKE PRESENTS,’ she said, as if this was a ridiculous demand to have placed on her.
Flora smiled and sat down. ‘Well,’ she said, and drew out of her bag a snow globe that had all the New York landmarks underneath it. She shook it for the little one, who gave a great gasp.
‘SNOWZING!’
‘It is snowzing, yes.’
Agot snatched it from Flora’s hands, eyes wide.
‘Be careful with it,’ said Flora. ‘Don’t drop it.’
‘NOTS DROP SNOWZING,’ agreed Agot, nevertheless waving it about in a highly dangerous fashion, her eyes fixed on it.
‘What do you say, Agot?’ said Innes, watching happily.
‘THANK YOU, ATTI FLOWA.’ Agot’s little face looked up, then creased into a frown. ‘WHAT WRONG?’
Flora blinked. ‘There’s nothing wrong,’ she said.
‘YOU CRYING? SAD ATTI FLOWA? YOU SAD? YOU SAD? NOT CRY.’
Agot scrambled up into Flora’s lap and started using her little hands to wipe away the remnants of tears from Flora’s eyes.
‘I’m fine!’ said Flora, slightly desperately. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’
‘Are you missing Joel?’ said Innes.
‘Neh, he was being a dickhead,’ said Fintan.
‘Shut up, Fintan!’
‘DOAN BE SAD.’ Agot was unswervable on the topic.
‘I’m not sad,’ said Flora. ‘I am very happy. Why don’t you play with your snow globe?’
Agot looked at it. Bramble was trying to eat it.
‘SNOWZER WAN WATCH PEPPA,’ she said, snatching it back.
‘Well, good,’ said Flora. ‘I think that’s an excellent idea.’
‘WAZ A DICKHEAD, ATTI FLOWA?’
The boys had already started squabbling about who was making dinner, and suddenly Flora felt overwhelmingly tired.
‘Actually, I think I’m a bit jetlagged,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll just go to bed.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Dear Colton,
I regret to …
Joel stared at the blinking cursor in frustration.
He couldn’t think straight. He could barely think at all. He had messed everything up so thoroughly … Maybe he should resign. Resign and leave Mure and stay here in New York or Singapore or anywhere else … He would always be in demand.
The thought of leaving all of it behind: the only place that stilled his restless damaged heart; the only place he could breathe, away from the wretched air conditioning and the constant traffic noise and the beep-beep-beeping of everybody’s phones and the endless lines of people and issues and problems all jangling up against him and crackling across the air …
Christ. He deleted the email.
Dear Flora,
He flashed back suddenly to that weekend they’d spent together in the depths of winter: Flora pretending to be reading even though she kept falling asleep; he was working. Every time he looked up, her head would be drooping, then she’d see him looking at her and smile and say, ‘It’s actually very interesting,’ and he’d smile back as the flames crackled in the wood-burner. The room had felt cosy, and Bramble, who had appeared to become a permanent feature ever since Flora had returned and disliked leaving her side, had turned over with a groaning noise that sounded exactly like a seventy-year-old man – which is what he was in dog years. Joel had suddenly found that he had completely lost interest in the work he was doing. He had pushed aside the folders and got up and put her book down. He had pulled her up towards him in the firelight and kissed her ferociously and she had leaned into him with such hunger, instantly and completely awake, those pale eyes of hers taking on a characteristically misty distant look he had learned to recognise very well. Then they had fumbled as she tried to take off the four layers of ridiculous clothes she was wearing and they had laughed – which was strange for Joel, as he rarely laughed – and they had locked Bramble in the bathroom and the flakes of snow had swirled around outside and settled on the harbourside so prettily as the heat of their bodies was magnified by the licking of the flames that threw their shadows against the wall. And he thought he had never been so happy – no, that he had never been happy at all.
And what had he done afterwards? He had slept. He had slept for nine hours.
Joel never slept anywhere. He had learned not to early in life: in foster homes, with children of the family who might make their displeasure at your appearance obvious in different ways, at unpredictable times of day; at boarding school, where one was never entirely safe from a master looking for miscreants, or older boys looking for trouble. His entire life was lived on guard.
Except for Mure. There, he was … there he was safe.
New York wasn’t safe. It was confusing and busy and made him anxious. It made him have to keep a tight lid on himself, and what had he done? He had looked at her and seen in her eyes not the clear gaze of trust she gave him when they sat on the harbour wall; not the calm, focused look she had when she was working in Annie’s Seaside Kitchen, perfectly following recipes handed down from her mother; not that clouded, melting look whenever he placed a hand on her, cheeks reddened, every time, her hands trembling in a way he found utterly irresistible …
No. She had looked at him in pain and confusion and disappointment, and in all the kinds of terrible ways Joel couldn’t bear to be looked at – that triggered the panic, so deeply buried, of a little boy who, if he wasn’t pleasing people, couldn’t be certain of a roof over his head and food to eat, never mind someone to love him. And to make matters worse, now Colton was working to destroy it all.
There was no connection in Joel’s life that you could screw up and still be loved. None. It simply had never happened to him. That was why he had fought so hard to be the best: to be the most successful, to turn in the most billable hours, to always beat the other guy, to seduce the most beautiful women, to always succeed.
To fail in Flora’s eyes felt like the worst failure of all and he wasn’t sure if he could bear it. And he didn’t know what to do about it.
He deleted the email, cursing. He was no good for anyone or anything, it seemed.