‘You’re right.’ She gazed at the small and vibrant flower in his upturned palm. ‘It really does look like a ballerina.’ She pulled her eyes away from his hand.
At the gate, he hesitated. ‘So, Countess of Lindisfarne, if you’re planning on doing this place up, I could help. I’m quite handy.’
‘I’m just going to paint it. Nothing huge.’
‘I’m great with a paintbrush.’
‘I can’t ask you to do that.’
‘You didn’t. I volunteered. I could even start tomorrow, if we want.’
We want? She almost laughed. ‘Don’t you have other gardens to do?’
‘It’s going to rain.’
‘Is it?’ She looked up, doubtfully, at a bright blue sky.
‘I’m going to pray for it.’
She did laugh now. His boldness was still there, and it was refreshing. She experienced a flash of herself as that twenty-year-old woman again. That’s what was missing from her marriage: Mark no longer wooed her. He no longer thought he had to, or that it mattered. He would probably have never guessed that she even missed it.
Turn him down, she was thinking. Or no good will come of this. But she had reached a precipice and was catching herself in the act of jumping off into thin air. She would either soar and fly, or crash and burn. But either way, the movement was exhilarating. ‘Well, I could certainly use the help . . .’
He studied her for a moment as though he might back out, then said, ‘Tomorrow then?’
Pressuring her like this made her slightly delirious. She could almost feel her mother looking on, with bated breath, saying, See! Second chances . . . ‘Tomorrow,’ she said.
He reached to shake her hand. It was an oddly formal gesture. She registered the strong clasp of his fingers around hers. And, as she looked into his eyes, she suddenly possessed a discomfiting perspective on herself. Her life felt like a grand mansion built without any proper foundations. It could crumble with the right little earthquake.
TEN
Alice
Our relationship started like a runaway train, with no brakes and no one driving.
There was nothing particularly original about it. We met in one of Newcastle’s busy, uber-trendy cocktail bars. I was with Sally, who rarely got a night out because she worked unsociable hours and was a parent.
‘Two o’clock.’ Sally nudged me as we clung to our wine glasses. We had just been lamenting the coincidence of how, over dinner two hours previously, we’d witnessed my ex – Colin, who couldn’t commit – proposing, on his knees, complete with diamond and spellbound onlookers. Colin, who actually shed tears when he told me how much he loved me but how fervently against the idea of marriage he was. Fortunately, the girl had looked mortified.
My eyes moved to two o’clock. There was a dark-haired guy in a suit trying to order a drink. He was thrusting a hand into the air in that assertive way only a very tall person can pull off, and which comes across to everyone else as slightly obnoxious. I could only see him from the side. A fine head of hair. Nice build. A thatch of white shirt-cuff protruding from his jacket’s sleeve.
Spotting him somehow dampened sound. I suddenly seemed to bloom like a flower. As though someone had just given me the right combination of sun, wind, warmth and water. As I studied him, time slowed to footpace. And then, almost as if he felt the pull of my eyes, he turned around. And even though the room was crowded, and there were so many other faces he could have looked at, it was mine he homed right in on. I gave a small, involuntary smile. He responded likewise, looking charmed. We were held there, like wind-hovering birds, until I was the first to look away.
I don’t really know when my faith in men went out of the window. Perhaps I’d never had much, so I’d managed to attract ones whose shitty behaviour wouldn’t fail to disappoint. I may have learnt this from my mother who, despite having Alan as a wonderful partner for so many years, lumped all men in with my true father, whose heinous crimes were too numerous to identify. It’s not as though I ever had the sort of unrealistic expectations my single friends always harboured. If he was intelligent, kind, somewhat fun, with a good sense of humour, if he had one feature that pleased my eye every time I looked at his face – that could be enough to fall in love with. But still, it had never really happened.
‘He’s handsome,’ I said to Sally. But the weight of another possible new start was just too much. ‘I can’t do it again, though. It’s over for me, Sally. I can’t handle being let down any more. I can’t put my mind or my body through one more traumatic break-up.’ The image of Colin proposing had wounded me more than I was ever going to let on. Maybe he hadn’t loved me enough to want to marry me, because I wasn’t worthy of being loved. ‘I honestly think I’m destined to be alone. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. Alone doesn’t mean lonely. I’m going to chant that every day, in my celibate, Buddhist monk’s temple.’
‘Here he comes,’ Sally said.
‘Who?’
‘Him.’
‘No!’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh God.’ I clapped both hands over my face. ‘Alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely!’
Sally chuckled. ‘You are so full of shit!’
‘Please, please, make him go away! Let him meet someone else on the way over here. Please.’
‘Ah! Shoot! He’s gone. Girlfriend! False alarm.’