Wilf says the garden is in the “preparation stage,” which means that we should spend our time cutting and clearing and digging. It’s heavy work, and I enjoy the physicality of pushing the spade in deep and shoveling out great mounds of black earth, which I sift with my fingers, pulling out weeds and bits of rubbish, and I’m reminded of the day, long ago, when I found the sheep skull buried under the bush. I want to tell Wilf about it but can’t find the words, and all I manage is: “There’s a whole world down here. Weeds and roots and snails—actually I’ve got a monster of a weed here, I’m not sure I can get it out.” Wilf comes over to help and digs all around my horrendous weed, then together we pull on it as hard as we can until it comes loose. Wilf throws it onto our pile of debris, takes a deep breath and says, “There’s nothing more sexy than a gorgeous woman covered in dirt and sweat, wrestling with the undergrowth.” I smile, and he goes back to his area of the garden while I watch a robin alight on a branch next to me, then dart down to snatch a worm.
Mostly, Wilf doesn’t talk while he works; he just stomps up and down the garden with bundles of sticks and branches, clearing out a corner in preparation for planting, and I’m struck by how, in life, he resembles so closely my daydreams of him: long strides, rolled-up sleeves, beads of sweat on his forehead. When we stop for a break, we sit on a low wall, passing his flask of tea back and forth, and he’s brought a packet of Hobnob biscuits. He congratulates me on my digging and talks about his plans for the garden, showing me a design sketched out in pencil on a creased piece of paper that he keeps in the back pocket of his khaki shorts. Somehow our conversation turns to Tilda.
“Are you still worried about her?”
I start to say no, but then spoil it: “Do you know how many women are murdered by their partners? It’s two a week. It’s normal.”
“You can’t seriously think Tilda’s going to be murdered?”
“No . . . but . . .”
He gives me no chance to elaborate, saying: “Grab your spade and get digging.”
Everything is fine in Wilf-world, and I go along with his positive mood, digging madly. I work up a rhythm for breaking the soil, forking and raking and sifting, and become immersed—enjoying too the sideshow of the robin, endlessly looking for something to kill. But after an hour I’m exhausted, and Wilf tells me to rest while he finishes up. “Let’s adjourn to the pub,” he says. “As a reward.” So we drive to the Albany.
It’s less crowded this time, and we sit side by side on a bench at a corner table, two manual workers with soil everywhere, under our nails, in our hair, all over our legs—it even feels gritty inside my mouth. “Is that it until next weekend?” I ask. “Or do you go back in the evenings?”
“I have a team.” He shrugs as if to say, It’s no big deal. But I’m amazed.
“A team! Like you’re an employer? Already an entrepreneur . . .” I feel myself shrink inside. If he’s this successful, why is he interested in me?
“Well, it’s two Romanian guys who work on contract,” he says. “And I go there most evenings to check that we’re on schedule, and to set the program for the next day. It’s a competitive environment—too many people doing what I do, and too few customers. But if you’re good, you can make it work.”
“How do you convince people to take you on?”
“Word of mouth mainly. I’m bad at the admin side, though, following up payments, sorting out the contracts . . .”
As he speaks, I’m aware that, because of our rolled-up sleeves, our bare arms are touching, lightly brushing each other. The sensation makes my chest feel tight, and my hands are shaking slightly. I hope he doesn’t notice, and I say, almost under my breath: “I could help . . . if you like, with the paperwork.”
His face contorts, like he finds that funny.
“What?”
“Who knew that the word paperwork could sound so . . . what’s the word? . . . alluring.”
He leans over, puts one hand round the back of my head, and pulls my face towards his. And we kiss—first, little kisses on the lips, then a proper full-on kiss, me taking in his woody smell, the roughness of his lips. We pull apart, and Wilf says, “Would you like to come and see my flat?”
“Oh no! I have to get home. . . .” I pull away, stymied by a blast of fear.
“Oh, okay.”
He gulps down his beer, putting the glass down with a thump of finality, and I summon up my courage: “I didn’t mean to say that. What I meant was, I’d like to see your flat.” I try to smile at him, but my mouth is dry and the smile won’t come.
“Good!”
He steers me out of the Albany and we walk to Kensal Rise, his arm around my waist, stopping twice to kiss, then speeding up, in a hurry to be inside.
18
I’m preparing for dinner at the Wolseley and reflect that I’ve become suddenly grown-up. This dress, these boots, and the fact that I’ve acquired a boyfriend. I make up my face, taking Daphne’s advice to go for smoky eyes, and follow a method I found on YouTube. I use a “natural” shade lipstick, sort of creamy and glossy, and think it’s possible that I actually look sexy and sophisticated. At one point, I skip around the flat singing the “I Feel Pretty” song from West Side Story, but come to an abrupt stop when reality hits. An evening with Felix, just the two of us. Now I feel sick. Before I leave home I log on to Controlling Men and have a quick chat with Belle.
I’m so nervous. How will I be able to talk naturally? My instinct will be to insult him and walk out.
Stay focused. It’s important that u use ur time well, to find out as much as poss. Be strong!!
I take the bus to the Wolseley and, although I’m five minutes early, I find that Felix is already there, sitting at the bar, sharp shoulders, straight back, drinking something clear—gin or vodka or, knowing him, fizzy water. He glances up and stands up, surprise in his eyes. “You look beautiful.” He’s kissing my cheek, placing his hand on my back as he leads me to our table, making me think of those long cold fingers. As we sit down he explains that he has already ordered champagne, and I’m not surprised when he goes through the menu, advising me what to order. The roasted sea bass is “excellent,” the calf’s liver “very acceptable.”
“Do you like oysters? I recommend the oysters here.”
“Not really. I like beluga caviar, though.” I had read 50g for ￡255.
He laughs. “If you like. This is my treat.”
“Just testing.” In fact I order a lamb dish, reasonably priced, and I look round the restaurant, at the self-satisfied men and wealthy women, jewels hanging in clusters from their necks and ears, like fruit. I say, “Do you come here often?” I’m trying to sound natural. At the same time, I’m examining Felix, his white wrists and knuckles, his composure, his eyes. Scanning him for clues—but it’s hard to get beyond the veneer, the slight smile, the perfect teeth.
“Oh, we only come here on special occasions. . . . Tilda likes it.”
“So why didn’t she come today, why is it just us?”
“I wanted to mend fences . . . and to spend time getting to know you better.”
“Why? I’m very ordinary.” Thinking, I have to stop saying that!
“Ha! You’re wrong—you’re an unusually perceptive person. You’re bright and you’re funny. Those wry observations of yours—you have perfect timing . . .”
“Why all this flattery, Felix?” I’m too stressed, too nauseated, to pretend that I’m charmed.
He brushes an invisible crumb off the table. “It’s not about flattery. I’m trying to tell you that I like you, Callie. And I want to convince you that I’m right for Tilda. I’m in love with your sister, and I’m good for her. . . . It pains me that you don’t see me that way.”
His voice is practically a whisper, an articulated hush, and I lean in, not wanting to miss anything.
“Are you always like this with your girlfriends?”