“And you?” I glance at Lessa. “Finished your work?” I don’t really know what her job is, mostly she works at her laptop.
“No, I’m just bored.”
“You and me both.”
“At least you’re out in the fresh air. I just sit for hours until I grow stiff.”
Grow stiff, yeah. I yank my wayward mind from the double entendre. Not for the first time, I wonder if this fake marriage arrangement has been a mistake. It all started with so much potential.
Do something to help someone in trouble. Give your time, a little part of your life.
But Lessa, who seems the ideal person in need of help, won’t let me For a start, she insists on paying rent and all expenses that relate to our fake marriage. We went to Jersey that first weekend and bought two wedding rings, simple gold bands, which she refused to let me pay for. Then we had lunch at a local café where she pulled out a clean sheet of A4 and wrote out the Ts & Cs of our agreement.
One – We will be housemates. Nothing more, nothing less.
Two – She will not accept charity. Anything we buy, food, loo rolls, Wi-Fi subscription, she pays half.
Three – We will share house chores like ordinary flatmates.
Four – I don’t have to ‘act like a husband’ any more than absolutely necessary. She turns down any social invitations. There will be no dinner parties or outings as a couple.
Five – She will live with me until after the general election in the UK or until her seventh month of pregnancy, whichever comes sooner. Then she will leave.
Six – If at any time I change my mind or need space, I must (the word must underlined three times) say so and she will find somewhere else to live.
That was our last long conversation. A month ago. Since then, her presence in my house not only isn’t going to fulfil the ‘help someone in need’ request, but it’s actually endangering mycelibacy.
She does her best not to get in my face. I work on the renovations or gardening, and she stays in her room working. Except when she comes to talk to me
“I can’t believe you cleared all this by hand.” She points at the part of the garden already cleared.
“I tried doing it by foot, believe me.” I kick at the pile of thistles I spent the morning cutting out of the ground. “I’m a musician, so my hands are my livelihood. If I could keep them safe and pampered, I would.”
I wait for her to go back inside.
“Is there much left?” She steps around the piled weeds toward the briar patch at the back of the garden.
She’s very curious, either that or very bored and looking for a distraction. “This.” She points at the thick brambles. “Is there much land? I mean why couldn’t you lease it to a farmer? It’ll save you the effort of clearing it yourself and might even give you some additional cash.”
She likes problem solving. So, I try to be even more boring than her work in her room.
“The thought had occurred to me, but a chat with an official at the town hall nixed that idea. According to the property survey, there is about an acre and a half, but all of it is down the hillside and is too steep to farm.”
“How much is an acre and a half? I don’t really understand farming language.”
“And you think I do?” I laugh.
In my own arguments, I make it sound as if I don’t want her here, but that’s not true. Part of me really enjoys her company. She’s…I don’t know…fun!
She peers ahead. The afternoon sun is just dipping below the line of bushes, and it catches deep highlights in her hair. “What’s in it now, I mean behind those impenetrable briars?”
I shrug. “Who knows? Trees, dead rose bushes, Charlie Chaplin? For my money, it’s just more briars.”
A stone path curves from the front garden to the back, around the three apple trees, then disappears into the brambles. She puts her mug down on one of the stones and follows the path to the end, then drops into a squat and peers. Clearly, she’s not ready to go back inside, and I’m happier than I should be about this.
“The path goes on for a long way.” She calls back. “We need something to cut some of this back.”
“Don’t touch them, they’re very prickly.” I slip my gloves back on, then pick the large shears and follow her.
