She says nothing. Just watches me brushing my black shoes.
“Less?” I pause, putting the shoes down.
“What?”
I swear she knows what I’m going to say.
“Don’t leave before I get back, will you?”
This isn’t a stupid thing to say. Her world too has come crashing down on our little oasis of calm.
For months now, I’ve had the impression Lessa was moving on from her MP. When she got a message from that horrible man, Sir what’s his name, that her new home is ready in Switzerland, she shrugged as if it didn’t matter. Then last week, we were in the garden sitting on the new bench and checking through our phones for plant ideas when she suddenly gasped.
“Oh my God.”
I looked up wondering and she explained. “It’s really happening.” She showed me her screen.
SPORTS MINISTER’S MARRIAGE RUNNING OUT OF BREATH.
Unconfirmed rumours that Vivienne Smith has consulted divorce lawyers continue to circulate. While new minister Clive Smith visits sports grounds across the nation, his wife has been conspicuous by her absence. Following a gruelling election campaign, his wife has been suffering exhaustion and has commented to friends that the political life was not for her.
“What does this mean?” I asked, doing my best to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
“It means the wheels are in motion to bring me back to Westminster.” Since then, there’s been a flurry of messages back and forth and talk of Sir What’s-his-name’s private jet to Switzerland.
So perhaps I was wrong about her change of heart. And it’s too late for me to change her mind. Besides, Lessa deserves to get her career back. Her Phoenix Bill which I’m increasingly sure was her idea not Clive’s. It’s her dream, and she wants to see it through.
Which reminds me that I have a career, too. It’s been months and months of living in this ‘new and improved time’ but now she’s going back to her life and so should I.
“Elodie and Hal next door have promised to look in on you while I’m away.” I tell her as I continue packing.
“They did more than that.” She scowls at me. “They spread the word round and now everyone is offering to send me food, so I don’t have to cook.”
“And this offends you?”
“I can walk to the kitchen and make a meal, you know.” She fumes. “I’m not the kind of woman who sits around all day.”
“Don’t I know it.” I grin at her. “What are you going to do while I’m away?”
“Nothing.” She shrugs with exaggerated nonchalance.
“Lessa?” I give her a warning look. “Promise me you’ll take things easy until I get back.”
“I promise.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Lessa
Monday.
I promised Brandon to wait for him, but Sir Alan doesn’t think he needs to consult me about anything. I’m not even surprised when I get a message telling me to get myself to Jersey airport on Friday.
Friday.
All I can do is try to finalise a few things for Brandon. Like planting bulbs in the garden so there’ll be nice flowers in a couple of months. I also wrack my brain for a gift. What can I get him? The man who doesn’t have much of an eye for colour.
Something colourful. I can just imagine his scowl at receiving a colourful surprise. So, yesterday I went to see Laura at the silk workshop and chose fabric for curtains. It’s some of their surplus, a rich jacquard in forest green with small orange flowers. It reminds me of him because he always smells a little of orange zest, although I seem to be the only one who thinks so.
