“Some things don’t change,” he says, sounding defeated. “Can’t.”
“Your wife, no matter how much you loved her—”
He flings an arm up as if warding a blow. “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t mention her.”
“My God, even her name is sacred. And lesser mortals like me aren’t allowed to sully it.”
Something restricts my arm movement. It’s my bra strap, over my shoulder and down halfway to my elbow; how long has it been there? Did he pull it down earlier? I snap it back into place and snatch my shirt off the sofa.
“Not can’t.” I push one arm into the sleeve. “But won’t.” I drag on the other sleeve. “Everything changes if it’s not tied down. You know what?” I button my shirt, over the chest first because I don’t want him looking at my breasts if all he sees is a one-night stand. “You are just like that legend of Rhys and Meinir. You”—I fix him with an accusing glare—“are the bride imprisoned in the tree. Except you put yourself there and condemned yourself to die.”
I have to leave. Where is my other sandal? Not on the floor, not on the sofa… I scatter cushions looking for it.
“Evie, please wait. Can we try to fix this?”
I straighten up from looking under the coffee table. “No. I can’t. And this time it really is can’t.”
His eyes search my face as if he doesn’t believe my words. So I give him the proof.
“You want to know why I can’t? Because I’ve done this before, at school. And I’m not doing it again.”
The change of subject throws him; he stares at me, nonplussed.
“I fell in love with you. Not when you asked me on a date, but the thoughtful way you acted after you broke my plant.”
His eyes widen. “I broke your pl—?”
“It was an accident. You bumped into me at the school gates and knocked a flowerpot out of my hand. It was a rare hybrid camellia. You were very sweet and went to the trouble of finding a replacement. And you wrote me this card which said, ‘We’ll do it another time.’ Your words. Your exact words.”
He frowns at me, and I think for a moment he’s trying to remember, then he asks, “My exact words? You still remember them from sixteen years ago?”
“Yes. I still remember.” I lose the battle against my tears, and one runs down my face. But even with my eyes closed, I see his card; the careful handwriting. “’Hey Evie’,” I recite, my eyes still closed.
“‘I’m really sorry, but something’s come up. I’ve got a place in the Argentinian Open because someone’s dropped out, and my coach wants me to fly to Buenos Aires immediately so I can get a lot of practice. My flight’s booked for tomorrow morning so we won’t make the dance tomorrow night. I’m really sorry. We’ll do it another time. Also a replacement for the flower I killed. Hope this one survives. Just don’t let me near it. See you in the new year. Osian’.”
I open my eyes and look at him, hoping to see a glimmer of recognition.
He just looks blank. Surprised, but blank. “What happened after that?” he asks.
“What happened?” I’m trying not to cry again. “Nothing. You came back a star and never spoke to me again.”
He flinches as if I’ve slapped him. “What?”
“Even better, you went around dating every girl in sight, it seemed like. From our school, from the tennis club, from God-only-knew where. You dated a lot of girls.”
“Yeah, I know I did.” He looks almost ashamed.
“And I? I was forced to watch from the sidelines for the rest of the two years leading up to our A-levels.”
“I didn’t know.”
He walks around the coffee table, straightening the books knocked aside, picking up cushions that had fallen to the floor. All this activity to give himself time to think?
“I’m sorry. I can’t even remember any of those girls. After the Argentinian Open, things were hectic, insane. It felt like I was on a fast-forward film clip. Everything before Buenos Aires faded. But, Evie”—he looks up at me—“why didn’t you tell me that we were supposed to go out? I’d never have been deliberately cruel. I just didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me how you felt?”
“I am,” I whisper. “I’m telling you now.” We look at each other, eye to eye, while my throat works to swallow down the lump and allow my voice to sound stronger. “Since we started working together, I’ve fallen in love with you. Not a childish school-girl crush, but a real grown-up connection. Won’t you meet me halfway?”
He takes a step towards me, not looking, so his foot gets tangled up with the leg of the coffee table and he has to stop. But his eyes are on me.
