“Good morning.” He gives me a friendly look and indicates the half-full cafetière. “You’re welcome to have some. Just bring a…” He pauses, glancing towards my open door. “I don’t suppose you have cups and plates yet?”
“I haven’t even started thinking about such things; I only arrived yesterday.” My mouth continues talking with minimal direction. It says nice things and thanks him for inviting me to sit.
Meanwhile, my brain is standing frozen with its metaphorical mouth open.
“You must be Evie Palmer?” he asks.
My autopilot nods.
“I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Osian James.”
Of course he is.
He looks the same.
The beautiful face, the dark blond hair that the morning sun catches and highlights, the straight eyebrows. He gets up and walks inside his flat to fetch me a cup. He even still has the same long stride, slim hips, perfect body. The kind of body that makes the gunmetal green corduroys and grey zip-neck jumper look like Prada. I watch him walk back, not only with a cup but also achair that he places at the table. Which means he expects me to join him.
I sit. What else can I do?
He pours me coffee, still hot – steam rises gently from the cup as he hands it to me.
“Mmm.” I inhale.
“Another coffee addict,” he says, quirking an eyebrow. “We’re going to get on like a house on fire. Actually, you probably don’t know this, but—” He glances up at me.
Oh God. I’m sixteen again. How is it I still remember the denim-blue eyes? Grey at the centre, dark blue rim. Wide eyes with long lashes.
“I know who you are,” he says.
My heart thumps hard inside my chest.
“I used to watch your programme,” he says. “Of all the others in thatGarden Rebirthteam, I always liked your ideas best. The others designed flowerbeds that looked good on camera. But you always created something full of surprises. You planted flowers that someone only finds when walking through. Like a mini treasure hunt.”
I shrug. “It was always a battle because the producer wanted something camera-friendly; shrubs that flowered quickly so we could capture the effect. He didn’t agree with me that sometimes you have to wait for the real character of a garden to develop.”
“Exactly. A botanical design is not like a house makeover.” He sits forward, more animated. “I hate that we live in the age of quick results. Fast upcycling, fast renovation, even fast-food delivery.”
He chats in that friendly-but-impersonal way we use when we’ve just met someone new.
He doesn’t remember me.
Why would he remember that ordinary half-invisible schoolgirl who fell in love with him from the sidelines? I’ve changed.
The problem with light brown eyes and light brown hair is that they all blend into the woodwork. On my first day at Styler TV, the make-up girl took one look at me and immediately wheeled me next door where a couple of stylish gay men transformed me.
Now, my hair is a shiny chocolate brown, cut in a sophisticated layered bob that just reaches my shoulders. My eyebrows have been shaped and tinted so they frame my eyes. And my skin has been well-cared-for with regular facials because HD cameras can pick out the smallest flaw. Everything about me says successful thirty-three-year-old TV personality.
Osian has changed, too, in subtle ways. I can’t really say how, but there’s a definite transformation. He might look the same – ish – on the outside. A bit less skinny, less boyish, face more serious. But on the inside, he’s a different man.
I want to ask him so many questions.
“What?” he asks.
“Sorry?” I shake my head.
“You seemed miles away.”
“I was just wondering about your role here. Are you another of the profit participants?”
