After a quick wash, I rummage for my denim dungarees. If I am planning to walk through the wilderness today and investigate clues to what was planted long ago, I need to dress in something hardy and dirt resistant. Later, I’ll braid my hair into a plait so it doesn’t pick up every spider, aphid and beetle from the bushes. For now, I leave it down, and because I don’t want to look like a builder, I also leave the top of my overalls unbuttoned. The red tee-shirt underneath softens the look a bit.
Yes, I’m conscious of my appearance. Shouldn’t I be? Before I go down to get myself dirty again, I’m going to speak to Osian and explain.
He’s sitting outside, dressed all in black. Black jeans, black roll neck and a black quilted gilet open to show how his flat stomach dips. If he’d been another man – and I another woman – and the situation different, I might have noticed how well black suits him, how it sets off the blond highlights at his temples.
One thing hasn’t changed in fifteen years. He’s still a very attractive man.
His cafetière on the small table is half-full; a book lies open, face-down. Osian sits facing away, watching the view, cup in hand, relaxed and still. If he wanted to look aloof and unapproachable, he couldn’t have done better than the cold, polite nod he gives me when I come out on my balcony.
Oh, dear.
Heart sinking, I force myself over to his side. “I was hoping you had coffee.”
He hesitates for a minute, then gets up, reluctance in every move, and goes inside for a second cup. No second chair, this time. He’s making it very clear he doesn’t want my company.
It brings out my defiance.
Whatever! It’ll take more than set features to defeat me.
“Thank you.” I take the cup from him and perch on the stone balustrade.
His lips press together when he realises I’m not going away, but he doesn’t ask me to leave. What he does is pick up his book and pretend to read it.
It feels as if he’s enclosed himself in an invisible bubble that keeps everyone and everything out. He really isn’t making this easy.
I may as well just tell him the truth. It can’t get worse, can it?
“I…” My voice comes out wrong. Had I thought about it, I’d have done vocal exercises before talking to him. I often did that before filming to make my voice strong and clear. Instead, I take a sip of coffee to warm and lubricate my throat.
“I went to Hampton Mannor School. That’s how I know you.”
He looks at me for the first time this morning, his face expressionless. If it wasn’t for the fierce concentration in his eyes, I might have thought he didn’t understand. But he does.
“You did?” he asks at last. “What year were you in?”
“I was in your year. We sat our A-levels at the same time.”
A calculating look. Then, “Forgive me, I don’t seem to remember,” he says, not sounding particularly apologetic. “What was your name, then?”
“Evie. Evangeline Palmer, same as now. I haven’t changed it.”
He scans me up and down like I’m a rose bush being checked for black spot. His eyes come back to my face. “I knew everyone in my year; I don’t remember you at all.”
“We didn’t really move in the same circles. And you and I shared only one subject – biology.”
There’s the barest flicker in an eyelid, an almost hidden disbelief.
I slide off the stone parapet to stand on my feet, as tall as I can make myself. “Why would I lie?”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug.
Of all the ways I imagined his reaction, the last was that he wouldn’t believe me. He just sits there looking at me, or at least looking in my direction, but his eyes aren’t really connecting. It’s as if he’s trying telepathy to make me leave.
“I haven’t come here to stalk you, if that’s what you think.”
“It’s quite a coincidence. That you come from London all the way toy Bannau Brycheiniog.” His pronunciation is perfect. He used to have such a soft lilting Welsh accent when he first came to our school. Everyone thought it was charming, especially the girls.
“Evie?”
