When I stop at the petrol station to fill up, the urge to do a quick search hits me with double the force. So when I get back inside my car I take out my phone.
Chapter Thirteen
I don’t search right away. I make myself drive into a safe layby and switch off the engine. It feels so wrong to look him up, like a shameful voyeurism.
I typeOsian James, tennisin the search bar.
The first thing that loads is a carousel of images. Pictures of a young Osian in tennis whites, hair wet with sweat, lifting a shining silver cup into the air. Osian diving racquet-first after a ball. Osian grinning happily into the camera.
There are also pictures of him with Kirsten Sheringham looking sweet, blonde and beautiful. Lots and lots of pictures of the two of them looking happy. Her dimples are almost as heart-stopping as his bright smile. The same ready smile I remember so well from our school days.
I swipe my finger up and the pictures scroll out of sight. What follows are articles, headlines, and the usual box with a summary list of facts. Full name. Date and place of birth. Number of grand slam titles won. Spouse.
I’m about to scroll further when my eyes snag on that last one.
Spouse: Kirsten Sheringham, and two dates. Married. Died.
It’s like cold water in the face. Died!
I re-read the dates. Four years apart. So she died four years after they got married. A quick calculation tells me he’d have been twenty-four, maybe twenty-five.
I type her name into the search bar. The first thing that pops up is an image. One of those dual pictures. On the left is Kirsten – beautiful, sparkling and happy on her wedding day, a garland of pearls in her hair. The picture on the right is of a funeral – a graveside with people ringed around a casket covered with white flowers. It’s a small picture but Osian is just visible, fair hair against the black suit and tie, his head bowed so his expression is hidden.
The caption reads, “A SAD DAY”, and underneath:
The surprise news last week sent shockwaves around the world. Kirsten Sheringham, 25, died in her home in St George, Maine. She had been diagnosed with an aggressive myeloma two years prior. She and husband, 24-year-old British tennis champion Osian James, kept her condition and treatment a closely guarded secret.
What is myeloma?Another quick search tells me it’s a cancer of the bone marrow and white blood cells. It has horrible symptoms like pain in your bones, anaemia and weakness, constant tiredness, loss of appetite and mental confusion.
Oh my God. That poor girl.
Time ticks by with me staring at my phone, sitting on the A470 as the afternoon fades into dusk. At last, I turn the keys in the ignition and drive on to Kendric Park.
So that’s why they retired from tennis. All the talk about focussing on their relationship, that was just for the cameras. The poor girl.
My heart twists with guilt. How jealous I’d been of her once, how I’d hated imagining them together setting up a happy home and raising a family. It had filled me with resentment at my own bad luck.
Bad luck? Me?I’m still here, alive and healthy with a new business in a stunning place. Look at me, driving a car full of silk cushions and pretty pictures.
That poor, poor girl. She’d looked so blissfully happy in her wedding picture, all dimples and sparkling eyes, never knowing what was coming right around the corner.
I’m a little surprised how little news coverage there was; all the press about her death had been short on actual detail, which is unusual for something that should have been a sensation. In fact, the line in the article – ‘they kept her illness a secret’–how did they manage that?
Then the pieces come together like a jigsaw. That’s why they retired from tennis two years before she died – to give them space to deal with terminal cancer without the world looking over their shoulders. That’s why there had been no statement from him, no interviews, nothing. When your heart is breaking, all you want is to hide.
No wonder Osian is suspicious of me. He must have had more than his fair share of press ghouls in search of a scoop. Even eight years later, there must be some interest. ‘Where Are They Now?’ stories are always popular. And pseudo documentaries on YouTube – ‘The Tragedy of the Tennis Lovers’ or something stupid like that. Pictures and clips can trend on social media for years. Something you can never live down.
And there I was, clomping in with size fifteen feet telling him to use his name on the orchard project. It must have felt like akick in the stomach. And the next day I’d chased him around and forced him to share his coffee while I sat there taunting him with more facts from his tennis days.
The memory of his rigid, angry face will stay with me for ages. At school he was such a charming, smiling boy. And just as I have that thought, another realisation hits me: since I met him four days ago, Osian hasn’t smiled. Not once.
And I’m the last person to help. Everything I’ve done has made things worse.God, Evangeline, talk about getting it wrong!
The only thing I can do now is stay out of his way, really stay out of his way.
Chapter Fourteen
First thing in the morning, there are the usual noises from next door. The sound of running water and a clatter in the kitchen, even the smell of coffee. Yet, once more, no sign of him on the balcony.
