I take a deep breath. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
The appraising look he gives me says he’s not fooled. “Earlier in the garden when Noel the tree surgeon told you about the trees, you looked like you’d worked out the riddle about the five colours.”
Osian, too, is not answering my question, not coming to the point. “You brought me all the way to Llancaradoc so you can ask me about the trees?”
“No, but now we’re here I might be having second thoughts about what I wanted to discuss.” This time his expression isn’t teasing but serious.
And slightly worried.
“Because it’s a personal question?” I hazard.
“Yes,” he says shortly. No sign he’s going to say more.
“Well, you’d better ask it, otherwise it’s going to keep me up at night.”
He considers this before appearing to make a decision. Finally!
“Are you worried about the amount of work?” he begins. “Your original plan to take the garden in stages doesn’t seem…” He leaves the last sentence hanging.
“Doesn’t seem practical if the fans are to be replanted?” I say, guessing his meaning. He’s right. For the fans design to work, it needs to be all of them. Anyone can see that. Otherwise, why have we dug up everything? And that’s before even thinking about the rose arcade.
“Yes.” I drink some cold water to help with my dry mouth. “Unless it’s all planted very soon, we’ve only made room for more weeds to grow.”
“So you’ll have to hire help.”
I pour myself another glass of water, holding a spoon inside the lip of the jug to stop all the ice from coming through. “The young boys from the village are very nice, but they have no interest in gardening. And their talents lie more in pulling up than planting.”
He nods his agreement because we both remember how eagerly they competed with one another to see who could pull out the most weeds near the slate borders.
“So unless I can grow six more arms and squeeze seventy more hours out of every day, yes I have to hire help.”
He hesitates to ask the next logical question.
“And yes, it’s going to cost more money than I can afford. A lot more than I have in my bank. I will have to take out a second mortgage on my London flat.”
It’s more information than I really need to give someone not directly involved in my life or my finances. But I’m still at this early stage when I am thinking aloud, so the words just come. There’s also another reason: part of me wants to know why he’s asking. Why he’s been chewing this question for a few days, unable to ask it. What could it possibly matter to him?
“You seem very sanguine about this?” And his eyes continue to study me as if looking for something.
“You know what they say: if it can’t be avoided, it has to be accepted. And for me, if Imustaccept something then I may as well go all in and embrace it.”
“Make lemonade?” he asks with a soft smile.
“No.” Another sip from my water. “I’ll make limoncello, lemon martini, Petroni lemon cream, vodka lemon sour,drop de citroneand lemon fizz cocktail.”
His lips quiver. “For someone who doesn’t drink, you certainly know a lot of liqueurs.”
Yeah, the thought makes my mouth taste suddenly bitter like I’ve chewed on a lemon rind.
I used to be very good at making cocktails; it was a speciality. My ex used to joke, “Evie might be a disaster in the kitchen, but she’s a genius with a drinks cabinet.”
Had I not been hungry for love, I might have noticed long ago that this wasn’t a compliment.
Osian’s soft voice calls me back. “Evie? Where did you go?”
Where indeed. The memory is still so sharp, not even my autopilot can rescue me. I just search for words and nothing comes. Osian must notice the shadows of heartbreak behind my face because he leans forward and reaches his hand towards mine.
“Tell me,” he says, so softly – almost like the way someone speaks during lovemaking.
