I nod. “They said I’d have to forego three months’ wages. To me it was worth it. I couldn’t afford to be in the episodes with any of the celebrities or royals. But my boss made it clear I’d never work in television ever again. In our industry, reputation is everything.”
“Ah,” he says, getting the implication. “So you burnt your bridges.” Then his eyes fill with understanding. “And if you don’t make a success of the gardens here, you have nowhere to go. Hence the panic attacks?”
“That and the fear of going viral, becoming a national joke. Family and old friends seeing me as a ridiculous failure.”
His eyes widen with disbelief.
“I don’t mind that I failed. It happens. I just don’t want it so public,” I explain.
He squeezes my hand. “Evie, in my tennis days, I lost a lot of games. You can miss balls, double fault, even land flat on your face, but still win the match.” His voice softens. “You falling for the wrong guy – and drowning your sorrow in a night of alcohol and casual sex – they’re just small lost balls in the bigger match. You still have it all to win.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, feeling very emotional.
“I appreciate you sharing your story. And you have my word: none of this will go any further.” He lets go of my hand, and I have to try really hard not to cling to his.
Just then, the waitress comes to clear our plates.
I wonder for a minute if she’s a different woman because she’s taken her hair down and has found earrings and more lipstick. Her skirt also seems to have become a lot shorter.
“Can I bring you the dessert menu?”
I don’t bother answering because all her attention is on Osian.
He shoots me a questioning glance. I shake my head.
“No, thanks.” He hands her the vinaigrette bottle.
“Ydych chi'n aros yn y ty mawr?” she asks, and I have the distinct impression that she’s speaking Welsh to exclude me.
Osian meets her eyes. “Yes. Kendric House.”
“Gallaf eich gyrru adref os ydych am gael cwrw arall.”
I don’t need to know Welsh to understand the frank look she gives him.
“That’s very nice of you, but I think we might be just leaving.” Osian looks at me. “The rain has stopped for the moment. Let’s go while the going is good.”
We push our chairs back. He says to the waitress, “Thank you very much.”
She gets the message and steps back because his body language couldn’t be clearer: he’s not interested. It reminds me of that morning on the balcony when he seemed to retreat inside a glass bubble. He must be used to this kind of come-on from women and has perfected the nice-but-discouraging signals.
As we walk past the table, I catch the waitress’s quick look at my clothes. She’s probably wondering why someone who looks like me gets to ‘go home’ with a man so clearly out of my league. Maybe I’m feeling a bit tender after discussing my failed engagement and the way Marcus had not really been interested in me. The waitress’s judgement reminds me of my ex-best friend’s opinion that Osian was always out of my league. That he never intended to take me out and was just being polite.
Was that what he’d done? Giving me nice-but-not-available signals which I never even saw because I was young and naïve?
Either way, I get to see the signals now as we walk across the wet car park.
My thoughts, preoccupied with career change, try to work out why he became a gardener. It’s not exactly an obvious segue from championship tennis to weeding and getting your fingernails filthy.
“Am I allowed to ask you a personal question?”
The strangest expression passes over his face. “You’re worried I might not be safe to drive after a pint of lager.” His response sounds so much like friendly banter, if it wasn’t for the sudden chill.
This is the game he’s good at playing: pretending not to understand when he doesn’t want to answer.
The car unlocks with a small pip; he opens the door and offers me a hand to help me up to the Jeep’s passenger seat.
We drive through Llancaradoc village in an awkward silence.
