Ever since my failed date with the younger Osian, I’ve lost confidence in my ability to judge how men feel about me. I’m too scared of making a fool of myself, so I normally wait for them to make the first move. Even when they do, there’s no guarantee that I’ve read the situation right. Look at my ex-fiancé and the way he pulled the wool over my eyes.
“And you’re off again,” Osian says. “Whatareyou thinking?”
“That for a language with so many guttural sounds, all the LLs and the hard Gs, it manages to sound very musical.”
“Musical,” he repeats slowly, and his face softens. Then he says, low and smooth,“Cenedl heb iaith, cenedl heb gallon.”
It floats on the cool morning air, up into the sky.
“What does that mean?”
He sends me a sidelong glance. “It means you look very beautiful in your pink dungarees,” he says, with a perfectly straight face.
“I told you before, you’re a terrible liar.”
He chuckles, a little soft laugh under his breath.
“Okay, it actually means a nation without a language is a nation without a heart. It’s one of those quotes you used to hear a lot, meant to jolly people into learning Welsh.” Then hegobbles up the last of the orange cookie. “You were right: Leonie is spoiling us. This experimental biscuit is addictive.”
“I think the orange zest with whatever spices she used make it strong but subtle.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Just like me.”
“Shut up.” I snort a small laugh.
“Language!” He shakes a finger at me. “You are learning too much from that bird.”
“Morning, you two,” says a cheerful soft voice.
I turn around; Haneen is coming across the terrace.
“Hi.” Osian drops his feet from the railing and springs up. “Sit; I’ll get myself another chair.”
“Don’t worry, Evan sent me to ask Evie if you can present something at the next partners’ meeting. Next week?”
“Of course. Next week when?”
“Saturday,” she says.
It’s Monday now. So that’s five days.
What the hell was I thinking? Sitting here worrying about flirting. I need flirting like I need a brain haemorrhage.
All my focus should be on work. The next progress meeting is in five days. Evan expects me to report to the partners and all I have so far is pretty plans. I haven’t planted a single thing.
And I promised we would open at the end of May. And make money by the end of summer.
Chapter Twenty-six
They say that recognising you need help is the first step in healing. So it follows that the ten people booked on Osian’sPerllanCentre for Wellbeing are already at least one step into getting well.
Since women find it easier to admit emotional needs, it’s no surprise when the first group starting in thePerllanCentre of Wellbeing has eight women and only two men. They follow Osian into the garden about 9am on Wednesday morning.
Both men must have been booked by either their friends, relatives or social workers because they look terrible. Schaefer, a middle-aged man, wears his jumper inside out and doesn’t seem to notice or care. He never looks up from the ground, as if he is trying to find a way to sink under it. The other man, Isaias, a slim young refugee from Eritrea, seems deeply nervous – he can’t seem to relax, and his eyes constantly dart here and there.
The women, whatever else is going on for them, at least make an effort with their appearance. They chat and answer Osian’s questions easily. Three are dressed up as if for a date. Osian’s first homework is to point them to Workgear Online with instructions to get something baggy, warm and with plenty of pockets.
“First thing today, a few introductions.” He holds up a set of tools. “Meet your first friend. The trowel. You can use this for digging, turning the soil, planting small plugs and blubs, or moving small amounts of soil around,” he explains, sounding like a nicer more inspiring sports coach.
