‘What was he like, Tilly?’ Tiff asks. ‘Your husband?’
So Tilly tells them about Joe. About his laugh that filled up any room. The way he absolutely loved Christmas, and started watching Christmas films in September. About the time he got drunk on mulled cider at Winter Wonderland, not realizing it wasn’t just apple juice, and decided to sing all the way home on the Tube, and the way the people who hadn’t already moved to other carriages in horror actuallyjoined in. The handmade birthday cards he made her every year using her craft supplies, even though he was even worse at crafting than she was. His fear of horses but love of dogs. She tells them about the person he was before illness shrank him beyond recognition.
As she talks, it’s as though the Joe of those final days, and the Joe who argued with her about where to call home, recedes into the background, and in his place is the Joe she wants to remember: vital, funny, joyful, and hers.
‘Let’s raise a glass to him,’ says Ingrid. ‘Your Joe.’
Everyone around the table lifts their drink, the glasses glinting in the candlelight. Tilly can see the tears in her sister’s eyes as she joins in with the others.
‘To Joe.’
The sky lets out a low, heavy rumble and everyone looks up just as it begins to rain. The raindrops fall fast and heavy on the table and the sun-scorched earth.
‘The wine!’ yelps Constanza. ‘Get the open wine bottles inside!’
Everyone begins to scurry, scooping up plates and bottles and dashing towards the farmhouse.
‘Forget the cushions,’ shouts Constanza. ‘Save the wine!’
‘Come on, Tilly!’ Harper calls over the clatter of the rain falling on the roof of the outdoor kitchen and hitting the table and the dry ground. ‘Let’s get inside.’
She grabs Tilly’s arm but Tilly remains stock-still, breathing in the smell of the rain on the garden and feeling the droplets sting as they hit her bare skin. It’s almost dark on the terrace but she can just make out the clouds rolling across the horizon, a haze of rain falling on the fields.
She takes a deep breath of the warm air. In the summer rain, it feels as though something is being washed away.
33
The rain stops as abruptly as it began. Tilly notices the quiet as she steps from the bathroom back into her room, warm from a shower. It is late but she doesn’t feel close to going to sleep, the storm having stirred something in her. And she can’t stop thinking about Harper.
She has told herself she will wait until Harper comes to her, but she realizes how relieved she was that Constanza noticed her distress and coaxed her story out of her. Perhaps Harper has been waiting for Tilly to do the same.
There is no answer when Tilly pads barefoot into the brick-tiled corridor and knocks on Harper’s door. She considers returning to her room but instead pushes lightly on the handle. It swings open, revealing a room similar to Tilly’s – four-poster bed, white sheets, plain plaster walls, exposed beams, Harper’s suitcase open on the floor and her things strewn around. A copy of the latest Sarah J. Maas is splayed on the walnut side table. But there is no sign of Harper. The bathroom is empty too, so Tilly ventures downstairs.
Most of the lower floor is dark, apart from pale moonlight coming in through the open shutters. Tilly follows the glow of lamplight to the kitchen where the lights are on, glinting on the copper pans hanging from the stone walls. Just as she is about to give up, she notices the back door is ajar. She goes to shut it but catches the sound of a voice coming from the garden, instantly recognizing it as belonging to her sister.
‘I know, I know …’
Tilly steps barefoot on to the terrace, the tiles slick with rain.
‘Yes, I promise I’m still going to tell her.’
It sounds as though the voice is coming from the courtyard at the side of the house.
‘But I wasn’t going to tell her today, was I?’ comes Harper’s voice as Tilly emerges into a moonlit courtyard where potted lemon trees form a square around a small fountain. Harper stands next to the fountain, her phone to her ear. Her eyes widen as she spots Tilly.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,’ she says, speaking into the phone, before hanging up.
‘Hey.’ Her voice is unnaturally bright, her expression reminiscent of when she fell out of the tree at the age of eleven, clearly hurting but trying to hide her pain.
The air is heavy with the smell of sun-warmed lemons, and in the background Tilly hears the quiet trickle of the fountain. Behind them stands the darkened farmhouse, no sounds coming from inside. Harper is still in her outfit from dinner, her green maxi dress damp from the earlier rain, her hair tangled.
‘I know about you and Raj,’ Tilly blurts.
Harper’s mouth drops open. She wraps her bare arms around herself.
‘You do?’ she says hesitantly. ‘And you’re … not mad?’
‘Why would I be mad? I get that you needed to work up to telling me in your own time.’
