‘That sound great,’ I enthuse, all thoughts of the spice cupboard forgotten.
‘It’s usually a fun day as long as it doesn’t bucket down,’ he adds, ‘and all the boys’ll be there.’ Rory and his mates, he means. But later, when we’re alone in the kitchen, Alice insists: ‘I’m going to give the festival a miss. You don’t want me hanging around like a spare school dinner.’
I laugh at that. ‘You’re not a spare school dinner! How can you say that?’
‘Well, I plan to enjoy the garden tomorrow and maybe do a little bit of pruning myself,’ she says firmly, ‘now we can see where the actual plants are.’
I look at her, trying to figure things out. ‘What about lunch? Fergus invited both of us...’
She shakes her head. Then she adds, with what’s definitely a mischievous twinkle: ‘No,yougo. I think a bit of time out, having fun, might be exactly what you need.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Saturday turns out to be perfect for the festival. The sky is unblemished blue and the Perthshire landscape is a paint chart of glorious greens. After a week of bluffing my way through Rory’s gardening queries, it’s a relief to step away from all that.
I’m filled with a sense of delicious anticipation as Alice drives me into town. Insisting that it’s no trouble, she drops me at Fergus’s end-of-terrace cottage. There’s a tiny, neatly kept front garden, and a yellow climbing rose adorns the whitewashed stone wall. After she’s driven away, I pause before knocking on the glossy red front door.
I’m going to Fergus’s for lunch.I’m a little nervous now, in case it feels awkward without Alice being there – although I did text to let him know. It’s no big deal, I tell myself. He’s just being friendly as people are around here. Every time I’m in town now someone smiles and waves in recognition, or stops for a chat. People are curious about what’s happening with Osprey House – but not prying or judgemental. It’s a far cry from the disapproving vibes of Sycamore Grove.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Fergus apologies as he welcomes me in. ‘It’s always a bit chaotic around here...’
I follow him through a cosy living room walled with bookshelves to a cheerfully cluttered sunflower-yellow kitchen. ‘It’s not a mess,’ I insist. ‘It’s homely and lived in.’
‘Ha. That’s a good way of putting it. Shabby chic, maybe? Does anyone say that anymore?’ He grins and turns to the stove.
‘I’m sure they do. Anyway, after two weeks in Osprey House it’s lovely to be in a normal-sized house...’
‘Oh, that’s good. Please, have a seat. This won’t be too long.’ He reaches for a wooden spoon from an earthenware pot.
‘Something smells good,’ I say, installed now at the kitchen table.
‘Just a pasta. My go-to,’ he explains.
‘Lovely.’ My gaze skims the room, which he clearly tries to keep orderly. Numerous jars and bottles are neatly lined up on shelves, and logs are stacked in a wicker basket by the wood-burning stove. There’s a vase of garden flowers on the table, and I wonder if Fergus put them there because he was expecting visitors. Or maybe they were Liv’s touch?
There’s also no doubting that a baby lives here. The wood burner is cordoned off by a sturdy fireguard, and a wooden box in the corner overflows with a menagerie of soft toys.
‘How is it, the three of you living together?’ I ask.
‘Busy,’ Fergus says with a smile. ‘We’re a little gang really. We make it work. But for such a small person Finn has a heck of a lot of stuff...’ He clears a scattering of books from the table – I spotThe Very Hungry Caterpillar, a favourite of Edie’s – before swinging back to the counter to throw a salad together, while insisting that he doesn’t need any help.
‘I remember it vividly,’ I say.
‘How old was Edie when she moved in with you?’
‘Just turned two,’ I reply, impressed that he remembered her name, and conscious that we haven’t talked any more about me leaving Vince. Perhaps he doesn’t want to pry. Or maybe it hasn’t occurred to him to ask anything else. Edie has always teased me about my burning need to know all about other people’s lives.
‘The thing is, I remember it vividly too. With Liv, I mean...’ Fergus starts to dish up our lunch: tagliatelle with olives and parsley and freshly grated Parmesan. Then comes a big bowl of salad, a carafe of water and a sourdough loaf. It’s simple but delicious and I can’t help being impressed.
I also register that Fergus has had a haircut, more close-cut now. It makes his face look leaner, his eyes and cheekbones emphasised. ‘So, it feels like it’s all come round again pretty quickly?’ I suggest. ‘The baby stage, I mean?’
‘You could say that.’ His smile reaches his eyes as we start to eat. ‘Sorry – I haven’t offered you wine. Would you like some?’
‘Later, maybe,’ I say, then catch myself. Am I now suggesting I’m hanging around until evening?
‘There’ll be a bar at the festival,’ he explains. ‘It gets pretty lively later on.’
‘Sounds fun!’ I smile.
