The last time he saw her in person was probably last September. There was a heaviness about her then. Today, she’s holding herself differently, as if she feels lighter, almost buoyant. If he had to pick a word, he would say she was glowing. And it makes him feel warm inside to think that their text conversations might have brought her some relief, that he might have had a part in that.
His muscles tense, readying himself to move, to push himself off his barstool and stride across the pub to where she is standing, but he doesn’t get any further than that. He’s completely arrested by her, by the quick intelligence in her eyes, the nervous, hopeful smile on her face.She scans the crowded pub and when her eyes rest on him, the smile blooms and grows into something even more glorious.
She walks towards him and his pulse slows to half speed, each beat pounding in his ears. She doesn’t take her eyes off him. This is everything he dared hope for. More.
But when she’s ten steps away, he realizes she isn’t looking at him. She’s looking at the man sitting beside him.
Simon looks just as frozen as he is, possibly more so. On the surface, his friend’s face is a mask of smiling surprise, but Gil knows him well enough to see the shock – and horror – that lies behind it. If it wasn’t such a horrendous situation, he might laugh. If what goes around, comes around, Simon really is getting his comeuppance now.
She stops right in front of them, smiles sweetly at Simon. ‘Hey, you …’
Gil’s heart contracts. She’s speaking their secret code, but Simon doesn’t know it.
‘Hey …’ Simon mutters back. His face is blank. He doesn’t kiss her cheek, doesn’t hug her. The beautiful, full-wattage smile she’s wearing dims.
Gil jumps off his barstool. ‘Erin! This is a surprise!’
Her gaze flicks across to him, rests on him for a split second.
‘Hi, Gil,’ she says in an absent-minded way, as if it’s a politeness, an automatic response she’s put no thought into, and then the beam of her attention returns to Simon, leaving him cold and shivering.
He wants to jump in between them and wave his arms, tell them not to have the conversation they’re about to have. Not because he wishes it was him she was looking at with such devotion –although he does – but because it’s just hit him she’s flown across the Atlantic to surprise Simon and this joyful reunion will not go the way she’s expecting. It strikes him that Simon might well be about to break her heart.
‘Listen, Erin …’ Simon begins.
She nods, smile returning slightly.
He looks around. ‘Why don’t I take you out for a bite to eat? Somewhere more … private. And we can talk. Properly.’ He shoots a look at Gil, one that both saysHelp me!andWish me luck!And then he takes Erin by the hand and leads her back out into the frosty evening.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Present Day
Gil is busy doing whatever he’s doing on the lower floor, so I gather up my nerve and make myself a watercolour station at the long dining table overlooking the river. It’s soothing preparing the space, setting out the artist’s pad and brushes, getting a couple of tumblers of clean water. I tape a piece of watercolour paper to an old board Gil found in a storeroom.
The day is bright but slightly overcast and I check the exact colour of the sky and try to replicate it on the saucer I’m using for mixing colours. When I’ve got it just right, I take a clean brush and wet the paper, then add the paint at the top and work downwards, creating a gradient. When I’ve finished, I look at the landscape I’m trying to replicate again. I decide not to paint the village – too many houses and fiddly bits for a first attempt – but the rolling hills behind them, divided by dark green hedgerows into patchwork fields and dotted here and there with either trees or sheep, are the perfect subject.
Only painting is harder than I remember. Possibly because it’s been around a decade since I’ve held a brush, and almost certainly because it’s exposing the deterioration of my fine motor skills since the accident.I struggle to draw even a vaguely straight line with my brush to start off with.
After twenty minutes, I declare the paint-streaked piece of paper in front of me as my tester page and throw it away. The only problem is that the next three attempts go exactly the same way. Instead of the elegant little sketch of the Devon countryside I’d pictured before I sat down, all I have is a colourful soggy mess worthy of a preschooler.
Prickly warmth surges through me and I rip the wet paper off the board and squash it into a ball, then throw it across the room. And then I feel cross at myself for being such a baby.
As I stand to fetch it, I hear footsteps on the stairs. I almost knock a chair over as I dive for the evidence of my temper tantrum. Gil appears in the doorway as I’m attempting to hide it in the kitchen bin.
‘How’s it going?’ he says, following my hand as I lift my foot off the pedal and the bin lid clunks closed.
‘I suck,’ I say sulkily, even though I had intended to pretend everything was going wonderfully.
He blinks. ‘That well, huh?’
‘And I’m being a brat about it,’ I add, unable to quell the urge to explain myself. I don’t want anyone to see me struggling, let alone this man, but he’s kind of caught me red-handed, so what else can I do?
‘It must be frustrating to find things that used to be easy more challenging.’
‘It is …’ I stare at him, wondering how he knew that.
‘I read a book,’ he adds, clearly having read my telltale features.
