It doesn’t have to be all fraught and angst ridden. We just need to have a grown-up conversation. There are a lot of things to consider here. Our living situation. The job share. The bizarre list of Charlie Joneses from the Bramblebay Farmhouse spare room. I need to keep a level head.
…But I can’t stop thinking about last night, that’s the problem. I honestly cannot stop the memory of it from appearing in my mind, over and over, every beautiful second of it. I’ve been sitting here with my laptop on my knees, in bed, getting absolutelyfuck all done, and it’s absurd. My head is not level. I am not feeling like a grown-up at all. I’m feeling like a teenage boy, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it.
So long,
Charlie Jones
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day fifty-three sober (cont.)
Let me recount the harvest festival meeting, explosive secrets and all.
The rain was thick and heavy; everyone arrived at the farm shop dripping, then shed all their waterproofs at the door.
“Change is coming,” Galoshes said ominously. “You can feel it in the air.”
“What a depressing spin on autumn,” Charlie said.
“Can we talk about my squash bobbing idea?” Red asked.
“You know I’m all for the harvest theme, but can’t we just do regular apple bobbing?” Charlie asked. “Apples are autumnal, too, aren’t they? I mean, you mull them—that’s basically the test.”
We were standing in the middle of the shop, the rain coming down on the roof with that satisfying pitter-patter that always makes me think of camping. Charlie was dressed in a long skirt and a woolly brown jumper, her hair pulled up in a clasp; she looked fresh-faced and beautiful, and every time I glanced at her, I knew she could feel it. It was something in her posture—her usual poise was just a little more self-aware. I had to swallow my smile as her cheeks pinkened under my gaze.She doesn’t wanta relationship right now, I reminded myself. But I’m a patient man. I can wait.
This is the problem with hope—once it kicks in, you can’t shut the bloody thing up.
Meanwhile Red was waving a round zucchini under my nose.
“Is that not the most autumnal thing you ever did see?”
She seemed much happier than she had been last week, though I’ve had no update from Toby. He was still gazing longingly at her from where he stood beside Galoshes, so I assumed their relationship issues remain unresolved. I found myself thinking,Why don’t they simply talk to each other?and then remembered that I, too, have absolutely no idea where I stand. I was probably gazing longingly at Charlie, too. Maybe you never grow out of being foolish when you’re in love. I can’t decide if that thought is depressing or lovely.
I tried to return my attention to the zucchini situation and asked Red if she meant it was autumnal because it was yellow.
“It’s justfun. Vegetables in unexpected shapes are fun. And apple bobbing is so done. We want to do things the Ormer way!”
“I like apple bobbing,” Toby offered. “And I’m…pretty Ormer. Seventh generation.”
He blushed beet red, and I gave him an encouraging look. When we first got here, he’d never have spoken up in a meeting like that.
“You’lllovesquash bobbing then,” Red said, very brightly, though without looking at him. She deflated slightly as everyone remained in puzzled silence. “All right, I’ll be straight up with you. Rosie planted way too many of these, and nobody’s buying them, so she’s bribing me to win you around to the idea, OK?”
“Ah. Did Marly by any chance advise against this crop?”
“I suspect so?” Red said, trying to suppress a grin.
I grinned, too, and then my smile dropped—I remembered that list in Marly’s spare room, and the fact that my friend was hiding something from me. A few weeks ago, it would have been proof that I was right about keeping my walls up—and it’s true that the whole business would hurt a lot less if I’d kept Marly at a distance. But I don’t think I evercouldhave. That plan was never realistic. I am not a man with walls, and I just have to live with it.
“Out of interest, what was Rosie’s bribe?” Charlie asked.
“She said she’d let me drive her tractor.”
Charlie laughed. “Honey, sort out Rog’s dodgy Wi-Fi and he’ll let you borrow one of his for a week,” she said.
Rog, of course, was late for this meeting—something to do with delivering a trailer to a sheep farmer, or possibly it was the sheep he was delivering, I forget. When Rog calls me to make his excuses, I generally just tune out these days.
