‘You’re quitting?’ I ask with surprise. ‘Just as you’re taking off?’
‘They’d be better off with a frontman who’s happy to scream their lyrics. I want to write more of my own stuff, but I can’t pour my heart and soul into something I don’t believe in. There’s no compromise to be found when you’re putting out music. Artists who compromise fall out of love with their songs and you play them too much to risk that. I don’t want to burn out before I’m twenty-five.’
‘Sounds as though you’ve made up your mind.’
He looks dejected. ‘Does, doesn’t it? I’ll do the festivals,then think about going solo. That’s why I have to get back – I’ve got a couple of meetings lined up with record labels.’
‘Wow. Good luck, Finn,’ I say seriously.
‘Thanks.’
The heatwave is easing off, but I’m grateful for all the shade provided by the trees. We wind our way along a path to the highest part of the garden, brushing past flower beds humming with bumblebees. The property is secluded and private, surrounded by the high wall we passed on our way here and banked by the house and studio. Above the trees in the lowest part of the property, a cream-stone church tower rises into a blue sky dotted with clouds, and across the slate-grey rooftops dusted with yellow lichen is the cold blue sea, hugged on the other side of the cove by the sprawl of St Ives.
‘What a place to have lived and worked,’ I murmur.
‘One day I’ll become a successful songwriter and buy you a place just like this,’ Finn jokes. ‘Or otherwise you’ll become a famous sculptor and buy it for yourself, whichever comes first.’
I smile at him with his wild dreams and am hit with another pang of pre-emptive grief at the thought of him leaving.
Up ahead is the greenhouse. I inadvertently squeeze Finn’s hand and he glances at me questioningly.
‘Do you want to go inside?’ he asks.
‘I’m not sure.’
He senses my hesitancy and gently pulls me to a stop.
‘No, it’s okay,’ I say impulsively, starting forward.
The moment we step into the cool interior, my face crumples. This is the greenhouse that Mum and Dad modelled mystudio at home on, with its white walls, red-tiled floor and sloping ceiling complete with rooflights. They even potted up a multitude of succulents and cacti to sit on the floor around the inner walls.
Those plants have died because it hurt too much to go in there and water them. All I’ve managed to do is throw dust sheets over my work and lock the door so none of my guests attempt to investigate.
‘I feel like I have a lump of marble in my throat,’ I say in a choked voice.
‘You won’t be able to swallow it, so cry it out,’ Finn replies softly, drawing me close.
‘I wish I’d told them how much I appreciated them, how much I loved the studio they created for me. I don’t think I ever expressed it enough.’
It’s the last thing I say before my body begins to quake with quiet sobs.
‘Ofcourseyou did, Liv. Ofcoursethey knew how much you loved and appreciated them,’ he says urgently into my ear. ‘You wear your heart on your sleeve – it’s one of the things I love most about you.’
I clutch him tighter and give myself over to my pain for as long as I’ll allow before pulling myself together, lowering my sunglasses and leaving the garden to its peace and quiet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
‘Is this going to bevery dirty?’ Finn asks in a vaguely seductive manner as he saunters into my small kitchen.
‘If you try anything on while I’ve got clay all over my hands, I won’t be impressed.’
‘I can’t imagine clay feeling too good on specific body parts anyway. Today’s mudbath was grim enough.’
He took his brothers quad-biking earlier and sent me a pic of the three of them, completely splattered.
I pull the damp cloth off the skull that I’ve been working on this morning and Finn does a double take.
It was surreal unlocking the door to my garden studio. I had to wait until my downstairs guests had gone out before letting myself in through the driveway gate, and maybe knowing that I didn’t have long helped me to focus, but I didn’t get upset, not like I thought I would.
