I watch miserably as he gets two dark blue mugs down from a shelf and opens a small fridge under the counter, bringing out some milk. He throws teabags into the mugs, pours in water and then slices some bread.
‘Toast?’ he asks, still facing away from me.
He can’t even bring himself to look at me. I think of his small, steady smile, his warm, fixed eye contact, and an overwhelming sadness bears down on me.
‘Yes, please,’ I reply.
I suspect it won’t help if I cry. He wanted me gone the second he saw me.
I haven’t had time to process any of this – I’ve been on autopilot since I heard about the acquisition – but suddenly it all feels surreal. Why did I think I could just waltz back into Ash’s life after two years of radio silence?
He brings over two blue metal camping mugs with silver rims and drags the coffee table towards me before putting them down. He doesn’t want to risk touching me again.
He returns to the kitchen and comes back with buttered toast on two aluminium plates, placing one next to my mug. Then he goes and sits on one of the chairs, facing the windows.
I stare at his broad shoulders as he hunches over, eating his food, drinking his tea, and feel sick to my stomach.
It’s an effort to force down the first few mouthfuls of toast, but pretty soon my stomach realises how famished it is and sends a message to my brain that it does want food. The lasttime I ate was yesterday lunchtime and I ran out of water on my way to Knighton, so it’s no wonder I fainted.
Ash and I drink our tea and polish off both pieces of toast without saying a single word to each other. My earlier bravado has well and truly disappeared, along with my giddiness.
Placing my mug next to the plate, I take my hair out of the towel and run my fingers through it, trying to detangle it without a comb, then I change position and sit with my arms looped around my knees, staring at the fire.
‘How did you find me here?’ Ash breaks the silence so suddenly I jolt.
I look over at him, but he’s still sitting on his chair, hunched over, and from this angle I can see that he’s staring down at the mug in his hands.
‘I walked from the Spaceguard Centre. Saw your footprints by the fence,’ I reply.
‘How did you know they were my footprints?’
There’s an edge to his questions, but he no longer sounds as though he hates me.
‘There was a man leaving when I arrived last night. He told me you lived this way, said you usually walked. When I saw the footprints this morning, I figured they might lead me to you.’ My vision blurs.
‘What time did you arrive?’ He sounds confused.
‘It was getting on for midnight. It was late by the time I left Berkeley Hall.’
He looks over his shoulder at me, his brow furrowing as he sees me drag my fingers beneath my eyes. ‘Why were you there?’
‘I was looking for you.’
He stares at me, his jaw clenched. ‘Why now?’ he asks after a few seconds.
‘I heard about the acquisition yesterday afternoon.’
He stares at me for a moment longer. ‘You didn’t hear before?’
I shake my head. ‘My boss read about a head gardener position on a work email. She mentioned it. I still work at Hidcote.’
He’s staring at me, not warmly, not the way he used to, but at least he’s not treating me as though I don’t exist.
And then, suddenly, the eye contact is gone. His body position hasn’t changed – he’s still hunched over, forearms resting on his knees – but the upright position of his head implies that he’s staring out of the windows. What is he thinking?
‘So you discovered it yesterday afternoon and drove to Berkeley Hall last night.’
‘Yes. I spoke to Siân, Bethan, Jac, Dylan, Celyn, Catrin …’ It’s hard to find the energy to say all those names. ‘And finally, your mother.’
