I read it and snort derisively. Is he taking the piss?
Another message comes in:Have you got a problem with that?
Yes!I type back furiously.
Why?
I’m not coming out if you’re there!
I watch his jaw clench and realise that he’s annoyed. Good.
He’s typing something back to me.
What are you doing tomorrow?
The cheek of him!
Going to Chirk Castle with Evan.
He’s still staring down at his phone screen, his mouth pressed into a straight line. Does the thought of that bother him? I don’t know why, but I want it to.
Saturday night?he types back.
Out.I haven’t got plans yet, but I’ll make them.
Sunday.
I hesitate. That one wasn’t a question.
I just need a little of your time, he adds.
Why?
Because I can’t imagine what’s going through your mind right now. Give me a chance to explain.
Out of the blue, I feel devastated. I can’t keep him at arm’s length forever. Not when I work at his home. If he wants to see me, he can see me. If he wants to tell me his side of the story, he can do that too. And then he’ll leave me alone.
I’m frustrated at myself for how crushed I feel at the thought of Ash leaving me alone.
Where can we meet where no one will see us?
Down the farm track behind the sawmill, at the first bend in the road. 10.30am.
OK.
I watch him drain the rest of his beer, stand up and say his goodbyes.
At ten twenty on Sunday morning, I let myself out the back door of the cottage and walk down the farm track behind the outbuildings. They’re all locked up for the weekend, but I did talk to Jac, one of the workshop employees, on Friday night. He explained that the sawmill has ten members of staff and the workshop employs an additional four. He’s one of the four skilled woodworkers who make chairs and tables, so the Berkeleys do have a furniture workshop. Jac still had remnants of sawdust on his arms after the day’s work.
I feel as though ivy has taken root within me, coiling its vines around my insides as I walk around the bend in the road to see Ash, wearing a black leather jacket and denim jeans, sitting astride a retro-looking motorcycle. The wordTriumphis written on the olive-green tank, a yellow line striking through it, and much of the bike’s silver machinery is naked and exposed.
Ash watches every second of my approach.
‘We going somewhere?’ I ask with a frown.
‘Yep.’ He passes me a matt-black helmet that’s hanging from the handlebars.
‘Where’s yours?’ I ask as I take it.
