‘It’s prettier in the summer, when the flower beds bloom and the sun heats the wood of the bench you’re sitting on, sort of trapping you here.’
It would make sense that he’s a sunworshipper. The olive tint to his skin, the kind that suggests he’d tan at the first hint of sunshine. And of course, his freckles. I close my eyes for a moment and see him sitting on one of those garden benches, his long legs spread out in front of him with his face tipped to the sun.I’ve always envied people who enjoy the sun. Those who bask on beaches or lounge in gardens, their skin turning golden and sun kissed. Meanwhile, I get all squinty eyed even while wearing sunglasses, my skin turning the unattractive shade of overboiled lobster before eventually turning white again. The only kiss the sun ever offers me is the kiss of death and the very real risk of melanoma.
‘It makes it difficult to go back to the office.’
‘I can imagine.’ My eyes blink open, the view a little greyer than my imaginings but no less seductive.
My response earns me a dazzling smile, one that does funny things to my insides. Holy fucksticks, the man is gorgeous. It really is little wonder the women in the office swoon at the sight of him. Tall and broad, he has the kind of body you just know would look good at the beach, definitely shirtless and probably playing volleyball or sipping cocktails, or even lounging on some yacht in San Tropez.
Why the hell am I thinking about beaches when we’re standing in a tiny cold park on a London March afternoon? Maybe because he looks so good here, too. His dark hair practically shines in the light, his cheeks flushed from the cold. A half smile plays across his full mouth as though every one of my thoughts were written on my forehead and he’s just read them. Concerned there might be some truth in this, I swing a quarter turn until I’m facing the shade provided by the pergola roof. My arm falls away as I step under it, drawn by rows of tiles set into the wall above a long bench, faded and aged by time.
‘John Clinton,’ I murmur, reading from the first tile my gaze falls on. ‘Aged ten, drowned near London Bridge trying to save a companion younger than himself. July sixteenth, 1894.’ My heart dips, my spirits along with it. ‘That is so sad.’
Alice Ayers. Daughter of a bricklayer’s labourer who by intrepid conduct saved three children from a burning house in Union Street borough at the cost of her own young life, April twenty-fourth, 1885.
Tile after tile details the loss of one life in the saving of another.
Rescued a stranger drowning at Putney.
Died of terrible injuries attempting to extinguish flames.
A clergyman.
An orphan.
A gentleman.
A railway worker.
A stranger.
A brother.
A sister.
A friend.
‘This is so, so sad.’ My voice is barely a whisper as I fight the onset of tears when I sense rather than see Archer standing beside me.
‘Their deaths are sad, sure. But this is more than a bunch of memorials.’ I turn my head to look at him, though his own gaze remains on the wall in front. ‘They’re reminders of how extraordinary ordinary people can be. A commemoration of bravery that would have been forgotten by now. Lives that would’ve been forgotten.’
It occurs to me that he’s right. As the aphorism goes, we all die twice. Once when we pass out of this word, and a second time when there’s no one left to remember us. The names of these souls will live on, remembered for giving their lives so others could live. Remembered for their courage. And not only is Archer right but he’s also suddenly very human.
‘How does the saying go?’ As he turns to face me, his blue eyes darken in the shade. ‘Greater love hath no man than he who lays down his life for his friend.’ He stares at me for a beat before his expression changes. ‘What?’
‘This is all just surprising.’ Embarrassed, I half turn, throwing out an arm to the greenery behind us. ‘It’s like a secret garden, something hidden in plain view.’
‘Something hidden in plain view, or something you’ve just refused to see right in front of you?’
When I look back, he’s wearing a rather sardonic looking grin. So he’s not talking about the garden. And okay, I had him pegged as shallow, saw him as trivial, yet he has depths, depths that might not just be puddle volume. That should be good to know, right? So why are my cheeks flushed with guilt?
Because I’m about to do something horrible.
‘It also happens to be a really nice place to eat your lunch,’ he says, taking pity on me. ‘Come on.’
We take a seat under the bare trees and open our respective lunches. Archer takes a man-sized dent out of his baguette almost immediately while I struggle to swallow my first mouthful. I shouldn’t have come here with him. I should’ve ambushed him in the office before lunch because then I wouldn’t have seen this side to him, and I wouldn’t be feeling so awful.
But it’s me or him. And at least I can now use my conversation with Allison. Share the blame, almost. Or so I’ll tell myself.
