He gave me a hug. “Your mother filled me in, and I’m sorry, darling. I had no idea you’d needed all those things from us.”
I was thirty-two years old, and he’d had no idea. But his actions and his words were something. I could have continued to be bitter about how incomplete this conversation would befor most people, how unsatisfying, how lacking in any closure or firm direction. And yet this was the reality of my life, and I had to accept it.
This was what they could offer me.
And I was going to take it. Despite what Mum had said about not being able to change, I felt that I couldn’t give up without trying one more time. Too much work had gone into the house to simply quit now.
They hadn’t been perfect parents, but they’d never given up on me, so what choice did I have?
Back inside, we took a seat at the new kitchen banquette, and I laid out my spreadsheet.
We discussed the plans for the inn again, and they agreed to hiring a cook and a cleaner. They listened as intently as I’d ever seen them while I explained how things needed to operate for them to make a profit. I smiled, with more faith in my plan, but knowing in many ways it was now out of my hands.
Dad squeezed my shoulder. Neither of them was terribly demonstrative with me, though they were very loving with the animals. “We will try, Tabs darling. We realize this is our last chance. And we are sorry. For everything. We are very limited people, and that is the truth.”
Afterward, Mum and Dad grazed on some of the leftovers and drifted back outside, and I got a text from the new TV people about the writer and presenter job on the show about country homes. I had some decisions to make.
Feeling lighter and lifted after talking with Mum and Dad, and even though it was nine p.m., it was still light, so I grabbed a towel and a new swimsuit I’d bought in London and wandereddown to the water hole. I changed behind a tree and waded in, diving under and letting the water swirl all over me.
I floated on my back, singing one of Taylor Swift’s songs about being brokenhearted, and I realized again that I wasn’t looking forward to returning to London tomorrow. I was tired of London, tired of working so many hours. I wanted this—peace and quiet, nature, being able to swim here in the summer…and maybe even in the winter. I had led my life being stoic, polite, full of forbearance. I had made decisions based on my parents’ needs and some even based on men. But what was in my heart? What didIwant?
I felt like myself here, totally comfortable in my own skin.
I’d missed my parents, and now that I’d truly accepted them for who they were and not hoping against hope they’d change, I felt released, like I’d let myself out of the prison of my own expectations for them. And what did I want next in my career? I hadn’t liked how this renovation show had been slanted, how the management had no qualms over sacrificing me. But I had liked working in a team, the intense deadlines, and how my planning and design came together in one heady, exhilarating rush.I’m good at this. And it makes me happy.
Maybe moving back to my hometown was the thing that could kick-start a fresh beginning for me.
I climbed out of the water and wrapped my towel around me. It was time to put new plans into action.
52
Tabitha
Having seen thepreview last Saturday at the house—which the company had refused to change, despite numerous calls from me, and I’d heard Tim had called every executive in the company (too little, too late)—I was under no illusion how I was going to be painted at the London premiere tonight. Worse, Tim was going to be there, and we were going to be filmed on the sofa together watching it.
But I was armed with a certainty and resolve I’d never felt before. Maybe fueled by my fury at Tim, maybe at myself for making the same mistakes. But I wasn’t only angry; it was more complex than that. I’d been thinking about what happened, and I understood more about Tim’s behavior. I was worried I’d see him and cave because I missed him so much my body felt empty and achy. I caught myself listening for his heavy footsteps onthe stair, for his rumbling laugh, replaying the sight of his slow smile and the way he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. I caught myself sniffing the air for his sawdust, green grass, and salt scent.
But one thing was for certain—I was not taking anyone’s shit today. I headed for wardrobe for today’s outfit as instructed on the call sheets sent out last night. I was looking forward to seeing Poppy again, though.
“This is what Simon picked out.” Poppy’s voice seemed tentative, and she slowly, sheepishly, extracted the outfit from the racks.
Oh God. I squirmed as I plucked at the tiny bits of bright-pink fabric. “It’s a bra top? And a short skirt?”
“Yes. And here are the shoes.” She held up some red stacked-heel pumps. “Simon is thinking a fauxhawk?”
“For the premiere of a renovation show?Ourshow?” I narrowed my eyes. I was sick of this. Enough of me being the naive innocent—I had to strategize. “What’s Tim wearing?”
She bit the inside of her mouth. “A version of his usual work clothes.”
This was it. I wasn’t going to be rude to Poppy because I liked her, but I wasn’t wearing this. No way.
“This outfit makes it look like I didn’t do any of the work and I was just hanging around with a clipboard.” Her slight nod told me she suspected this too. “Instead, I was hauling stuff and doing physical labor for hours. Look, I’ll find something in here and walk out to the stage at the last minute and say I refused to wear what you gave me, so you don’t get in trouble.” Even if I got a heap of resistance, I wasn’t changing.
She looked at me sympathetically, and her face softened. “That works for me. I do have something else.”
She shoved the pink outfit back into the racks and reached for a hanger way in the back. This gave me hope, and I sighed with relief.
She pulled out another outfit. I winced again but less this time.
