Читать книгу The Unfinished Garden - Barbara White Claypole - Страница 14

Chapter 8

Tilly spotted him the moment the electronic doors jolted open. At least she thought she did. It could also be a mirage, brought on by lack of sleep and cheap gin—the airline had cut the Bombay Sapphire. It couldn’t be Sebastian—one foot resting on the pillar behind him, head rolled back, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his white jeans, suede jacket slung through one arm. Not at 8:00 a.m. in the arrivals area of Heathrow. Except that the redhead jumping up and down next to him screeching, “Haddy! Over here, you twit!” was Rowena.

With a dang and a thud, Tilly’s luggage cart rear-ended a chrome bollard. How did that happen? One moment she was gripping the metal bar so tightly she thought she might cut off circulation to her fingers, the next all she could think about was escape. She turned, but the door to the customs hall had closed behind her.

“Haddy!” Rowena waved and the bangles and beads on her wrists chinked against each other like gypsy bells. “Haddy!”

Isaac ducked under the barricade and hurtled toward Rowena. “Hey, Rosy-Posy,” he giggled, then launched himself into her arms.

Sebastian lowered his head, but appeared to have no interest in locating his ex-lover. He looked more dazed than intrigued, his expression that of a person who had just woken from a nightmare and was struggling to cobble together his surroundings.

Tilly experienced a sudden plummeting in her gut. Still beautiful, then. Maybe more so. But she hadn’t really expected him to be fat, bald and ruddy. She had always known he would gain substance with age.

“My little man,” Rowena squealed as she twirled Isaac. “I’ve missed you so much! I forbid you from leaving me ever again.”

Isaac disappeared into a kaleidoscope of laughter and color, wrapped in Rowena’s ankle-length skirt and clasped to the turquoise sweater that nipped in at her tiny waist and stretched over her perfect breasts. The sleeves were forced above her elbows in an effort, no doubt, to hide the holes. Secondhand cashmere sweaters—they’re recycled, Haddy!—were Ro’s standard uniform and she was loyal to the last thread. Even on toasty summer days she complained of being fucking freezing. But then Rowena, a landowner infamous for serving marijuana with her shooting lunches, had always lived outside the lines. Being with Rowena was like jettisoning yourself through a bubble wand and not knowing when you would burst back into reality.

Being with Sebastian, however, was to stay firmly on the ground, to do one’s duty. Tilly’s stomach lurched as if she were still on the plane and riding out a patch of turbulence. He certainly had the air of someone who crafted his appearance with care. The cuffs of his pale blue shirt—linen, had to be, since it crumpled in all the right places—were folded back to reveal a heavy metal watch worn, as the battered Timex had been, with the face on the inside of his wrist so that he alone could read it.

“Haddy!” The familiarity of Rowena engulfed Tilly: the smell of satsuma soap, the softness of cashmere, the thick curtain of coarse hair. “It seems like only yesterday I was waving you off at Christmas and crying buckets.” Rowena drew back. “But you look horribly pale. Are you eating properly? Sleeping? And why don’t you answer my emails, you lazy old cow? I’ve been worried sick.”

“Missed you, too,” Tilly said. “Now tell me what he’s doing here.” She nodded backward.

“Be nice,” Rowena whispered. “Sebastian’s had a rough week.”

“But—”

“Poppet! How you’ve grown since Christmas.” Rowena ran a hand from the top of Isaac’s head to below her collarbone. “You’re only a head shorter than me now.”

Tilly inhaled sharply and spun around, glaring at Sebastian. You first.

Gradually, his face transformed into his lopsided smile. He pushed off the pillar and sauntered over, hands still buried in his pockets.

An announcement drifted through the Tannoy system. Rowena teased Isaac as she foraged in her carpetbag, and Isaac spoke in his knock-knock joke voice. But Tilly couldn’t decipher words. All she heard was noise, distorted by the thumping of her heart. Thump. Sebastian took another step—thump—and another step. Thump.

Finally, he stopped in front of her. Was his heart running a marathon, too? He hesitated—oh crap, was he thinking about a kiss?—and his grin spread. Bugger, he knows what I look like naked. A plastic bag rustled and Isaac shrieked with glee, but Tilly didn’t turn. If hell were tailored to fit, she was roasting in it, cooked to a mush before the man she had never wanted to see again.

“Hello,” Sebastian said.

“Hey,” Tilly replied with a deep breath.

He smelled of privilege, of dinner parties with port, cognac and cigars. Did he used to wear aftershave? She couldn’t remember. In ten years Sebastian had navigated a life she knew nothing of and returned a stranger. Did he like a cocktail before dinner? She had no clue. Could he still lose a Saturday to watching cricket on the television, curtains drawn against the sun? How would she know? A decade of silence lay between them, and in an instant he became blank.

“Awesome! The new Dr. X! Look, Mom. Look what Ro gave me!” Isaac tugged on her cardigan. “You can turn him upside down and all the green stuff in his tummy sloshes around. Thanks, Ro! You’re the best! Now I can have a huge battle with Action Man and—” Isaac dropped his voice “—the evil Dr. X. We did pack Action Man, right, Mom?”

“Right.” Tilly swallowed. “Isaac, I’d like you to meet someone. This is Sebastian, an old friend of mine.” Ex-friend.

“How come I’ve never met you?” Isaac zoomed Dr. X through the air.

Way to go, Angel Bug. You tell him.

“Your mother and I lost touch a while ago.” Sebastian’s smile wavered. “My fault, I suspect.”

Was he goading her? Tilly yanked down on her rumpled T-shirt.

“I see you’re a fan of Action Man,” Sebastian continued. “So’s Archie, my son. I think he has the largest collection of Action Man in the world, including the museum pieces I used to play with. Would you like to come over one weekend and meet him?”

“Yes, please!” Isaac’s face glowed with ecstasy. “Does he live in Bramwell Chase?”

“Sort of,” Sebastian said. His eyes narrowed slightly, not so anyone would notice, but Tilly had always gauged his mood from his eyes. So not a stranger, which should put her at ease, right? Wrong. She felt like a lump of leftover pudding, unsure of where to put her hands, her eyes, and—sod it. Her stomach churned again.

Rowena locked her arm through Sebastian’s and gave him a supportive nod, a we’re-in-this-together gesture. Wait…when did they become friends? Tilly had always been the fulcrum of their threesome. It was fact, as undeniable as chrysanthemums blooming in fall. Rowena and Sebastian had tolerated each other through high school, vying for Tilly’s attention until she coerced them into a truce, but that was it. And now Rowena was renting Manor Farm to Sebastian. Had they become buddies when Tilly wasn’t looking? And if so, why hadn’t her oldest, dearest, best-est friend told her?

“Archie’s at boarding school,” Rowena was talking to Isaac. “Where they lock you up and throw away the key.” She affected an evil laugh. “But he has an exeat coming up. That means he gets to escape for the weekend. And we’re not far off the summer hols now.”

Isaac’s eyes grew wide. “Sleep-away school? Jeez-um. He must be tons older than me.”

Sebastian disentangled his arm from Rowena’s. “I think you’re the same age. Am I correct?” he asked no one in particular.

“Exactly the same age.” Tilly arched her back. Slam-dunk, tosspot.

Sebastian plucked at the back of his gold signet ring. Yup, she could still push his buttons. More flip-flopping in her stomach. Why couldn’t he have stayed a stranger?

“I’ve never seen your hair so short.” Sebastian spoke to Tilly as if he were making an accusation. “I didn’t recognize you at first.”

Yes, but I recognized you. Tilly crossed her arms. I’d recognize you anywhere.

“It’s fab, isn’t it?” Rowena glanced from Tilly to Sebastian and back again. “You look like a cross between Joan of Arc and a woodland sprite.” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, we have so much to catch up on. Just like old times. And Isaac, I’m depending on you to help out tons with the pheasant poults.”

Tilly ignored Rowena and spoke to Sebastian. “My hair got in the way when I gardened. So I hacked it off with the kitchen scissors.”

“Kitchen scissors?” His tone was light, but his face gave nothing away. “Makes you look younger.” And how would he know? He hadn’t seen her in ten years. He grasped the metal bar of the cart, pushed forward with his flat stomach, and walked off with her luggage. Ever the gentleman. Still, he could have asked first. Then she could have said no.

Rowena and Isaac skipped after Sebastian, swinging their clasped hands, gabbing away as if they hadn’t seen each other in six years, not six months. Rowena stopped to smack a kiss on Isaac’s cheek, and they both erupted into laughter.

Tilly watched her little band with a sigh. Who was she kidding? Hating was such hard work, and she didn’t hate Sebastian. Well, maybe only a smidgen. And yes, she could fault his radio silence, but history stood in Sebastian’s favor. He had loved her, protected her, desired her when she had believed no one could, and she had thrown the relationship away not once, but three times. Technically, two and a half. Seemed he had every right to deny her his friendship. But if he and Rowena had palled up, Tilly would have to let him back into her life. The question, though, was how much.

She watched the back of Sebastian’s head as he walked away. His hair, darkened to dirty-blond, was cut close to his scalp and gelled into non-rebellious spikes. It was a banker’s haircut: sculpted, immaculate, expensive. And, unfortunately, it suited him, too.

* * *

Tilly and Isaac were trapped in Rowena’s Discovery on a seat spackled with dried mud and imbued with the stench of wet Labrador. Bob Marley blasted into the back of the car as they hurtled around the M25, a loop of a racetrack with few signs and no billboards. A highway that skirted a capital city yet advertised nothing; a highway that didn’t distract you with the lure of shopping or the promise of a fun family getaway. A highway that aimed to get you from point A to point B at warp speed. At least, that seemed to be Rowena’s interpretation.

If David had been in Sebastian’s seat, he would have insisted Rowena pull over so they could swap. But Sebastian appeared as unruffled by Rowena’s high-speed lane weaving as he was by his reunion with a girl he’d sweet-talked out of her virginity. When the speedometer passed ninety, he turned away and stared out of the window.

“For gawd’s sake, what does the plonker think he’s doing?” Rowena accelerated up to the bumper of a French truck and blasted the horn. “Get out of the fucking lane, wanker!”

“Ro—” Tilly jerked forward and kicked the back of the driver’s seat.

“Fuck. Sorry,” Rowena said. Tilly kicked the seat again.

“Mom, what does fuc—”

“It’s an outlaw word,” Tilly raised her voice. “You are never to use it. Understand?”

Isaac shriveled into the seat. Tilly, you loathsome toad of a parent. She never turned to Isaac in anger, never, and being trapped in this sweltering car with Sebastian, shackled in her own private hell, was no excuse for nipping at her son like a snapping turtle.

“It’s a bad word, Angel Bug.” Tilly grabbed Isaac’s hand and squeezed. “Or rather a word people see as bad. Which means that most people find it offensive. Which is why you shouldn’t use it. Right, Ro?”

“Absolutely, dear heart. Ab-so-lutely. Always listen to Mummy. Never bad, foul-mouthed Aunty Ro.” Rowena gave her right hand a playful slap.

“But—” Isaac glanced at Sebastian, as if checking for his reaction. “What does it mean?”

“This I’ve got to hear,” Rowena muttered, and turned down Bob Marley.

“It’s an ugly word for sex.” Tilly’s cheeks flamed, which was ridiculous. She and Rowena had spent half of their childhoods scouring National Geographic for pictures of naked tribesmen, the other half searching Lady Roxton’s romance novels for sex scenes. And Sebastian had known Tilly’s teenage body better than she had. So why did she feel as if she were swirling down a whirlpool instead of bobbing along in the slipstream of her past?

Isaac curled up his lips. “Are we going to have another conversation about your sperm, Mom?”

Rowena brayed with laughter that sounded like whooping cough shot through the nose, and the Discovery swerved.

“Let’s make this a private conversation,” Tilly said.

Isaac grinned; he loved mother-son secrets.

Then Sebastian giggled. How could she hear that giggle and not let her attitude toward him thaw? She imagined the expression that accompanied the giggle: eyes sunk into creases of laughter, nose puckered up, lips stretched back to reveal the sexy gap between his front teeth. This was the Sebastian she’d fallen in love with—the boy who chased kites across the moors, or sat cross-legged on Tilly’s window seat holding his cigarette out of her bedroom window and laughing at who knew what. But that was before his father left and Sebastian prepared for a life of responsibility, before he grew old with worry for his mother, for his grandmother, even for Tilly. And that was the beginning of the end, because the more Sebastian coddled her, the farther she ran.

Tilly gave a fake cough. “My mother tells me you’re living in Bramwell Chase, Sebastian?”

Sebastian stopped giggling. “I’m renting Manor Farm.”

“Yes,” Tilly said slowly. “My mother told me that, too.”

“I didn’t tell you first?” Rowena stretched against the steering wheel. “Sure I had. But since you don’t answer my emails, I have no idea what you know.”

Tilly bit her lip. Challenging Rowena was not an exercise for the jet-lagged.

“Anyway. It’s a brilliant story, so I’m happy to repeat it.” Rowena tailgated a BMW and flashed her lights, while Tilly sank lower in her seat. “I was in town for a meeting at the bank. No offense, Sebastian, but ruddy bankers. It’s always something. I walked in and there he was. Well, I about died.” She smacked the steering wheel and the baubles around her wrist tinkled. “Can you imagine?”

Yes, Tilly could. Rowena would have shrieked and people would have gawked. Sebastian would have been embarrassed, but would have concealed it and kissed both her cheeks. He certainly wouldn’t have stood and stared as he had done with Tilly. She yanked a tissue from her pocket and shredded it.

“I had absolutely no idea he was back from Hong Kong not that he’s ever handled the Roxton account have you Sebastian but we went to dinner—” jeez, was she going to pause for breath? “—and Sebastian told me he needed somewhere to stay and I thought the Farm with all that fresh air for the children and here we are.”

Tilly glared at Rowena’s headrest. Rowena’s recent emails had been full of chatter about finding her gamekeeper passed out with an empty bottle of whiskey, and about Sunday lunch at Woodend with roast lamb and the first new potatoes of the season. But no mention of Sebastian. And Rowena didn’t keep secrets. She didn’t know how.

Rowena twiddled with the heat controls, and Tilly breathed through a surge of nausea. Was no one else suffocating in this car? If she threw up that would be interesting: Sebastian was vomit-phobic.

Tilly shrugged off her cardigan. “Back for good, Sebastian?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were in Hong Kong for the long haul. What changed your mind?”

“Who, not what. Fiona.”

Tilly sat up and watched the silver belly of an airliner soar above them. “She’d had enough of Hong Kong?” Was the plane full of holidaymakers, businessmen and women? People fleeing?

“She’d had enough of me.” The front passenger seat groaned as Sebastian swung around. “Mind if I smoke? In front of Isaac?”

He never managed to quit, then. And yes, she did mind him exposing Isaac to secondhand smoke. But she hadn’t studied Sebastian’s face until now, hadn’t looked beyond the grooming to notice the purple welts under his eyes. She shook her head and prayed she had misunderstood, because Sebastian single plus Tilly single equaled a complex math problem. And she hated all things math. Sebastian cracked open his window. Cellophane crinkled, a lighter flipped open and she heard him breathe.

Tilly rubbed at a crust of strawberry jam on her jeans. “Fiona left you?”

“Yes.” Sebastian dragged on his cigarette.

“I’m sorry.” So, she didn’t plan to forgive him, and she didn’t want to hate him. Could she settle on indifference with a soupçon of pity? She could feel that for a squished squirrel on Creeping Cedars, and squirrels were public enemy number one.

A counterpane of fields ripped past, retreating from the invasive ground cover of London. What a different view this was to the one from I-40, where wide banks disappeared into acres of forest. Her body tingled with something that felt strangely like longing. But before Tilly could muse further, a sense of unease prickled, and she turned from the window.

Sebastian had angled the rearview mirror toward himself and appeared to be rubbing his eye. But it was a ruse; he was watching her. His eyes delved deeper—with curiosity, lust, wistfulness? Or was it need? Did he need her the way she had needed him after David died? If she were closer, she could concentrate on Sebastian’s eyes. Were they gray, the color stated on his passport, or murky green, the color of ocean reflecting storm clouds? Before she could decide, he looked away.

Terrific, she’d have to forgive him after all.

* * *

She wanted to stay asleep, but hushed voices intruded, waking her before she was ready. Where was she? Oh, right, still ensnared in the Discovery. Rowena whispered, “Want me to tell her?” and Sebastian replied, “No, I’ll take care of it.” And Tilly decided to play possum.

“Doing all right?” Rowena asked. “Sorry. Bloody stupid question.”

“Yeah.” A lighter flicked. “Bloody stupid question, darlin’.”

Darlin’? Said in jest and the dropped g made all the difference, but a term of endearment passing between Ro and Sebastian? Tilly held her breath, hoping that for once Sebastian would spill his emotions, not conserve them. But he remained silent, curled in on his thoughts like a turtle marooned in the middle of the road. And Tilly had to move; her buttocks were numb.

“Aha,” Rowena said. “Sleeping Beauty and my little prince stir. Did we nap well, my darlings?”

“Not especially.” Tilly’s neck cricked and she tugged on it.

“We’re here, Mom! Look!” Isaac grabbed at her. “We’re here!”

The road dipped under an arc of overhanging beech trees. Ivy-covered banks rose on either side of the car, and they were thrown into a leafy tunnel of silvery shade. Tilly wanted to scream her happiness, to rush from the car and kiss the ground. Who gives a monkey’s about anything! She was home, back in the place where life waited for her, unchanged. She lowered her window and inhaled cool air and the smell of fresh-cut grass. No heat, no humidity, no cicada buzz, nothing but the bleating of sheep.

They emerged into brilliant sunshine as the bank slipped into a hedgerow of hawthorn, bindweed and elder knotted with blackberry brambles. A blue tit churred, and Tilly’s heart answered with a symphony of joy. Isaac’s first English summer! He was in for such a treat.

A woman clopped by on a piebald horse and touched her velvet helmet in greeting, but Rowena, ever the sun-slut, was oblivious. “The sun!” She pointed and bounced like a child tied up with excitement on Christmas morning. “Oh, the sun!”

Rowena continued to pay more attention to the sky than the road, but thankfully, drove below the speed limit. Not that she would ever speed through a village.

“Now, poppet. What shall we do for this trip’s outing?” Rowena said. “Isaac and I always have a day out,” she explained to Sebastian. “Of course, being here in the summer has so many more possibilities. Tilly and Isaac normally come back for Christmas. Well, not to celebrate Christmas, since they don’t.”

“You gave up on Christmas?” Sebastian held his cigarette to the window, but turned briefly.

“My husband was a practicing Jew.” Tilly watched a streak of smoke leak out through the open window. “And since we have a liberal rabbi, Isaac’s been raised in the Jewish faith. He thinks Jesus lives at the North Pole with twelve reindeer, don’t you, Angel Bug?”

Isaac rolled his eyes. “Mom! I haven’t believed that since I was young.”

“I converted after David died. It made sense for Isaac.” Which was true. A five-year-old could hardly go to synagogue alone. At the time she had told herself she was giving David a final gift, and maybe, back then, she’d believed it. But today she saw her conversion for what it was: an act of atonement. No. She shoved the thought aside, but there it was again, coiling in her gut: guilt, the universal motivator for every major decision she had made in the past three years.

They crawled around the curve of the church wall and passed the yew trees that marked the mass graves of medieval plague victims. Beyond, fields dotted with chestnut trees and grazing sheep tumbled over the horizon. Tilly held her breath and waited. Nothing must taint this happiness percolating in her heart, because any minute…yes! She exhaled as they emerged on a small rise. Waves of pink and red valerian poked out from the foundations of the ironstone cottages hugging the High Street, their thatched roofs spilling toward strips of garden stuffed with lupines, delphiniums, fading roses and gangly sweet peas. Tilly’s eyes scooted over every plant. How she had missed the gardens of Bramwell Chase, with untamed perennials rambling into each other and lawns dotted with daisies and clover. These were real gardens, not the landscaped yards of Creeping Cedars with squares of chemically enhanced grass, rows of shrubs lined up like marines awaiting inspection, and the gag-inducing smell of hardwood mulch.

“Now, dear heart,” Rowena said to Isaac. “Name your outing. But not Legoland again. That gift shop bankrupted me last time. What about the Tower of London? You can see where they chopped off heads. And the crown jewels are good for a quick look-see.”

“How about Woburn Safari Park?” Sebastian gave a shrug. “Archie and Sophie—” aha, that was his daughter’s name “—love it. Monkeys climb on your car, parrots take nectar from your hand.” Isaac sat still, mouth open. “And the gift shops are terrific.” Sebastian gave Rowena that smile, the one that was more of a twitch at the right corner of his mouth. Tilly twisted her legs around each other.

“Fab idea. I—” A mechanical rendition of “Rule Britannia” chimed from Rowena’s lap. “Bugger. Phone.” Rowena rootled around in the folds of her skirt. “Sebastian? Take the wheel.”

Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Sebastian shook his head in disapproval, but reached across and grabbed the steering wheel while Rowena chattered into her cell phone. Sebastian had grown up fawned over by women—his grandmother who had lived with the family, his mother, his two older sisters—and yet he’d always been oblivious to sexual cues, incredulous when confronted by lust. His effortless movements, however, suggested that he was finally comfortable with his sexuality. Which was good for Sebastian—Tilly gulped—bad for her. Life was so much easier when she had thought of him as dead. God, she needed out of this car.

“Cool,” Isaac said. “Rowena can drive without any hands.”

“Not cool.” Tilly raised her voice. “Dangerous and illegal.”

“That was Daddy. Thanks, Sebastian.” Rowena snapped her phone shut and reclaimed the steering wheel. “Sends oodles of love. He and Mother are scheming to open a rest home for aging ex-pats. Think we should invest, Haddy? You could wheel me around in my bath chair while I find us a couple of geriatric Adonises. So many men, so little time.”

Flashes of Rowena’s ex-lovers whizzed through Tilly’s mind. Poor Ro, she could never find enough love, whereas Tilly had had more than her share.

“But Isaac’s my main squeeze.” Rowena fired off a string of air-kissses. “Aren’t you, poppet?”

“Yes. I. Am.” Isaac thrust out his chest with eight-year-old machismo.

Tilly stretched and yawned.

“Feeling icky?” Rowena asked.

“Bit tatty round the edges.”

“Rats. So you won’t want to join us for lunch. Well I did say—didn’t I, Sebastian—that you’d be too tired. We’ve a table for two booked for noon at The Flying Duck. I could easily make it four. But I can see you’re both pooped.”

Isaac sprang up and down silently as if to contradict her.

Tilly rubbed her temples. A table for two?

“Nope, much better plan!” Rowena thumped the center of the steering wheel, and the horn sounded. Tilly and Isaac jumped. “Come to Sunday lunch at the Hall! Tilly, bring your mother. Sebastian, bring the children. Isaac? It’s time Aunty Ro taught you croquet. Croquet? What am I saying? Ever played cricket?”

“No. But isn’t it the same as baseball? I’m good at that.”

Sebastian doubled over and appeared to be choking.

“Poppet, we need to educate you in the ways of cultural diversity. And it just so happens that this man sitting next to me, the one who’s about ready to pop his clogs—” Rowena smacked Sebastian between the shoulder blades. “Which, by the way, is an excellent reason for never taking up smoking, filthy habit.” Rowena grabbed Sebastian’s cigarette and sucked on it. “This man was the youngest pupil in the history of Rugby School to make the first X1, which is V.I.S.”

“Very Important Stuff!” Rowena and Isaac squealed in unison.

Tilly didn’t join in the laughter. She was chewing on her thumbnail, wondering why she had forgotten about Sebastian and the first X1, and why Rowena had remembered.