Читать книгу Forget Me Not - Isabel Wolff - Страница 9

ONE

‘It’s hard isn’t it?’ said Dad. ‘Saying goodbye.’ I nodded, shivering slightly in the mid-February air. ‘It’s sad seeing it with everything gone.’ We gazed at the back of the house, its windows glinting darkly in the late-afternoon sunlight. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have come.’

I shook my head. ‘I wanted to see it one last time.’ I felt Milly’s tiny hand in mine. ‘I wanted Milly to see it one last time too.’

I’d been down several times to help Dad pack up, but this was the final goodbye. The following day Surrey Removals would arrive and our long association with the house would cease. As I stood there, memories spooled across my mind like the frames in an old cine film. I saw myself in pink shorts, on the swing; my parents, posing arm in arm under the cherry tree for their silver wedding photo; I saw Mark throwing tennis balls for Bob, our border collie; I saw Cassie doing cartwheels across the lawn.

‘I’ll just go round it once more,’ I said. ‘Just to check … you know … that I haven’t left anything.’ Dad nodded understandingly. ‘Come on, Milly.’

We went inside, picking our way through the expectant crates, our footsteps echoing slightly over the bare floors. I said a silent goodbye to the old-fashioned kitchen with its red and black quarry tiles, then to the big, bay-windowed sitting room, the walls stamped with the ghostly outlines of pictures that had hung there for thirty-eight years. Then we went upstairs to the bathroom.

‘Starbish!’ Milly announced, pointing at the curtains.

‘Starfish,’ I said. ‘That’s right. And shells, look, and seahorses … I used to love these curtains, but they’re too frayed to keep.’

‘Teese!’ Milly exclaimed. She’d grabbed Dad’s toothbrush. ‘Teese, Mum!’ She was on tiptoe, one chubby hand reaching for the tap.

‘Not now, poppet,’ I said. ‘Anyway, that’s Grandpa’s toothbrush and we don’t use other people’s toothbrushes, do we?’

‘My do.’

I opened the medicine cabinet. All that remained were Dad’s shaving things, his toothpaste and his sleeping tablets. He said he still needed to take one every night. On the shelf below were a few of Mum’s toiletries – her powder compact, her dark-pink nail varnish, streaked with white now through lack of use, and the tub of body crème I’d given her for her last birthday, hardly touched. I stroked a little on to the back of my hand, then closed my eyes.

How lovely, darling. You know I adore Shalimar. And what a huge jar – this will keep me going for ages!

‘Mum! Come!’ I opened my eyes. ‘Come!’ Milly commanded. She’d grabbed my hand and was now leading me up the stairs to the top floor, her pink Startrites clumping against the steps.

‘You want to go to the playroom?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ she panted. ‘Paywoom!’

I pushed on the varnished door, inhaling the familiar musty smell of old dust. I’d already cleared most of the toys, keeping a few that weren’t too wrecked for Milly. But there was still a stack of old board games on the table, a jumble of dressing-up clothes in a basket and, scattered across the green lino, a selection of old comics. The debris of a happy childhood I reflected as I picked up an ancient Dandy.

Milly reached inside a little pink pram. ‘Look!’ She was holding up one of my old Sindys with the triumphant surprise of an actress with an Oscar.

‘Oh… I remember her …’ I took the doll from Milly’s outstretched hand and it gave me a vacant stare. ‘I had lots of Sindys. Five or six of them. I used to like changing their clothes.’ This Sindy was wearing a frayed gingham shirt and a pair of filthy jodhpurs. Her once luxuriant nylon tresses were savagely cropped, thanks, I now remembered, to Cassie. As I ran my thumb over the bristled scalp I felt a stab of retrospective indignation.

I know Cassie annoys you, darling, Mum would say. But try to remember that she’s six years younger than you and she doesn’t mean to be a nuisance.

‘She’s still being a nuisance,’ I breathed. I held the doll out to Milly. ‘Would you like her, sweetie?’

‘No.’ Milly shook her dark curls. ‘No, no, no,’ she muttered. The severe coiffure was clearly a turn-off. She thrust it back into the pram.

I quickly gathered a few things into a bin liner. As I did so a stray Monopoly note fluttered to the floor.

‘Five hundred pounds …’ I turned it over in my hands. ‘Shame it’s not real – we could do with some more cash right now – and this’ – I held up a battered Land Rover – ‘was Mark’s.’ Its paint was chipped and it was missing a wheel. ‘You know Uncle Mark? The one who sent you Baby Annabelle?’ Milly nodded. ‘He lives a long way away – in America.’

‘Meika,’ Milly echoed.

‘You’ve only met him … once,’ I realised disconsolately. ‘At your christening.’ I looked around the room. ‘Mark and I used to play here a lot.’ I remembered changing the signals on his Hornby train set and arranging the little fir trees by the side of the tracks. ‘He and I were great friends, but we hardly see each other now. It’s sad.’

Especially for Milly, I thought. She doesn’t have many men in her life. Not much of a dad; no brothers, just one grandfather, and Mark, her only uncle, had been living in San Francisco for the past four years.

‘OK, darling – let’s go. Bye-bye, playroom,’ I added as I closed the door behind us.

‘’Bye, paywoom.’

Then we crossed the landing into my old room. As we sat on the bed I looked up at the frosted-glass bowl light fitting in which I now noticed the hunched corpse of a large spider. It must have been there for months. Then I glanced at the window-panes, the lower left one visibly scored with large, loopy scribbles. ‘I did that,’ I said. ‘When I was six. Granny was a bit cross with me. It was naughty.’

‘Naughty,’ Milly repeated happily.

‘You’d have loved Granny,’ I said. I lifted Milly on to my lap and felt her arms go round my neck. ‘And she’d have adored you.’ I felt the familiar pang at what my mother had been deprived of.

‘’dored …’ I heard Milly say.

We stood up. I said a silent goodbye and closed my bedroom door for the very last time. Then I glanced into Mark’s room, next to mine. It was almost empty, the dusty white walls pebbled with Blu-Tack. He’d cleared it before he left for the States. He’d stripped it bare, as though he was never coming back. I remember how hurt my parents had been.

Now we went downstairs and I stood in the doorway of their room.

‘I was born in here, Milly …’

You arrived three weeks early, Anna. But there’d been heavy snow and I couldn’t get to the hospital so I had to have you at home. Daddy delivered you – imagine! He kept joking that he was an engineer, not a midwife, but he told me afterwards that he’d been terrified. It was quite a drama really …

Their mahogany wardrobe – along with other unwanted furniture – was being sold with the house. I opened Mum’s side – there was a light clattering as the hangers collided with each other. I visualised the dresses that had hung on them until only a few months ago – it had been two years before Dad had gone through her clothes. He said the hardest part was looking at her shoes, imagining her stepping into them.

Now Milly and I went downstairs to say goodbye to the garden – the garden my mother had nurtured and loved. It was only just emerging from winter mode, still leafless and dormant and dank. But as we stepped outside I remembered the flowerbeds filled with phlox and peonies in high summer; the lavender billowing over the path; the lilac with its pale underskirt of lilies of the valley in May; the lovely pink Albertine that smothered the arch. Every tree, shrub and plant was as familiar to me as an old friend. The Ceanothus, a foamy mass of blue in late April; the Japanese quince with its scarlet cups. I remembered, every autumn, the speckly green fruit with which my mother made jelly – the muslins heavy with the sweet, stewed pulp.

Chaenomeles. That’s the proper name for quince, Anna – Chaenomeles. Can you say that?

My mother loved telling me the proper names of plants and started doing so when I was very young. As I trailed after her round the garden she’d explain that they weren’t just pink flowers, or yellow shrubs, or red berries. They were Dianthus, or Hypericum, or Mahonia or Cotoneaster.

‘That purple climber there,’ she’d say. ‘That’s a clematis. It’s called Jackmanii, after the person who first grew it. This pale gold one’s a clematis too – it’s called tangutica. They’re like fairies’ lanterns, aren’t they?’ I remembered her pinching open the jaws of snapdragons, and showing me the fuchsias, with their ballerina flowers. ‘Look at their gorgeous tutus!’ she’d say as she’d wiggle the stems and make them ‘dance’. In the autumn, she’d gently rub open the ‘coins’ of silvery Honesty with their mother-of-pearl lining to show me the flat seeds within. Gradually, with repetition, the names sank in and I’d acquired a botanical lexicon – the lingua franca of plants. As I got older she’d explain what they meant.

‘The Latin names are very descriptive,’ she’d say. ‘So this little tree here is a magnolia, but it’s called a Magnolia stellata, because stellata means star-like and the flowers do look like white stars – do you see? This plant here is a Hosta tardiflora – a late-flowering Hosta – it’s “tardy”; and that big buddleia over there’s a Buddleia globosa, because it’s got spherical flowers like little globes. And this thing here is a Berberis evanescens which means …’

‘Disappearing,’ I heard myself now say. ‘Quickly fading from view.’ I thought, bitterly, of Xan.

Then I remembered again the advice my mother had given me, at twenty, when I’d first had my heart broken. ‘Jason seemed very … pleasant,’ she’d said carefully, as I’d sat on my bed, in floods. ‘And yes, he was good-looking, and well dressed – and I suppose he had that lovely car.’ I thought, with a pang, of his Lotus Elise. ‘But he really wasn’t right for you, darling.’

‘How can you say that?’ I’d croaked. ‘You only met him once.’

‘But that was enough for me to see that he was, well, what I’d call – to use a gardening analogy – a flashy annual. They make a great impression, but then they’re gone. What you really want, Anna, is a hardy perennial.’ I’d had a sudden image of myself marrying a Forsythia. ‘A hardy perennial won’t let you down. It will show up year after year, reliable, and trustworthy – and safe. Like your father,’ she’d added. ‘Always there for me. Whatever …’

I picked Milly up. ‘I didn’t do what Granny advised,’ I whispered. ‘But it doesn’t matter, because it means I’ve got you. And you’re just’ – I touched her nose with mine – ‘the sweetest thing. The bees’ knees.’

‘Bizzy nees.’ She giggled.

I hugged her, then put her down. ‘Now look at these little flowers, Milly. They’re called snowdrops. Can you say that? Snowdrops?’

‘Snowtops …’

‘And these purple ones here are called crocuses …’

‘’Kisses.’ Her breath came in tiny pillows on the frosty air.

‘And this, you may be interested to know, is a miniature wild cyclamen.’

‘Sick …’ Milly giggled again.

‘Granny used to say they had windswept little faces, as though they’d stuck their heads out of the car window.’ As we stood up, then walked across the lawn, I imagined myself, as I often did, years hence telling Milly what had happened to my mum.

You had a wonderful granny, I could hear myself say. She was a lovely, vibrant person. She was interested in lots of things and she was especially interested in gardening. She knew a lot about it and was very good at it – she’d taught herself the names of all the plants and flowers. And she would have taught you them, Milly, like she taught me, but sadly she never got the chance, because a year before you were born she died …

I heard a step and looked up. Dad was coming through the french windows, holding a cardboard box. Like the house, he had an air of neglect. He used to look well-preserved for his years, young, even. At nearly seventy, he was still good-looking, but had been aged by grief.

I never thought I’d be without your mother, he’d say for months afterwards. She was twelve years younger than me. I simply never thought it. I don’t know what I’ll do.

Now, after three years, he did. He’d finally felt able to sell up and was moving to London, just a mile away from Milly and me. ‘I’ve loved this house,’ he said as he came and stood next to us. ‘We’ve been here so long. Nearly four decades.’

I imagined what the walls had absorbed in that time. Talking and laughter; weeping and shouting; the cries of childbirth, even. I imagined us all embedded into the very fabric of the house, like fossils.

I heard Dad sigh. ‘But now it’s time to uproot and move on.’

‘It’s for the best,’ I said. ‘London will be distracting. You’ll feel happier there – or, at least, better.’

‘Maybe,’ Dad said. ‘I don’t know. But it’ll certainly be nice being so near to you and Milly.’ I noticed the silvery stubble on his jaw. ‘I hope you won’t mind me dropping in from time to time.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t say that,’ I protested gently. ‘You know you can come whenever you like. I’ve encouraged you to do this, remember?’

‘I won’t be a nuisance.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘And I’ll babysit for you. You should take me up on that, Anna. Babysitting’s expensive.’

‘That’s kind, but you’ll need to get out yourself – see your friends – go to your club, plus I’ve got Luisa now, haven’t I?’

‘That’s true.’

I reflected gratefully on what wonderful value for money au pairs are. I could never have afforded a part-time nanny – especially with the fees for Milly’s new nursery school. But for seventy pounds a week, I get up to five hours’ help a day from Luisa, plus two babysits. She’s a godsend.

‘Not that I go out that much,’ I told Dad. ‘I usually work when Milly’s asleep. I can get a lot done then.’

‘You should go out more,’ he said. ‘It would be good for you. Especially in your situation.’ He set off down the garden – Milly and I following – then he stopped to hold back an overhanging spray of winter jasmine. Everything looked so unkempt.

‘Thanks for all the sorting out you’ve done over the past month,’ he added as we walked on. ‘I know I’ve said it before, but I’ve really appreciated it.’

‘All I did was a few runs to Oxfam, and I didn’t clear everything.’

‘Well, it was wonderful just having you here. I’d have got very down doing it on my own.’

I thought, irritably, of my siblings. Mark’s in the States, fair enough; but Cassie could have helped. She only came once, to clear her own room. Not that Dad seemed to mind. But then he indulges Cassie, as though she’s nine years old, not twenty-nine. Being the ‘baby’, she’s always been spoilt.

Our feet crunched over the gravel as Milly and I followed Dad down the long, narrow path, past the silver birch and the greenhouse. I had a sudden image of my mother in there, in her straw hat, bent over a tray of seedlings. I imagined her glancing up, then waving to us. We walked on, and I assumed that Dad was taking the box to the garage to put in the car. Instead, he stopped by the bonfire patch and began to pile bits of wood on to the blackened earth with a fork.

‘I saw Xan yesterday,’ I heard him say as he splintered an old crate underfoot.

My heart stopped for a beat, as it always does at Xan’s name.

‘Where was that, then?’ I smiled a bitter little smile. ‘On the nine o’clock news? The one o’clock? Panorama?’

‘Newsnight.’

‘Oh.’ A solitary magpie flew overhead. ‘What was he talking about?’

‘Illegal logging.’

‘I see …’

‘Poor you,’ Dad said. He leaned on the fork. ‘You cope very well, Anna, but being a single mum’s not what your mother and I would have wished for you.’

What you need is a hardy perennial. Someone who’ll always be there for you. Whatever …

‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Dad added quickly. ‘I love Milly so much …’ He reached out to stroke her head and I noticed how frayed the cuffs of his shirt were. I made a mental note to take him shopping for some new ones. ‘But I wish you had a better set-up, that’s all.’

‘Well … I wish I did too.’

‘It can’t be easy.’

‘It isn’t.’ In fact, it’s hard, I reflected grimly. However much you love your child, it’s hard bringing them up on your own. It’s hard not having anyone with whom to share the daily anxieties, or the responsibility, or the joys, let alone the long, lonely nights when they’re tiny babies, or the naked terror when they’re ill. ‘But this is the set-up I’ve got. And there are plenty of kids who have no contact with their fathers.’ I thought of Jenny, my friend from NCT. ‘And at least Milly does have some sort of relationship with her dad’ – I bit my lip. I had uttered the dreaded ‘D’ word.

‘Daddy!’ Milly yelled, right on cue. ‘Daddy!’ She’s only met Xan six times in her two and a half years, but she adores him. ‘Dad-dy!’ she repeated indignantly. She stamped her feet, dancing on the spot with frustration, then threw back her head. ‘Dad-deee!’ she yelled, as though she thought she might summon him.

‘It’s all right, darling,’ I soothed. ‘You’ll see Daddy soon.’ This wasn’t so much a white lie, as a neon-flashing Technicolor one, as I hadn’t the slightest idea when we’d next see Xan. Milly has to make do with seeing him on TV. She’s elated for the few moments he’s on-screen, then she bursts into tears. I know just how she feels.

‘Dad-eee …’ Her face had crumpled and her big grey-blue eyes had filled. My father distracted her by getting her to help him pick up leaves. I stooped to pick some up too and, as I did so, my eye fell on the cardboard box, which seemed to be full of old papers. On one yellowing envelope I saw my mother’s neat italics.

‘Good girl,’ I heard Dad say as Milly scooped up twigs in her mittened hands. ‘Let’s pick up these leaves over here, shall we – they’re nice and dry. That’s it, poppet. Now, go and stand next to Mummy while I light the fire.’

‘I always thought I’d be just like Mum,’ I said, almost to myself now, as Milly wrapped her arms round my knees. ‘I thought I’d have a completely conventional family life – just like she did.’ Dad didn’t reply. He was trying to strike a match, but they kept breaking. ‘I thought I’d have a husband and kids. I never imagined myself bringing up a child alone, but then …’ I shook my head.

‘… then life happened,’ Dad said quietly. The match flared and he cupped it, then put it to the pile.

‘Yes. That’s what happened. Life.’ We heard the crackle of burning leaves and a thread of pewtery smoke began to curl upwards, scenting the air.

Dad straightened up. ‘Have you taken absolutely everything you want from the house? Because what doesn’t go in the removals van will be disposed of by the cleaners. I left out a pile of your mum’s gardening books I thought you might want. Did you see them?’

‘Yes, thanks. I just took three, and her trowel and fork – I wanted to have those.’

‘That would make her happy,’ he said. ‘She’d be so pleased at what you’re doing. Not just because she loved gardening so much, but because she thought the City was too hard for you – those long hours you had to do.’

‘I do long hours now.’

‘That’s true.’ Dad began to fan the fire with the rusty lid from an old biscuit tin. ‘But at least you’re not a wage slave any longer – it’s all for you and Milly. Plus you enjoy what you’re doing more.’

‘Much more,’ I agreed happily. From the holly we heard the chittering of a wren. ‘I love being a garden designer.’

‘A fashionable one according to The Times, eh?’ That unexpected bit of coverage had really lifted my confidence; Sue, my former PA, had spotted it and phoned me. ‘And those appearances on GMTV must have helped.’

‘I think they did.’ I’d recently done five short pieces about preparing the garden for spring.

‘And what happened with that big contract in Chelsea you were hoping to get?’

‘The one in The Boltons?’ Dad nodded. ‘I’ve done the survey and I’m taking the designs over on Saturday. If it goes ahead it’ll be my biggest commission by a very long way.’

‘Well – fingers crossed. But if you’re ever stuck for money you know I’ll lend you some. I could be a sleeping partner in the business,’ he added with a smile.

‘That’s kind, but I budgeted for the first two years being a bit tough and you know I’d never ask you for help.’ Unlike Cassie, I thought meanly. She’s always touching Dad for cash. Like that time last year when she simply had to go and find herself on that Ashtanga Yoga retreat in Bhutan – Dad had ‘lent’ her most of the three and a half grand. ‘Anyway,’ I went on, ‘things should be a little easier this year.’ There was a soft pop as sparks burst from the fire, like lava from a tiny volcano.

‘Well …’ There was a sudden, awkward silence. Dad cleared his throat, then I saw him glance at the box. ‘I … imagine you’ll want to be getting back now, won’t you?’

‘I … guess so.’ I looked at my watch. It was only 3.30. I still wasn’t quite ready to say my final farewell, plus I was enjoying the warmth of the fire.

‘I know you don’t like driving in the dark.’

‘That’s true.’

‘And then it’ll be Milly’s bedtime.’

‘Mm.’

‘And I’ve got things to do, actually.’

‘Oh.’ Dad wasn’t usually in a hurry for us to leave – quite the opposite. ‘OK, then… we’ll be on our way.’ I looked at the cardboard box. ‘Are you sure you don’t need help with anything else before I go?’

‘No. I’ve just got to deal with this before the light goes.’

‘What is it?’

‘Just … old correspondence.’ I suddenly saw that a red stain had crept up Dad’s neck. ‘Valentine cards I’d sent your mum – that sort of thing.’

I didn’t remind him that today was Valentine’s Day. Not that I’d received so much as a petal, I thought ruefully. I was a romance-free zone.

‘She never threw them away,’ I heard Dad say. ‘When I finally went through her desk I found them.’ He shook his head. ‘Every Valentine card I’d ever sent her – thirty-six of them,’ he went on wonderingly. ‘She was very sentimental, your mum. Then I sorted through some old letters that she’d sent me.’

I did up Milly’s top button. ‘But why would Mum write to you when you were married?’

Dad fanned some smoke away. ‘It was when I was in Brazil.’ He looked at me. ‘I don’t suppose you remember that, do you?’

‘Vaguely … I remember waving you off at the airport with Mum and Mark.’

‘It was in 1977, so you were five. I was out there for eight months.’

‘Remind me what you were doing.’

‘Overseeing a big structural repair on a bridge near Rio. The phone lines were terrible, so we could only keep in touch by letter.’

Now I remembered going to the post office every Friday with our flimsy blue aerogrammes. I used to draw flowers on mine, as I couldn’t write.

‘It must have been hard for you, being away for so long.’

‘It was,’ Dad said quietly.

‘So that was before Cassie was born?’

He snapped in half a small, rotten branch. ‘That’s right. Cassie was born the following year.’

I looked at the box again – a repository of so much emotion. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to keep them? It seems a pity.’

‘I will keep them.’ Dad tapped his chest. ‘Here. But I don’t want to sit in my new flat surrounded by things that make me feel …’ His voice had caught. ‘So … I’m going to look at them one last time, then burn them.’

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘We’ll be on our way, then. But ring me when you’ve got to London and we’ll pop over.’ Dad nodded. ‘Say bye-bye to Grandpa then, darling.’

Milly tipped up her face to be kissed.

‘Bye-bye, my little sweetheart.’

I hugged him. ‘’Bye, Dad.’ Damn. I’d done it again.

‘Dad-ee!’ Milly cried.

By the time I’d strapped her into her car seat, and we were turning out of the drive, Milly was chanting ‘Dad-dy! Dad-dy!’ with the passion and vigour of a Chelsea supporter.

‘It’s OK, darling,’ I sang. ‘We will be seeing Daddy, but not for a little while, because he’s busy at the moment.’

‘Daddy. Bizzy,’ she echoed. ‘Bizzy. Daddy!’

‘Oh! Look at that horsy,’ I said.

‘’Orsy! Dad-dy!’

‘And those lovely moo cows. Look.’

‘Moo cows. Daddeeeee …’

As we idled at a red light, I glanced in the mirror and Xan’s eyes stared back at me – the colour of sea holly. I often wished that Milly didn’t resemble him so much. And now, as her lids closed with the hum of the engine and the warmth of the car, I recalled meeting Xan for the first time. Not for a moment could I have imagined the shattering effect that he would have on my life.

As I released the clutch and the car eased forward, I remembered how cautious I’d always been until then. I was like Mark in that way – sensible and forward-looking. Unlike Cassie.

‘You need to have a life plan,’ Mark would say. He was two years older and we were close in those days, so I listened to him. ‘I’m going to be a doctor.’

By fourteen, I had my own plan mapped out: I’d work hard, go to a decent university, get a good job and buy a flat. In my late twenties I’d find myself that nice hardy perennial, get married and have three children, going back to work when the youngest was at school. My salary would not be essential, but would pay for a seaside cottage somewhere, or a house in France, which said hardy perennial and I would ultimately retire to, enjoying frequent visits from our devoted children and grandchildren, before dying peacefully, in our sleep, at ninety-nine.

For years I’d followed my plan to the letter. I read History at York, then got a job at a City hedge fund, where I joined the Equity Research department, gathering intelligence on investment ideas – analysing ‘fundamentals across multiple sectors’ as they called it. The work wasn’t always thrilling, but it was very well paid. I bought a small house in Brook Green, paid the mortgage and pension; then, with the rest, I enjoyed myself. I went skiing, diving and trekking; I joined a gym. I went to the opera, where I sat in the stalls. I spent time in my garden, and with family and friends. I was on track to reach my personal goals.

When I turned thirty, I started on the treadmill of engagement parties, hen nights and weddings. Feeling I ought to make more of an effort to meet someone, I joined a tennis club, gave parties and went on dates. With these I kept in mind my mother’s old-fashioned precepts: ‘Wait before returning their calls,’ she’d often say. ‘Make them think you’re too busy to see them. Never, ever throw yourself at them, Anna. Try and retain a little “feminine mystique”.’ I’d groan at all this, but she’d retort that there was a little dance of courtship that needed to be danced and that it was her duty to give me ‘womanly’ advice.

‘All mothers should,’ she once said with a vehemence that took me aback. ‘My mother never told me anything,’ she’d added bitterly. ‘She was too embarrassed. But I wish she had done, because it meant I was hopelessly unworldly.’

Which probably explains why she married Dad when she was twenty.

‘It was a whirlwind romance,’ she’d say coyly whenever the subject came up.

I’d discreetly roll my eyes, because I’ve always known the truth.

‘A tornado,’ Dad would add with a wry smile. They’d gone up the aisle two months after meeting at the Lyons Corner House on The Strand.

‘It was raining,’ Mum would say, ‘so the café was full. Suddenly this divine-looking man came up to me and asked if he could share my table – and that was that!’

But it used to amuse me that my mother, whose own romantic life had been so happily uneventful, should seem so anxious to educate me about affairs of the heart.

The men I dated were all attractive, clever and charming, and would have been ‘husband material’, were it not that they all seemed to have major drawbacks of one sort or another. Duncan, for example, was a successful stockbroker – intelligent and likeable – but his enthusiasm for lap-dancing clubs was a problem for me; then there was Gavin who was still getting over his divorce. After that I dated Henry, an advertising copywriter, who avoided traffic jams by driving on the pavement. The second time he was cautioned I called it a day. Then I met Tony, a publisher, at a wedding in Wiltshire. Tony was clever and fun. But when after six months he said that he didn’t want anything long-term I ended it. I couldn’t afford to waste my time.

‘You’ve still got ages, darling,’ my mother had said consolingly afterwards. We were sitting on the garden bench in Oxted, under the pear tree. It was her birthday, the tenth of May. She put her arm round me, wrapping me in the scent of the Shalimar I’d given her that morning. ‘You’re only thirty-two, Anna,’ I heard her say. My eyes strayed to the little blue clouds of forget-me-nots floating in the flowerbeds. ‘Thirty-two’s still young. And women have their children much later now – thank goodness.’

I suddenly asked her something I’d always wanted to know: ‘If you could have your time again, Mum, would you have waited longer before starting a family?’ She’d had Mark when she was just twenty-one.

‘Well …’ she’d said, blushing slightly, ‘I … don’t think having a child is ever a mistake.’ Which wasn’t what I’d meant. ‘But yes, I did start very early,’ she’d gone on, ‘so I never really worked – unlike you. But you’re lucky, Anna, because you’re of the generation that can have a fulfilling career, fun and independence, and then the happiness of family life. And you’re not to worry about finding that,’ she repeated, stroking my hair. ‘Because you’ve still got lots of time.’

Which was something that she herself didn’t have, it seemed, because less than a month later she’d died.

Now, as I turned on to the motorway I remembered – as I often do when I’m driving and my mind can range – that awful, awful time. I was so shocked I could barely breathe. It was as though the Pause button had been pressed on my life. What would I do without my mother? I felt as though I’d been pushed off a cliff.

And what if I only had twenty-three years left, I had then begun to wonder, as I lay staring into the darkness, night after night. What if I only had ten years left, or five, or one? Because I now understood, in a way I could never have grasped before, how our lives all hang by a thread.

I had a fortnight’s compassionate leave, which I needed, as I had to organise the funeral as Dad could barely function. Going back to work after that was a relief in some ways – though I remember it as a very strange time. My colleagues were kind and sympathetic to begin with, but as time went on, naturally, they stopped asking me how I was, as though it was expected that life should now carry on as normal. Except that nothing seemed ‘normal’ any more. And as the weeks went by I felt increasingly dissatisfied with the life I’d been leading – the fact-finding about investment opportunities that were of zero interest to me – the number-crunching and the daily commute. I now ‘analysed the fundamentals’ of my own existence and realised that the goals I’d striven to achieve seemed trivial. So I made a decision to change my life.

I’d often daydreamed about giving up the rat race and becoming a garden designer. I could never go to someone’s house without imagining how their garden would look if it were landscaped differently or planted more imaginatively. I’d already designed a couple of gardens as a favour – a Mediterranean courtyard for my PA, Sue, at her house in Kent; and a cottage garden for an elderly couple over the road. They’d been delighted with its billowing mass of hollyhocks and foxgloves, and doing it had given me a huge buzz.

So I signed up for a year’s diploma course at the London School of Gardening in Chelsea. Then I went to see my boss, Miles.

‘Are you quite certain?’ he asked as I sat in his office, heart pounding at the thought of the security – and the camaraderie – I was about to sacrifice. He rotated his gold fountain pen between his first and second fingers. ‘You’ll be giving up a lot, Anna – not least the chance of a directorship in maybe two or three years.’ I had a sudden vision of my name on the thick vellum company stationery. ‘Don’t think I’m trying to dissuade you,’ Miles went on, ‘but are you sure you want to do this?’ I glanced out of the window. A plane was making its way across the cobalt sky, leaving a bright, snowy contrail. ‘You’ve been through a lot lately,’ I heard him say. ‘Could it just be a reaction to your mother’s death?’

‘Yes,’ I replied quietly. ‘That’s exactly what it is. Which is why I am sure I want to do it – thanks.’

I worked out my notice; then, in early September Miles gave me a leaving party in the boardroom. Seeing the big turnout, I was glad I’d put on my most glamorous Prada suit – I’d been thrilled because I’d got it half price – and my beloved Jimmy Choos. I wouldn’t be wearing these heels for a long time, I thought, as I circulated. I wouldn’t be buying any more either – I’d have zero income for the next year. Nor would I be drinking champagne, I thought, as I sipped my third, nerve-steadying glass of fizz.

Suddenly Miles chinked his glass, then ran his hand through his blond curls – he looked like an overgrown cherub. ‘Can I have everyone’s attention?’ he said, as the hubbub subsided. ‘Because I’d just like to embarrass Anna for a moment.’ A sudden warmth suffused my face. Miles flipped out his yellow silk tie. ‘Anna – this is a very sad day for all of us here at Arden Fund Management – for the simple reason that you’ve been a dream colleague.’

‘And a dream boss!’ I heard Sue say. I smiled at her. ‘I’m regretting egging you on to do this gardening lark now!’

‘You’ve been a real team player,’ Miles went on. ‘Your meticulous research has helped us do our jobs with so much more confidence. You’ve dug away painstakingly on our behalf. And now you’re set to do spadework of a different kind.’ I smiled. ‘Anna, we’re going to miss you more than we can say. But we wish you every success and happiness in your new career – in which we hope that these small tokens of our huge appreciation will come in useful.’

I stepped forward and he presented me with a large, surprisingly heavy gift bag, from which I pulled out a silver-plated watering can – engraved with my name and the date – and a pair of exceptionally clumpy green wellies. I laughed, then made a short thank you speech, just managing not to cry, as the reality of it all finally hit me. Then, clutching my presents and having tipsily – and tearfully now – hugged everyone goodbye, I went to have supper with Sue.

It felt strange going through Arden’s revolving doors for the last time, giving the guys on security one final wave. Sue and I went round the corner to Chez Gerard for our valedictory dinner. As we ordered, I looked at Sue who was only seven years younger than my mum; in some ways she was like the aunt I’d never had.

‘You know, Anna…’ Sue lowered her menu. ‘I’ve worked for you for five years and not had a single bad day.’

‘You’ve been much more than a PA, Sue.’ I felt my throat constrict. ‘You’ve been a true friend.’

She put her hand on my arm. ‘And that’s not going to stop.’ Then she opened her bag and took out a gift-wrapped package. ‘I’ve got something for you too.’ Inside was a beautiful book about Alpine flowers, which I’ve always loved, with stunning photographs of dainty gentians, Edelweiss and Dianthus growing in the Carpathians, the Pyrenees and the Alps.

‘Thank you,’ I murmured. ‘It’s lovely.’ I turned to the title page and read Sue’s inscription: To Anna, may you bloom and grow … ‘I hope I do,’ I said anxiously.

‘Oh, you will,’ Sue said.

Later, as our coffee arrived she mentioned that she’d arranged to meet her friend Cathy for a late drink. ‘Why don’t you come along?’ she suddenly suggested.

I sipped my espresso. ‘Oh … I don’t … know.’

‘You’ve met Cathy before – at my forty-fifth birthday drinks, remember?’

‘Yes, I do – she was nice.’

‘We’re meeting at this new club near Oxford Circus, then we’ll get the train back to Dartford together. Say yes, Anna.’

‘Well …’

Sue glanced at her watch. ‘It’s not even ten. And you’re not doing anything else tonight, are you?’ I shook my head. ‘So?’

‘So … OK, then. Thanks. Why not?’

‘I mean today’s your last day in the City after twelve years,’ she added as we emerged on to the street.

‘Twelve years,’ I echoed. ‘That’s more than a third of my life.’ I felt unsteady from all the champagne.

‘You don’t want it to just … fizzle out, do you?’

‘No. I want it to end in a memorable way.’

‘With a bang – not a whimper!’

‘Yes!’

But as we stepped on to the escalator at Bank tube station, my right heel got stuck in the metal slats. It was wedged. As we neared the bottom, I began to panic. Then, as I wrenched it free, it sheared off.

‘Oh, shit,’ I moaned as I hobbled off. Sue’s hand was clapped to her mouth in horrified amusement. ‘There’s a metaphor in this,’ I said grimly as I retrieved the amputated stiletto. ‘I’m leaving the security of the City, so I’m going to be down at heel.’

‘That’s nonsense – you’re going to be a big success. But there’s only one thing for it …’

‘Yes, Superglue,’ I interjected. ‘Got any?’

‘On with the green wellies!’

‘Oh no!’

‘Oh yes.’ Sue giggled. ‘What else are you going to do? Go barefoot?’

‘Oh God.’ I laughed as I pulled them on, attracting amused looks from passers-by. I stared at my legs. ‘Very fetching. Well, I’m suited and booted all right. At least they fit,’ I added as I clumped along the corridor. ‘But they make my feet look massive.’

‘You look delightfully Boho.’ Sue laughed.

‘I look bizarre.’

‘Well, you did say you wanted a memorable evening.’

‘That’s true.’

Five stops on the Central Line later and we’d arrived at Oxford Circus, where Cathy was waiting for us by the ticket barriers.

I registered her surprised glance. ‘My heel snapped off.’

‘Never mind,’ she said sympathetically. ‘With a smile like yours no one’s going to notice your feet.’ I could have kissed her. ‘The Iso-Bar’s just up here.’ Two thick-set bouncers stepped aside to allow us through the purple rope.

‘This place hasn’t been open long,’ Cathy explained as we went down the steps into the vaulted interior. ‘I saw Clive Owen in here last time. He actually winked at me.’

‘Lucky you,’ I said. ‘But let’s have some more champagne. I’ll get it while you two find a table.’

I went up to the crowded bar. I felt self-conscious in my wellies, though it was, mercifully, quite dark – but I couldn’t seem to catch the barman’s eye. And I’d been standing there for a good ten minutes, feeling irritated by now, and annoyed by the spinning spotlights which were making my head ache, when I became aware that the man standing on my right was gesticulating extravagantly at the barman, then pointing at me with both index fingers, thumbs cocked. He saw me looking at him and smiled.

‘Thanks,’ I said to him, as I placed my order. I looked at him properly, then felt a sudden thump in my ribcage. He had dark curly hair that spilled over his collar and his eyes were a smoky blue. He was mid thirties, tall and slim, but his shoulders were broad. ‘That was kind of you,’ I added. ‘I couldn’t get the barman to notice me.’

‘I don’t know why,’ the stranger replied. ‘You’re very noticeable. You look like …’ Gwyneth Paltrow I hoped he’d say. Or Kirsten Dunst. People do say that sometimes – if they’ve had enough to drink.

‘… an iceberg,’ I heard him say. ‘You look so tall, and pale and … cool.’

‘And of course I have hidden depths.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ To my annoyance, this made him glance at my feet. Puzzlement furrowed his brow. ‘Been on a countryside march, have you?’

‘No.’ I explained what had happened.

‘How inconvenient.’

‘You’re telling me.’ I paid for the bottle of Taittinger. ‘But I always carry alternative footwear around with me.’

‘So I see. How practical.’

‘Anyway, thanks for your help there. You’re a gent.’

‘Sometimes,’ he said wistfully. ‘But not always …’

Now, as I overtook the car in front, I thought how different my life would have been if I had left it there – if I had simply said a polite goodbye to the handsome stranger, then gone to find Cathy and Sue. Instead, I’d filled a glass with champagne and handed it to him. As I’d done so, I looked at him more boldly – the alcohol and my odd, heightened mood had made me feel uninhibited. I felt his interested glance in return.

‘Are you here with anyone?’ I’d asked, half expecting a glamorous female to zoom up to us and lead him away.

‘I came with a friend, but he’s gone outside to phone his wife.’

‘And where’s yours?’ I asked with a directness that amazed me.

A look of mild surprise crossed his face. ‘I don’t … have one.’

‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

‘No …’ he replied slowly, ‘since you ask. But tell me’ – he chinked my glass – ‘what are you celebrating?’

I thought of my mother. ‘Nothing. But I’m about to start a new life.’

‘A new life?’ He raised his glass and I watched the slender columns of bubbles drift upwards, like waving fronds. ‘Well, here’s to that new life of yours. So what are you doing? Emigrating? Getting married? Going into a nunnery? Joining the circus?’

‘None of those things.’ I explained that I’d just had my last day in the City and would start my garden design course on the Monday.

‘So you’re going from hedge funds to herbaceous borders.’

‘I am.’

‘From shares to … scented stocks.’ I smiled. ‘From Wall Street – to wallflowers. Shall I go on?’

‘No’ I giggled. ‘I had enough horticultural jokes at my leaving party just now.’

He leaned against the bar. ‘So what happens when you finish the course?’

‘I’ll start my own consultancy – Anna Temple Garden Design.’

‘Anna Temple …? You should be worshipped with a name like that. Do you have a large and devoted following?’

I shook my head. ‘Tragically not.’

‘I find that surprising.’

‘And what’s your name?’ I asked. ‘I can’t chat you up properly if I don’t know it.’

He smiled again. ‘It’s Xan. With an “X”.’

‘Because you’re X-rated?’ I was enjoying my new-found brazenness. Only two hours into my new life and I seemed to be uncovering fresh aspects of my personality, I reflected. Cassie – a born flirt – would be impressed.

‘No.’ Xan laughed. ‘It’s short for Alexander.’

I had another sip of champagne. ‘That’s a bit classier than Alex, isn’t it?’

‘I think that’s what my mum thought.’

Then Xan’s friend appeared and said that he had to leave; so I invited Xan to join me at the table that Sue and Cathy had now found. He chatted politely to us all at first, then he and I began to talk one on one. He told me that he’d spent ten years in Hong Kong, in banking, but had given it up to work for the BBC.

‘Are you enjoying it?’ I sipped my champagne.

‘It’s wonderful. I only wish I’d taken the plunge before. Life’s too short not to be doing something you love.’

‘That’s just the conclusion I’d come to,’ I said feelingly.

‘I’m a news trainee – luckily they let in the odd late starter.’

Sue and Cathy were putting on their coats. ‘We’ve got a train to catch,’ Sue said. She picked up her bags, then bent to hug me. ‘You seem to be having a very memorable evening,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe it will end with a bang after all.’ She giggled and straightened up. ‘See you on Monday, then, Anna – oops! – no I won’t!’ She hugged me again. ‘But I’ll phone you.’

‘Please do, Sue – and thank you for the book.’

Xan was politely getting to his feet, but Sue motioned for him to sit down. ‘No, no, no – you stay put, you two.’

So that’s what Xan and I did – for how long I don’t remember; then I saw him glance at his watch. ‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘It’s midnight.’

‘Oh.’ I felt a spasm of regret mingled with panic. ‘Pumpkin time, Mr Cinders?’

‘Bedtime. I’ve got a busy day.’

‘Well …’ I stood up, aware, by now, that I’d had a lot to drink. ‘I’ll make my way too. But I’m glad I’ve met you.’ I held out my hand. ‘Today’s been a big day for me and it wouldn’t have been the same without you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I’m not quite sure why. In fact,’ I added as I picked up my bags, ‘I’ve got the peculiar feeling that I was meant to meet you.’

Xan was staring at me. ‘Where do you live?’

I felt a jolt of electricity. ‘Brook Green.’

‘Well, I’m in Notting Hill. I’m getting a cab back – I’ll give you a lift. If you like,’ he added diffidently.

A cloud of butterflies took flight in my stomach. ‘Yes. I would like that. Thanks.’

We stepped out on to Oxford Street, where we were buffeted by reeling, ululating drunks. Xan put a protective hand on my arm and my skin tingled with pleasure. A gentle rain was falling, so taxis were scarce. Suddenly we saw a yellow light. Xan stepped into the road and flagged down the cab; it drew up beside us with a diesel chug.

‘Brook Green, please,’ Xan said, opening the door for me. ‘Then Notting Hill.’

I stepped in. ‘You’ll drop me off first?’

‘Of course.’

‘You are a gent,’ I said as we pulled away.

‘I try to be,’ Xan replied. He looked out of the window. Raindrops beaded the glass, refracting the neon lights from the shops. ‘But I’m sometimes tempted to be very ungentlemanly.’

‘Really?’ I watched two raindrops snake down the window then merge into each other with a tiny shudder. ‘And are you tempted now by any chance?’

There was silence, except for the churning of the engine and the swish of wet tyres.

‘Yes,’ Xan said softly. ‘I am.’

At that I slipped my arm through his, edging a little closer, feeling the warmth of his thigh against mine. We sped down Bayswater Road, through Notting Hill and along Holland Park Avenue where the sentinel plane trees were already shedding their huge leaves.

‘Not much further,’ I murmured. Xan’s profile was strobing in the street lights. ‘We’ll be there in five minutes.’ Daringly, I lifted my hand to his face and tucked a stray curl behind his ear. ‘You can take me home any time,’ I murmured. At that Xan looked at me, locking his gaze in mine. I traced the curves of his mouth with my fingertip, then we kissed. His lips tasted of salt and champagne.

‘Anna,’ he breathed. I could smell the scent of lime on his neck. ‘Anna …’ We kissed again, more urgently, then I dropped my hand to his lap, feeling his jeans straining against his hardness. By now I felt almost faint with desire.

‘What road, mate?’ we heard the driver bellow.

‘Oh …’ I said. ‘It’s Havelock.’ My face was aflame. ‘It’s at the very end there, on the left. The corner house.’ I fumbled for my bags as we drew to a halt. Xan opened the door and we both stepped out – my heart pounding with apprehension. But instead of paying the driver, Xan just stood there awkwardly, looking at me.

‘Well … thank you,’ I murmured. ‘For the lift … and …’ Why was he hesitating? Perhaps he’d lied about being single, I thought dismally. Or maybe he was shy and didn’t want to presume. Yes – that was it, I decided. He was shy. So I uttered the words that would change my life. ‘Won’t you come in?’ I said quietly. ‘For a … I don’t know … cup of coffee or something?’

‘Coffee?’ Xan echoed with an air of surprise, as though I’d said ‘gazpacho’.

‘Yes. Coffee.’ I turned up my collar against the thickening rain. ‘Ethiopian or Guatemalan. Decaff – or extra caff. You can have an espresso – or a latte. You could have hot chocolate – I’ve got some very nice organic stuff – Fair Trade of course,’ I added with a tipsy giggle, ‘and I think there’s some Horlicks.’ I could see that the driver was impatient to go. ‘Ovaltine?’ I tried with a smile. But still Xan stood there. I’d got it wrong. He wasn’t interested. Disappointed, I turned away.

I heard the click of the cab door, then the chug of its engine as it drove off.

But as I turned the key in the lock, there was a sudden step behind me, then Xan’s voice: ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any PG Tips?’

Now, as I turned off the motorway in the gathering dusk, I remembered, with a stab of regret, the elation I’d felt as I’d fumbled with the door, then jabbed at the beeping burglar alarm. I’d registered, with relief, that the house looked fresh and welcoming. There was a jug of tiger lilies on the sitting-room mantelpiece and everything was tidy. On the dining table was a shoebox containing the sympathy cards I’d had and to which I was finally replying. I covered it and went into the kitchen, slinging my jacket on to one of the ladder-back chairs.

Xan followed me in, and as I filled the kettle I saw him glance at the framed photo of my parents on the dresser. I hadn’t told him about my mother as I didn’t like saying it, because if I said it, that made it seem true.

‘So what will it be?’ I asked him as I opened the cupboard. ‘I don’t have PG Tips, but I do have Kenyan, Darjeeling, Ceylon, Assam, Green tea, Camomile tea – or if you want something really fancy, this –’ I held up a box of Jasmine and Lavender. ‘So what would you like?’ I repeated with a smile.

‘Nothing,’ he replied.

‘Surely you must want something,’ I whispered seductively.

‘Well, yes, I do, actually …’ He looked away, slightly shyly, then returned his gaze to mine. ‘I’d like you to … take something off …’

I felt goosebumps stipple my throat. ‘And what might that be?’ Xan nodded at my feet. ‘Oh. There …’ I giggled as I pulled off the wellies.

‘That’s better,’ he said quietly. He was staring at my legs. ‘You know, Anna, you have very attractive ankles.’

‘Thank you. My elbows are quite nice too.’

Xan didn’t reply. He just stood there, looking at me, as if assessing me. So I took a step towards him and we kissed. Then, without saying a word, I gently loosened his tie and led him up the white-carpeted stairs to my bedroom. I unbuttoned his shirt – his chest was broad and smooth – then slid my hand down. I’d never taken the initiative like this in my life. I unzipped him, gently pushed him on to the bed, then lifted off my top in one upwards sweep as his hands caressed my bare hips. I was possessed by a physical longing for him that I’d felt for no man. I wanted him. I needed him.

‘Now,’ I whispered as he eased himself into me. His eyes widened, then we moved slowly, deliciously together. He eventually came with a great shuddering spasm and we lay, encased in one another, in the dark. Xan fell asleep quickly, but I lay awake, intoxicated with excitement and champagne. I gazed at the line of his jaw, lightly stubbled with shadow, and the way his lashes curled over his cheek.

This could be the start of a new relationship, I thought happily, to go with my new life …

I fell asleep too and dreamt of my mother. But it was an upsetting dream because she was walking towards me, through the garden, and I longed for her to hold me but I knew that she wasn’t going to. And then I wasn’t even sure that it was her, because her face was morphing and changing, her features becoming indistinct and unfamiliar. I awoke feeling sad and confused.

What would she have thought of this scene, I wondered, as I glimpsed the grey light of early morning slanting through the blind? She’d be disappointed.

Oh Anna – how could you? You’d only just met. What have I always told you? That if you like a man it’s much better to wait …

I felt a sudden stab of panic. Xan’s side of the bed was empty. I sat up, staring at the indentation his head had made on the pillow, then swung my legs out of bed. He must be in the bathroom. But I knew, from the resonating silence, that he wasn’t. His clothes, which had strewn the carpet, had gone.

I glanced at the clock. It was only 6.30. I hurried downstairs in case he’d left a note for me – but there was nothing to indicate that he’d ever been in the house except for his scent on my sheets and skin.

I sank on to the sofa, the house piercing me with its emptiness. My head ached and my mouth was sour. From outside came the whine of a milk float. Why did Xan have to go?

That wasn’t what I’d imagined at all, I thought now, as I drove through south London in the gathering dusk. I glanced at Milly in the mirror. She was fast asleep, thumb in mouth, her forefinger curled over her nose.

Before I’d drifted off to sleep that night I’d fondly imagined that Xan and I would spend the morning in bed, and that we’d then have a leisurely soak in my big Victorian bath. After that we’d go to my local deli, where we’d chat over organic bacon and eggs as though we’d known each other for ever, then we’d go for a walk in Holland Park. We’d date for three blissful months, at the end of which he’d whisk me off to Florence and propose. We’d have a summer wedding in the Belvedere the weekend after I’d finished my course.

Why couldn’t he at least have woken me to say goodbye? I’d thought angrily. Why couldn’t he at the very least – the very gentlemanly least – have left a note, saying that he didn’t want to disturb me and that he’d ring me later and PS, was I doing anything that night?

But Xan had done none of those things. He’d just fled – as though he’d made some dreadful error of judgement. As I’d sat there, my throat aching with a suppressed sob, I’d thought of how seductive I’d thought I’d been – but in reality, how eager and crass.

‘I went to bed with a man I’d known for two hours,’ I moaned. I buried my head in my hands. How could I have been so reckless? He could have been a murderer, or a nutcase – or a thief. Except that I knew he wasn’t any of those things – he was engaging, and clever, and nice – which was the worst thing about it.

‘I liked him,’ I groaned. ‘I really liked him.’ But he’d obviously seen it as a one-night stand. He’d got what he’d wanted and vanished in the time-honoured way. My mother’s old-fashioned advice had been right.

By now it was still only seven. I ran a bath and soaked myself in it, fat tears of disappointment mingling on my cheeks with the film of condensation from the steam.

I didn’t leave the house all morning in case he phoned, but he didn’t, and by lunchtime I was delivering deranged monologues to Xan in which I pointed out that my behaviour the previous night was quite uncharacteristic, and that contrary to what he might have thought I was not in the habit of leaping into bed with men I’d only just met, thank you!

By late afternoon I was radioactive with indignation …

Xan was a rude bastard, I told myself furiously as I ripped the sheets off the bed. He thought he could just sleep with me and disappear, did he, as though I were … cheap? I yanked a pillow out of its case. Or maybe he’d been lying when he said he didn’t have a girlfriend. How could a man that attractive not have one? That was why he’d hesitated, I now saw – out of guilt. And that was why he’d left so early, so that she wouldn’t know he’d been out all night.

She was probably someone from work. I conjured her – a leggy brunette, with big brown eyes and a fabulous figure. Or maybe she was someone he’d met in Hong Kong. Now I imagined a slender Chinese girl with golden skin and a sheet of hair so shiny you could see your face in it. I felt a stab of jealousy – an emotion to which I knew I was not entitled, having known him for less than twenty-four hours.

He wasn’t worth a second thought, I decided, as I stuffed the duvet cover into the washing machine. I turned the dial to ‘90’ to scorch him off my linen. He’d said that he wasn’t always gentlemanly, I remembered as I slammed the door. Well, at least he was telling the truth about that.

Dring!

I straightened up at the sound of the doorbell.

Drinnnggg!!

Heart banging, I peered down the hall. A tall figure loomed through the panels of coloured glass. I checked my reflection in the circular mirror at the bottom of the stairs, took a deep breath and lifted the latch.

Misery washed over me – then hope.

‘Miss Temple?’ A man was standing there, holding a bouquet.

‘Yes?’

‘These are for you.’

‘Oh. Thank you,’ I said weakly as he handed them to me. ‘Thank you.’ I thought I might weep with relief. Then I hated myself for being so silly about the whole thing: I was thirty-two, after all, not sixteen.

I carried the bouquet down to the kitchen and laid it on the worktop. It was a hand-tied bunch of bronze chrysanthemums, yellow roses and cream gerbera. I snipped the gold ribbon and it slipped to the floor. There was an envelope pinned to the tissue but I put it aside. I wanted to defer the pleasure of reading Xan’s card.

I found a white jug and put the flowers in it, adding a two-pence piece as my mother had taught me, because the copper makes them keep longer and I wanted these ones to last for ever. Then I picked up the envelope. It felt thicker than normal, I realised, as I slid my thumb under the flap, but that was because there wasn’t just a card inside it, but a letter. I unfolded it with trembling hands.

Dear Anna, I read. His handwriting was untidy. I’m sorry I had to leave so early, but I was on an early shift this morning which I’ve only just finished …

‘Hurrah!’ I shouted. Then I remembered what he’d said – that he had a ‘busy day’ ahead. I slapped my forehead, hard, with the palm of my hand. I’d been so uptight – and hung-over – that I’d forgotten. I might have behaved like a femme fatale but I was far from being one, I realised. I simply couldn’t keep my cool.

I would have called you, but I don’t have your number and you seem to be ex-directory. I gave my brow another hard slap. Anyway, it was wonderful meeting you –

‘Yes!’

– and I’d love to see you again.

‘YES!’

But I think we need to talk first.

‘Oh …’ I felt a sudden sagging sensation.

Are you free tomorrow night? Xx.

I should have followed my mother’s advice and told Xan that I had a prior engagement – but it was too late for such manipulation. The horse had bolted, plus I was sick with anxiety about what he would say. So we met at the Havelock Tavern, a gastro-pub not far from me. I’d found a quiet table while he got us some drinks. A deliberately demure Virgin Mary for me and a bottle of Stella for him.

He lifted his glass and gave me a wistful smile. ‘It’s … good to see you again, Anna. You look lovely.’

‘Do I? Oh. You too,’ I added nervously, disconcerted by the fact that I found him even more attractive sober than I had done drunk. My knees were trembling so I slid my left hand over them. ‘Anyway …’ I took a deep breath. ‘You said we needed to talk.’

Xan’s expression darkened. ‘I think we should.’

My heart sank. ‘That’s fine … but I’d like to say something first.’

He looked at me quizzically. ‘What?’

‘Well’ – I sipped my tomato juice – ‘that … what happened on Friday night wasn’t … typical of me. I wouldn’t like you to think that.’

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t … think anything in particular.’

I stared at the tiny island of ice in my drink. ‘I wouldn’t like you to assume that I’m in the habit of jumping into bed with men I’ve known for five minutes, just because I did that with you.’

‘But …’

‘So I just wanted to say that that’s not how I am. Far from it. In fact, I’m normally quite shy with men.’

‘Really?’ His surprise annoyed me. ‘Erm … you weren’t very shy on Friday, Anna.’

I felt myself blush. ‘Well, as I’m trying to explain, that was a complete aberration. I’m not quite sure why,’ I added, still wondering what on earth it was that had gripped me. ‘Usually I go out with a guy for at least a month before anything can happen on that front …’

He sipped his lager thoughtfully. ‘I see …’

‘Or a minimum of ten dates. Whichever is the greater.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Right. And does that have to mean dinner, or can the dates include lunch and breakfast?’

‘Could you be serious about this, please?’

‘And what about afternoon tea?’

‘Look, Xan, if you could just listen for a minute, I’m trying to explain that I acted totally out of character – I really wasn’t myself for some reason – and so I feel …’

He’d laid his hand on my arm. ‘Relax.’ I noticed how beautiful his hands were: large and sinewy, with strong, straight fingers. ‘There’s no need to be so intense. This is the twenty-first century – and we’re adults, aren’t we?’

‘Of course – but I’d had far too much to drink – because of my leaving party – then I had loads more champagne after that – and I think that’s the reason why I leapt into bed with you actually. In fact, I’m sure it is.’

‘Oh.’ He’d withdrawn his hand. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I stuttered. ‘All I meant is I don’t normally have casual sex.’

‘What do you have then – formal sex? You wear a ball gown and tiara, and the guy wears a DJ?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

Xan put down his glass. ‘I’m not. I just don’t understand why you feel you have to justify what happened. You don’t, Anna. We were very attracted to each other.’

I stared at him. ‘Yes …’ I whispered. ‘We were.’

‘And we still are,’ he said tentatively. ‘Aren’t we?’

My heart was pounding like a kettle drum. ‘Well … yes,’ I repeated. ‘But you said we needed to talk, which sounded ominous, as though you’ve got something unpleasant to tell me.’

‘Such as what?’

‘Well … that you’re already seeing someone, for example, or that you’re engaged, or married, or cohabiting, or that you take drugs, or think you might be gay. As we don’t know each other it could be anything – erm … that you murdered your father and slept with your mother for all I know, or that you once had an affair with a sheep – not that I remotely think you look the type to engage in anything as sordid as inter-species congress but …’

‘Anna …?’ Xan was shaking his head in bewildered amusement. ‘All I said was that I thought we should talk first – as in’ – he turned up his palms in a gesture of helplessness – ‘talk.’

‘Oh. Oh I see. About what?’

‘Well – anything – because we didn’t exactly talk much on Friday night, did we? But I obviously didn’t express myself very well – the flower shop was closing and I was in a hurry.’ He shrugged. ‘All I was trying to say was that I’d like to’ – he shrugged again – ‘get to know you.’

‘Oh. So … why did you hesitate before coming in?’

‘Because you’d clearly had a lot to drink and I wasn’t sure that I should. As I say, I do try to be gentlemanly.’ He sipped his beer. ‘Happy now?’

I nodded. ‘Yes.’

He lowered his glass and peered at me. ‘Are you always this complicated?’

I smiled at him. ‘No.’

So, over dinner, we talked. The relief of knowing that Xan didn’t appear to have some hideous drawback restored my confidence. I waxed lyrical about my garden design course, which was due to begin the next day.

‘It’s based at the Chelsea Physic Garden,’ I explained. ‘It’s a wonderful place – like the Secret Garden – full of rare trees and medicinal plants. I’ll be studying horticulture and planting design, hard landscaping, technical drawing, garden lighting; how to use decorative elements such as statuary and water features …’ I shivered with apprehension. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

Then Xan told me about his two-year BBC traineeship, which was just coming to an end. He picked up his knife. ‘I’m in the process of applying for jobs. It’s rather nerve-racking.’

‘Which bit of the Beeb do you want to work in?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m in the newsroom at the moment, which I like, but there are some reporting jobs coming up, which would be great as I’ve done quite a bit of on-screen work for BBC World. Or I might go for something at the business unit to capitalise on my financial background. There are various options, although the competition’s always stiff.’

Then he told me about his family. His father had worked for the British Council, so as a child he’d lived all over the world. ‘We were nomads,’ he explained. ‘Always packing and unpacking. Moving’s in my blood.’

‘How glamorous,’ I said wistfully, feeling suddenly dull and suburban. ‘I’m afraid staying put’s in mine. We’ve lived in the same house for thirty-five years.’

‘We being …?’

‘My parents – well, parent now.’ I felt a stab of loss. ‘My mother died three months ago. Three months ago today,’ I suddenly realised. ‘On Saturday June the eighth.’ As I said this I felt the familiar pressing sensation on my sternum, as though someone had left a pile of bricks on my chest.

‘Was she ill?’ Xan asked gently.

I shook my head. ‘She was very fit. Her death was totally unexpected. A bolt from the blue,’ I added bitterly.

‘So … what happened?’

I stared at the single pink rose in its slender vase. ‘She sprained her ankle.’ Xan was looking at me quizzically. ‘Dad said that she’d slipped coming down the stairs before lunch. Her ankle was badly swollen so he took her to hospital, where they bandaged it. And that evening she was lying on the sofa, complaining about what a nuisance it was, when she suddenly began to feel ill. She thought it must have something to do with the painkillers she’d been given, but in fact something terrible was happening to her – she’d got a blood clot in her leg, which had travelled round her body and reached her lungs. Dad said that she was struggling to breathe …’ I felt myself inhale, as if in a futile attempt to help her. ‘He called the ambulance and it came within ten minutes, but it was already too late – she’d died in his arms. She’d sprained her ankle and a few hours later she was dead. We couldn’t believe it,’ I croaked. ‘We still can’t.’

‘How terrible,’ Xan murmured after a moment. He laid his hand on mine. ‘You must feel … I don’t know … derelict.’

I looked at him. ‘Derelict …? That’s exactly the word.’ And in that moment I knew that was why I’d behaved so recklessly two nights before. It was so much more than physical lust. It was because for three months I’d been curled into myself – half dead with grief – and I’d wanted to feel … alive.

‘How old was she?’

His features were blurring. ‘Fifty-five.’

‘So young …’ Xan was shaking his head. ‘She could have expected another twenty years at least.’

‘None of us can expect it,’ I said quietly. ‘We can only hope for it. I know that now in a way that was only abstract to me before.’

We sat in silence for a moment or two.

‘What about the rest of your family?’ Xan asked, so I told him a bit about Cassie and Mark. ‘And your private life? Boyfriends?’

I shrugged. ‘I haven’t been out with anyone for quite a while.’

‘But you’re very attractive – in a glacial sort of way – so you must get offers.’

‘Thank you. Sometimes I do. But not from anyone I’ve been that interested in.’ I fiddled with my napkin. ‘And what about you?’

‘I was seeing someone, but we broke up in May.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Rather lovely,’ he said regretfully. I felt a dart of jealousy. ‘Cara was very intelligent. Very attractive. Very successful …’

‘She sounds heavenly,’ I said joylessly. ‘So what went wrong?’

‘She just expected too much from the relationship too soon. We’d only been together three months, but she was already pushing to move in with me – but it just didn’t feel right.’ He shook his head. ‘She was constantly demanding to know where things were going. In the end I couldn’t stand it.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m not like that. I’ll admit that I was, before my mother died, but that’s changed everything and my biological clock is now firmly on “snooze”. My course is going to take nine months, then I’ve got to get my business up and running, so my priorities now are professional ones.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘In fact, I’d better go – I have to be at the Physic Garden by nine tomorrow morning. Thanks for dinner.’

Xan got to his feet. ‘Can I walk you home?’

I smiled. ‘Sure.’

‘I’d love to see you again, Anna,’ Xan said as we stood by my gate. The wisteria which smothered the house was in second flower and the scent was lovely. He stroked my cheek. ‘Would that be OK?’

I felt a sudden burst of delight – like the explosion of a seed pod. ‘It would be … fine.’

‘But … no …’

‘Strings?’ I suggested wryly.

He shook his head. ‘Pressure. Just no … pressure. OK?’ He kissed me, set off down the narrow street, then turned and waved.

‘No pressure?’ I repeated quietly. ‘Of course.’