‘Ah, it’s going over a bit now. Looked its best in June.’
She couldn’t think of an interesting response.
‘Have you come in search of something for supper?’
‘Well …’
‘There’s some chard that’s just right. Lovely in a salad. Some tomatoes too – come on.’
She followed him. ‘Sounds amazing.’
‘Tastes better than what you can buy in plastic.’
Laura thought guiltily of the bagged leaves.
‘I didn’t bring anything to put things in … Stupid.’ She might as well go along with his suggestion that she had been foraging. Better that, perhaps, than aimlessly wandering. Or hiding.
Again, he was amused by her. His eyes twinkled. ‘No problem. I’ll find you a trug. Hang on.’
He disappeared briefly into the greenhouse, emerging with a small basket. ‘Here you go.’ She took it and walked behind him – the path here was too narrow to go side by side.
He didn’t talk much while they harvested the food. The tomatoes smelt amazing, their red skins still warm. She liked that he was quiet. It didn’t feel weird: he just wasn’t one of those people who needed to fill every space with inanities.
When they’d finished filling the trug, he stood up and back. ‘There. That looks good.’
‘It looks delicious. Thank you.’
He gave a small bow, an old-fashioned gesture. ‘You’re very welcome. Enjoy.’
She took two steps backwards from him, then slowly turned and made her way towards the gate that led to the others.
‘Will I see you down here again?’
She spun around. He was standing on the path, watching her. ‘We’re here for ten days.’
‘So, yes.’ He smiled, and the white lines disappeared into his tan. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
She turned back towards her family. She was through the gate before she realized she was smiling.
28
It was dark outside, with an unpolluted starry sky. Dinner had been eaten and cleared away, many hands making light work. The others were still congregated around the large wicker table on the patio, but Nick was upstairs, watching his babies. They’d fallen immediately to sleep. He’d been happy to relax the routine and abandon bedtime, but they’d had other ideas, exhausted by swimming and running around the lawn, so enormous compared to theirs at home. So he’d brought them up, and made them all brush their teeth, and now they were in his king-size bed, duvet thrown back, thumbs in. He’d lift them later, and carry them to the room next door. It was ironic. They’d been split up at home, and now here they were reunited – the two rooms were joined by double doors, open now – there was a single day bed in the corner of the other space, with a trundle pulled out and made up for the girls, and an ornate metal cot for Arthur. He supposed for visitors with fewer children, this served as a sort of private sitting room. Now, within just a few hours, it looked like a post-rummage jumble sale. Meredith had supervised the retrieval of swimwear, and then pyjamas. Everything else he’d packed for the week appeared to be strewn across the floor between the two spaces. He’d have to move everything to close the doors. So, yet again, they’d all be together. He wondered what Fran would say.
Fran.
They hadn’t spoken since the dinner.
Busying himself with preparations to come away, frantically trying to get up to date with work so he needn’t do any over the next ten days, trying to remember what they’d all need while they were here, and what had to happen at home while they weren’t was a kind of multi-tasking he wasn’t used to. He hadn’t realized it had been a while since he and Fran were in touch. Longer, probably, than they’d gone without speaking since Carrie died. Except he sort of had known. He’d probably been avoiding her. It had been weird and awkward outside the restaurant, and he didn’t know how to erase that bit and get back to what they were before it had happened. He’d half hoped she would do that for them both. He was used to her fixing things. But she hadn’t called him. And now he felt a bit of a shit about it.
Guilt pricked at him.
He picked up his mobile, searched for her name among his contacts. His finger hovered above the call button, and then he made himself press it.
She didn’t answer. Four rings and then he went to voicemail. He wasn’t ready to leave a message – he hadn’t known what he was going to say when he heard her voice, so he certainly wasn’t prepared to converse with the synthesized one speaking to him now.
‘Ah. Um. Um. Hi, Fran. It’s me. Nick …’ He hit himself on the forehead. Awkward bugger. Like she wouldn’t know it was him. ‘All settled in here. The kids have lapsed into a coma. Must be the country air. Just … checking in … Think you’re off yourself, sometime.’ He didn’t know how to end the message. ‘So … um … if I haven’t missed you, have a great time. Call me back. Or not. Um. Yep. Talk soon. Lots of love.’
God. Ridiculous. He switched the phone to silent so it wouldn’t wake the kids.
He heard the murmur of chat wafting up from downstairs. He ought to go back. He wasn’t sure he could face it. The kids looked so cosy. He leant back against the headboard and closed his eyes for a moment. Fatal. Perhaps he could leave them there, and just bed down in the truckle. He was tired. But he hadn’t said goodnight to everyone, and he didn’t want to be rude. He went to the loo, then splashed some cold water on his face, determined to manage another half-hour at least.
When he came out, his phone screen was silently lit. Fran. He took the handset back into the bathroom, gently pushed the door closed, and perched on the edge of the roll-top bath. ‘Fran?’
‘Nick. Hi! Did you just call me?’
She sounded perfectly normal. ‘Yeah. Sorry. Did I disturb?’
‘Absolutely. Thank God. How are you?’
Her voice was happy and light. Possibly even very slightly slurred.
‘Good. Here in the sunny Cotswolds …’
‘Snap.’
‘Oh. You’re away too. I thought it was nowish …’
‘Yep. Yurt me up, Scotty. Got here yesterday.’
‘How is it?’
‘Honestly? Not as basic as I’d feared. More basic than I’d have chosen.’
He laughed.
‘Much as I’d like to think I’m a roughing-it, back-to-nature girl, I think I may just have to admit to being a power-shower four-hundred-thread-count-as-long-as-I-don’t-have-to-iron-the-sheets kinda girl.’
‘You’re not in an actual tent, are you?’
‘Well. Yes and no. It’s glamping, darling. So it’s a tent, but not Bear Grylls-style. It’s sort of shabby chic. Shabby chic meets gap year in India …’
‘I kind of get it.’
‘You know who’d love it? Carrie would have loved it.’
He got the feeling she’d invoked her on purpose. Inserted her for the normality of it. But she was probably right. Sounded straight up Carrie’s alley. ‘Are there lots of like-minded people around, at least?’
‘Bit soon to tell. How about yours?’