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‘I .?.?. think so?’
Jack pushes the door open. It rattles, then creaks. And I expect it to be full of light. A greenhouse, under low fluorescents or something. White and stark and clinical. But this – this is the opposite.
The beautiful opposite. I actually gasp.
‘Oh my God.’
The huge space is dark – as dark as the night outside – but the whole expanse of it is lit, by lines and lines of long tapered candles, flickering, casting the most beautiful orangeade glow over the room. It’s silent, echoing, like a church. It smells like fresh rainwater and compost.
‘Forced rhubarb,’ says Jack, dropping his voice to a whisper, for no reason, other than in a room so large, so dimly, romantically lit, so mutedly quiet, talking any louder than he is would feel almost offensive. ‘Eleanor’s one of the only people around who grows rhubarb like this, and you said it was .?.?. one of your things, and I had this vague memory as a kid, so.’ He turns to me, and I’m frozen in the doorway. Words jammed in my throat, like a stuck conveyor belt. ‘Come on,’ he says softly, and he closes the door behind me. The handle squeaks and echoes in the silence, but I feel like I can hardly breathe. For me. Jack did thisfor me.
He reaches forward, wiggles a candle free from the rows and rows of them, amongst the leaves. He hands it to me, folding my fingers, gently around the base, holding his hand over mine.
Jack gives a low chuckle. ‘Millie, are you – OK?’
And I’m glad for the darkness, because tears sit at the edge of my eyes, like a tide, about to rise, send waves crashing over the barrier. I nod. ‘Yeah,’ I swallow, a teary, watery smile blooming across my face. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, just – this is .?.?. this is perfect.’
Jack nods, just once. ‘Yeah, well, a dark farm isn’t exactly classically romantic, but .?.?.’
Romantic. He’s said romantic again. It has to be something. This feels so much like something. And he’s looking at me as he says it, as if to test the waters, to dip a toe in, to see how that word sits with me, now we’re here, just us two, in this candlelit room, miles from anywhere.
‘And this candle here,’ I say, clearing my throat. Must. Hold. It. Together. Or I’ll cry. Or I’ll fall. I can’t fall. How do I stop myself from falling? ‘Is it so I can find my way back in the dark? In case of like .?.?. witches?’
‘Ah, come on,’ says Jack with a soft smile. ‘Don’t you trust me to protect you?’
It’s so quiet, so dark, it’s as if everything else has disappeared. That all that exists is us.
‘Against all this rhubarb?’ I ask, and I look away, sure the tears in my eyes are glistening, unhidden, in this candlelight.
We start to walk in the silence. Water trickles somewhere in the dark stillness, like a leaking tap, and it’s like nothing I have ever seen before. It’s weird, and strange and eerie .?.?. and totally beautiful. A contrast, like my lovely Leigh. Like everything. So much shade, but so much beautiful, beautiful light. He did this for me. Jack did this for me. But – what is it? What will it be, when he leaves? Flies far, far away from me; leaves me behind.
Cate’s voice swirls through my mind, like a disgruntled spirit. ‘Why does it need to be anything besides what it is right now, Millie?’
‘This is .?.?.’
‘It’s cool, isn’t it?’ says Jack. ‘Kind of – bizarre.’
‘Beyond cool, it’s .?.?. I don’t know.’ And I don’t have the words. I’m overwhelmed. Yes, it’s forced rhubarb, and no Paris orOrient Express, but, the gesture – it’s more than I have ever had, in my whole life. And that’s why I sort of want to burst into tears. This place is so me. And Jack is right here beside me,in itwith me. By my side.
‘I mean, I don’t really understand how it all works,’ he carries on, gruffly. ‘But – it’s clever. The whole tricking thing.’
I nod. ‘They don’t allow it to see natural daylight,’ I say. ‘They trick it. And because of that, you get this extra pink, extra sweet stuff like .?.?.’ I stop, push back a giant, rough rhubarb leaf, which makes a crumpling sound, like tissue paper, and hold my candle close. It lights a perfect rhubarb stalk. ‘See?’
Jack leans next to me, his shoulder touching mine. ‘I see,’ he says, then he turns, and his face for a moment is so close to mine. Our lips, just inches apart, like they were in the cloakroom .?.?.
I draw back, stand up. ‘It’s like .?.?. the colour of .?.?. pink lemonade or something,’ I say with a laugh, and this between us – this thick static, feels almost unbearable.
We walk side by side together, in the dark quiet. I think back to the party. To the awkwardness with Chloe, how torn she was, the bright lights and watchful eyes of the dance floor, that horrible moment by the lake – and I think of Jack, stepping through it all, making me feel like – me. Just me. A woman. A woman worthy of kissing, of desiring, of spending time with. No caveats. And now we’re here. By candlelight. In a room that a lot of people might wince at, screw their faces up at; at the damp and cold and dark. But in a room that means something to me. And Jack remembered that. Remembered me.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
Jack nods, strolls slowly, beside me, down the aisles, each of us holding a candle that lights our way. ‘I was hoping you’d come. Called Ken, Eleanor’s husband, like, how’s your rhubarb doing? I might need to borrow your greenhouse.’
My laughter echoes. It’s huge in here. The size of a tennis court. Rows and rows of sleepy, sweet rhubarb and flickering candles.
‘Doesn’t make a very good place for a date, Ken said,’ adds Jack. ‘And I reckon that’s debatable.’
And it’s like my whole body smiles. Every doubt I’ve had, has just been undone. He said a date. Thisissomething. ‘Candles are very romantic,’ I say.
