In my one flash of gardening inspiration a few years ago, Poppy and I had turned the other field into a wildflower meadow. We’d done it together as a family, clearing the grass and planting the seed. Early signs were encouraging, if a little sparse, but now, three years on, it was well established, and in the summer became a packed riot of clashing colours humming and buzzing with a thriving population of insects and pollinators. The kids absolutely loved it and I found it a source of calm when I took a walk around, just resting against the five-bar gate that separated it from the edge of the garden, surrounded by nature and able to put everything else out of sight and mind.
I’d continued to live in our London flat for over a year following the accident that killed my husband but, instead of getting easier, every day seemed to bring with it another memory of our time together there, constantly ripping open a wound that was already struggling to heal. My brother and his wife had been absolute rocks, visiting and staying with me even when I didn’t want anyone around. They refused to leave me alone for long, which was probably just as well. What I thought I wanted and what I actually needed had been, I realised now, two very different things.
Friends initially had called and sent cards but when they visited, or I forced myself to accept invitations, I could feel their discomfort as strongly as my own. They trod on eggshells, being sure not to mention anything they thought might cause upset. They didn’t know how to ‘be’ with me when all I’d really wanted was some sense of normality, whatever that was. They meant well, but none of us enjoyed the evenings, and I think they were relieved when I began to decline the invitations, and I was certainly relieved when they ceased to ask.
I sat gazing out in the garden. The first hints of early spring were tentatively showing themselves, as crocuses pushed up through the grass, replacing the snowdrops that had burst through earlier in the year. There was something reliable about a garden and nature in general. It was one of the many things that had attracted me to this place, even though I knew I had done a poor job of looking after its beautiful grounds. Whatever else went on in life, trees burst into leaf, daffodils danced in great swathes, snowdrops peeped their nodding heads above the ground to signal the start of it all. Even when your life had been shattered, nature’s cycle continued and, at a time I found it hard to discern comfort in anything, I did find some sort of comfort in that.
2
Having overstuffed ourselves with takeaway, Felix, Poppy and I sprawled on the sofas in the lounge while my brother surfed through streaming channels to try to find a film we all wanted to watch. Poppy and I had already vetoed several versions of a zombie apocalypse and umpteen superhero incarnations. Knowing there were piles of brilliant screenplays sat out there, withering in slush piles while the movie industry remade the same old thing, was one of the many reasons I’d declared I didn’t plan to have a TV when I moved in. The look of horror on my brother’s face meant that the decision was soon reversed, and I gave him carte blanche to order whatever he thought was right for the room, after of course specifying I was looking for a television and not a cinema screen.
I now had a TV that I did actually use more than I had anticipated, if only for company, and I had found a streaming service that was mostly documentaries which was often a source of interest and occasionally inspiration, so it hadn’t been a total waste. And, of course, I got to watch fun things like theToy Storyseries with the kids. I’d also sat through a few superhero movies with Freddy while Ruby had often, and quite wisely, curled up on my lap and gone to sleep. But even those films meant I got to spend time with the people I loved and that, I knew, was the most important thing of all, because you were never sure just how much time you would have. My husband and I thought we had decades ahead of us as we’d sat celebrating our third wedding anniversary. As it turned out, we had just minutes.
* * *
Paris had been its usual glittering and romantic self as we’d strolled along next to the Seine that night, making our way slowly to a particular restaurant I’d read about and been keen to try. The place had certainly lived up to the hype and, after a wonderful meal and a bottle of champagne to toast our anniversary, we sat watching the Parisian world go by from the vantage point of our pavement table, sipping coffee. Mike had suggested another romantic stroll past the beautifully lit Eiffel Tower on the way back to our luxury hotel and, bearing in mind the fizz and the coffee I’d been consuming, I’d excused myself for a nip to the ladies’ before we left, passing our waitress taking the card machine out to Mike at our table.
I was washing my hands when I heard the noise, a huge bang accompanied by glass shattering and then, for a split second, absolute silence. That was immediately replaced by a cacophony of shouts and screaming. I realised later that one of those screams was mine.
The autopsy showed that the driver of the car which had ploughed into the pavement and straight on into the front of the restaurant had suffered a fatal heart attack. He was on his usual route home and, thirty seconds later, would have turned down a small, empty side street. Although he sadly would still have died, he wouldn’t have taken an Italian businessman, the waitress who had been serving us, and my darling husband with him. None of them stood a chance. From the eyewitness reports, it all happened so quickly they barely had time to see the car coming before it hit them.
I don’t remember a lot about those first few days. There was a hysterical, garbled phone call to Felix which a kind French paramedic who spoke excellent English took over for me, advising Felix of the facts, as he knew them at that moment, which wasn’t a lot, but enough. More than enough. The main fact, the only fact, I perhaps somewhat selfishly thought of was that Mike, my husband, was gone. If I hadn’t nipped to the loo, I’d have been at that table too, and all I wanted was to turn back time and have stayed. Three years ago that day, we’d promised ‘until death do us part’. But I didn’t want death to part us. I wanted to go with him. I wanted to have died with him.
It took a long time for those feelings to subside and there were still days they flickered inside me. I realise now how hard it must have been for my brother to have heard me repeating the same refrain over and over again, and I felt awful I’d put him and Poppy through that. They didn’t deserve it. But other people were beyond my scope of vision at that point. All I knew was an unending see-saw of utter numbness tipping into pain so deep and so violent I longed for the numbness again.
People tried to help, but I felt like an automaton around them. I couldn’t concentrate on conversations. As terrible as it sounds, I had no interest in them. I didn’t care about their lives or their holidays or their children. I didn’t care about my own life and it was hard to even pretend to show interest in theirs. And when a few well-meaning friends made an attempt to introduce me to a man ten months after Mike’s death, I knew I couldn’t deal with any of it anymore. Everywhere I looked in London, in the flat, outside in the city, was a memory of something we’d done, or something we’d planned which would now never come to fruition. I didn’t need reminders. They were all etched into my very soul and the London I’d once loved had now become painful to look upon because I was no longer looking upon it with the man who’d meant everything. That was the day I decided to leave London and the day I’d found Meadow Blossom House.
I sat in the lounger, a blanket laid over me as I hugged a cup of hot chocolate and looked out into the beginnings of twilight and the wild beauty that was my garden. I really ought to get a gardener in, but the thought of it filled me with dread. The longer I’d stayed away from society, other than my immediate family, the worse I felt every time I thought about having to interact with anyone. As I’d told Felix, I did nip to the local shop when I had to, but I always made sure I went about 6 a.m., as soon as they opened, as there was less chance of running into people at that time. It wasn’t that the villagers were unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. They always had a smile and a gentle exchange. Poppy had told me there was a bit of gossip for a while when I’d first moved in. The archetypal reclusive writer, hidden away behind tall gates and high walls. It was, even to me, with a writer’s natural fear and distaste of clichés, obvious that I did appear to have turned into one. But it hadn’t been intentional and it’s not like I never went out – just not very often. Of course, I saw my family all the time here. Although, right now, I wasn’t sure that was such a good thing.
Poppy and I had given up on Felix’s appalling choices and left him to it. I’d lobbed a pair of wireless headphones at him and he was now happily ensconced in a big, squashy armchair, watching something that from what I could tell by the odd glance made up for its paper-thin plot with oceans of blood and gore. Poppy and I continued our chat about the children,Bake Offand what we hoped for from the next series ofSewing Beeuntil Felix’s phone began to ring. Wrapped up in the violence of his apocalyptic nightmare, he didn’t hear it, so Poppy tossed it over, making an excellent shot of landing it on his full stomach. He let out an ‘oof’, paused the gore and answered the video call.
‘Jack, mate. How are you?’
Poppy and I turned back to our conversation until my brother interrupted. ‘Hang on. I’m just going to cast this onto the TV. We can all see you then.’
I looked at him momentarily in horror. ‘That TV has a webcam,’ I whispered. ‘He’ll be able to see us too!’
My brother gave me a look that appeared to question my intelligence. ‘That’s kind of the point of video calls, Lils.’
As I opened my mouth to reply, I was halted by a forty-two-inch high-definition picture of Jack Coulsdon-Hart filling my living room. I’d only seen him briefly a few times over the years, and therefore my strongest memory of Jack remained a night in my late teens at a village party and, although my recollection of that night was somewhat clouded and yet still mortifyingly vivid, he had, if possible, only got better looking with age. Of course he had.
Jack had often been around our house – Felix, loyally, didn’t speak about Jack’s home life much. I don’t think even he was entirely sure of all the facts, but it was hard not to notice that he spent as little time at home as possible. They’d been friends from living in the same small village but had cemented their friendship at university. Felix was bright and worked hard to get into Cambridge. Jack was bright but, whether it was admitted or not, had the extra benefit of having been to Eton and being the son of an earl. This wasn’t something he ever talked about and most of the time we all forgot. Until a chauffeur would turn up at our house with the liveried man advising that his mother would like him to return home now. Jack always looked mortified whenever this happened. I’d catch him glancing out of the window occasionally when he came round to hang out with Felix (not that I was looking at him, obviously). When he did catch me looking, he’d give the briefest smile and try to look relaxed. I might have been younger, but I wasn’t stupid.
Seeing him on the screen now revived those memories in my mind. The night of the village summer fête was always a brilliant evening. Had it not been for the embarrassment I suffered that night, it probably would have been another teenage memory that drifted into the recesses of my mind. But that night, emboldened by friends and an ill-judged number of piña coladas, I’d approached Jack in what I’d considered a sexy, flirtatious way. Looking back now, and also by the look on his face at the time, it was likely neither of those things. Time and alcohol had erased the exact words I’d used but, oh Lord, it was definitely something ridiculous about how it must be nice to be so tall and be able to reach things on high shelves.
God! I still cringed now thinking about it. He’d nodded and agreed that it came in handy. Then, clearly thinking I was on a roll, I had proceeded to tell him just how good-looking I thought he was, affecting what I assumed was a sexy stance. Again, most likely not. In fact, definitely not, in that Jack Coulsdon-Hart’s response to this, after a moment of merely staring at me, was topat me on the head! Yes. He actually patted me on the head, said thank you and disappeared like a spectre into the crowd. Having been rescued by my friends, who had stood watching the whole disastrous situation unfurl, I stumbled to a corner of the field.
‘I didn’t even warrant a “I can’t. You’re my best friend’s sister,”’ I’d wailed, downing yet more cocktails. ‘He just patted me on the head like a sodding puppy!’ We’d all watched silently when, half an hour later, Jack had left the fete with the prettiest girl in the village. He’d cast a glance towards us, then carried on out of my life. The whole regrettable night was topped off by me spending most of the early hours of the following morning alternating between hugging the toilet bowl and crying.
After that, I had made a point of avoiding Jack, a strategy that had worked exceptionally well. There had been, of course, the brief meetings when the children were christened due to us both being godparents but we’d both spent as little time as possible in each other’s company. I’d gone to the church and done my bit but, without Mike, I couldn’t face anything more. Thankfully, Felix and Poppy had understood. Or at least, had tried to, and I would always appreciate that. Jack had also made a point of attending both my parents’ funerals, despite living abroad. Apparently, he’d also come to Mike’s, which I’d thought was kind, but I still had little recollection of that particular day thanks to a mixture of shock, grief and Valium.
I’d put the moment of lust I’d felt for Jack at the fête out of my mind. Until now, of course. But the past was a long time ago. I doubt he even remembered anyway, and I was a grown woman, and a successful novelist. Jack Coulsdon-Hart held no sway for me now as the big handsome face stared out from my smart TV. But, bloody hell, did he really have to be so good-looking? Life really wasn’t fair sometimes.
‘Hey!’ Jack raised a slightly awkward hand at Felix’s decision to suddenly thrust him virtually into my living room. For a moment, I thought he looked as uncomfortable as I felt, but the moment passed and I was sure I’d imagined it. Poppy bounced next to her husband and waved happily. Jack’s smile was genuine and warm.
‘No kids tonight, or they in bed?’
‘Grandparents,’ Felix advised, ‘so we’re over at Lils’s place, stuffing takeaway and watching hideous movies.’
