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I asked him what he was going to do today, and he said Smithy had invited him to spend the day with them. The girls had a dance show in the morning, and afterwards they were planning to take a picnic to the park and feed the ducks, which sounded lovely until I thought about the girls asking where Paul was and why he wasn’t there and what happened to him. Then I thought about all the dogs they’d pass in the park and how hard it would be for Owen to watch other people spending time with their faithful companions, and suddenly this overwhelming sadness rolled through my stomach.

And now it’s lunchtime, and I’ve found myself in Owen’s garden, for once not wanting to talk to Jamal or Ralph or Taylor because I can’t focus on what anyone is saying, and I don’t want to appear rude.

The sun is out, although only fleetingly. But even in the sunshine, it feels colder out here without him.

My chicken wrap takes me seconds to eat, and I’m pleased when I manage to not make a mess. After packing away my lunchbox, I cradle my tea and wander around the garden. The first time Owen showed me this place, I’d marvelled at it, but now, having seen the garden at his house, I realise this space is far less grand and still just as impressive considering he created it himself during lunch breaks.

I trail my fingers over the waxy leaves and sculpted hedges. Bees gather around the lavender, the only plant I actually know the name of, while a butterfly flutters above a large bush with long purple flowers.

I wonder what would happen to this space, to these insects, if Owen hadn’t created this little haven.

I see it now the way Owen must see it: somewhere to escape when the world gets too much.

It makes me wonder what could’ve happened to him for him to need spaces like this so badly both at home and work.

What has Owen already survived?

And how do I help him survive this?

42

Alice

Sunday blooms, and with it comes a slight improvement in my mood because last night, I had a brain wave.

Brain waves are something I have often, but usually they aren’t anything of worth. But I have the feeling that this one might actually be good.

I called Owen at the end of my shift yesterday, and he was still out with Smithy, Romana, and the girls, so I didn’t keep him long. I just wanted to check he was okay.

But how much can you tell from a phone call?

So I’d headed home and ended up on Pinterest looking at gardens, which is when the brain wave took hold.

Said brain wave has led me here on a Sunday morning to a place I’ve never voluntarily visited before: a garden centre.

I feel completely out of my depth, surrounded by these alien life forms I know absolutely nothing about, but I soon find a supportive assistant who seems delighted to help once I tell him exactly what I’m looking for.

Ian, my wonderful gardening assistant, loads my cart with everything he recommends, along with a few things he doesn’t that I decide I absolutely need anyway because some of the plants are amazing and weird and exotic, so I get a little carried away.

I’m heading to the checkout, Ian offering to help load the haul into my car, when I spot it.

Abandoning my trolley, I make a beeline to the display of garden ornaments. I know Owen isn’t a garden ornament kind of person, but the one I’m staring at is grey stone, the same colour as the slate and pebbles in his back garden.

It’s heavy and expensive, but I don’t care. It goes in the cart along with the rest of the items.

By the time I reach Kitchen City, it’s ten past three in the afternoon. I texted Owen this morning asking how he was and what he was up to today, and he replied saying he was working, which he was glad about. Kitchen City closes at four on Sundays, so I know there’s no danger of him being out in the garden on his lunch or break.

It takes me a few trips to carry what I’ve bought today from my car to the garden, but I manage it, and I’m counting it as today’s workout.

Before leaving, I pop into reception, relieved to find Taylor at the desk.

She squints at me.

“What the hell are you doing here on your day off? Don’t tell me you’re looking for a new kitchen.” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“And what if I was?”

“Then I’d tell you to go somewhere else, as the staff here are terrible, never where they’re supposed to be, and spend more time gossiping than helping customers.”