The beginning of everyth.., p.11
The Beginning of Everything, page 11
“You definitely shouldn’t do anything you can’t face. That would be a mistake.”
He takes glasses from the cupboard, and an open bottle of Sancerre from the fridge. “You could go out in the evening,” he says. “Drinks with the girls? By which I mean Maura, I suppose?”
“Yes, I don’t know, I’m not…I think birthday celebrations with Maura tend to get out of hand. Or out of hand by my definition anyway. I’m not as much fun as Maura and her mates.”
He laughs. “I don’t think that’s true,” he says, handing me my glass. We go through to sit in the front room.
“You know what I mean, though. She likes loud places and buzz and that’s why she runs a restaurant.”
“True.”
“Whereas I like…”
“Yes, what do you like?”
“I don’t know really.” I lift my eyes to his face. “I think I’ve sort of forgotten. Although some of it’s coming back to me.”
“That’s good. No rush. We could go out for the day? I mean—sorry—I’ve invited myself.” He frowns at me. “Now I’m embarrassed,” he says.
“Ha, don’t be. Look, I’ll invite you. Please come to my birthday something.”
“Thanks. I will. What would you like to do? Day trip to Swansea? Or Tenby? It always rains when I go to Tenby but it’s still good. Cardigan? That’s farther but it’s very pretty. I suppose it might be too early in the season though. Abergavenny? There are good restaurants in Abergavenny.”
“Are there?”
“Well, just outside. The Hardwick. And the Walnut Tree. Both quite famous.”
“Have you been?” I look at him, interested. We both like to eat, which is why we go out for lunch quite often. Now I’m earning a bit more money I like to do this, although part of me feels like I should be stricter about saving.
“Vanessa loved the Hardwick. So yes, I’ve been there a lot.”
That sort of puts me off, but I don’t say so. I just look inquiring.
“Couple of times to the Walnut Tree. That’s Shaun Hill. He used to have a restaurant in Ludlow.”
“Oh. I think I’ve heard of him?”
“Yes, Michelin stars. Or one, anyway. We could go there. Would you like to?”
“Is it very expensive?”
He shrugs.
“Is that a yes?”
He shrugs again, smiling. “Cheaper at lunchtime. And obviously we wouldn’t go for dinner, because dinner is for dates.”
“Yes. Well—”
“Anyway, it’s your birthday, so you wouldn’t be paying, would you?”
“I don’t know if—”
“Abergavenny is pretty, some nice shops, galleries, there’s a castle, of course…”
“Of course,” I agree, solemnly.
“So if you wanted to go, I could see if we could get a table?”
“All right. But you must let me take you out for your birthday.”
“It’s a deal,” he says, getting his phone out. “I’ll call them now.”
* * *
My birthday’s on a Saturday this year, the best of all possible results, especially now that I work office hours. Last night Gethin asked if I wanted him to bring my presents up to my room with a cup of tea in the morning. I’m massively tempted by this, actually, but I also feel it’s…overly indulgent? Somehow inappropriate? So I get up at half eight and go downstairs in my pajamas.
I’d…not forgotten, but put to one side, the memory of what he did at Christmas, so when I go into the kitchen, and he shoos me away into the dining room, telling me he’s making my breakfast, I’m not thinking about the arrangements he made in December. As soon as I enter the room, though, I remember, because he’s done the same again. A helium balloon, in shiny green Mylar with my name on it, is tied to the back of the chair, and the table is laid for two, with a runner I’ve never seen before, green and gold sari fabric. There are candles, and an enormous spherical vase of scarlet tulips. A pile of cards sits by my plate, and parcels, some in their outdoor wrapping, so they’ve arrived through the post, and one in shiny green paper with gold ribbons.
I refuse to cry, although it wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge. I go back to stand in the kitchen doorway. “I’ve never had a balloon before,” I tell him, “or not one like that. Thank you.”
“Go and sit down, for God’s sake.”
I obediently return to the dining room and sit down. He follows me in with breakfast.
“Smoked salmon,” he says, “hollandaise, spinach, muffin. Happy birthday.”
“Oh, perfect. Thank you so much.”
He retreats to the kitchen to fetch the coffee.
“This is so lovely. Thank you. This is my favorite breakfast.”
“I know.” He smiles at me. “You said.”
“Did I? When was that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, can’t remember. It’s a good choice though. I thought perhaps eggs Benedict, but this is better, isn’t it.”
I nod enthusiastically, stuffing food into my mouth. “A balloon,” I say, indistinctly, “with my name on it!”
“Yeah, to be honest, I don’t really approve of balloons, but I decided you probably wouldn’t let go of it outside to get tangled in a tree or strangle an owl or anything.”
I shake my head vigorously. “I definitely won’t. I shall save it, anyway, when it’s deflated.”
He grins. “Hoarder. I thought you might.”
“Archive; not hoard. Anyway, how can you say that? I barely own anything at all.”
“Ha. Archive,” he says. “Ha.”
“I only keep important things.” I feel my face burn. “I mean, you know, stuff that—reminds me of something nice.”
He puts down his cutlery and picks up his mug. “Mm-hm,” he says, noncommittal.
I finish my breakfast, mopping up hollandaise with the final piece of muffin. “That was completely lush,” I say. “Thanks.”
I turn my attention to the parcels. I open the Amazon ones first: books from Lizzie and Noosha, fancy bath stuff from Natalie and the kids. Then the green and gold parcel, carefully peeling back the tape, hopeful I might be able to salvage and reuse the wrapping.
I gasp, and then I really am crying. It’s a copy of I Capture the Castle, to replace the one I had to leave at Mitch’s. I told Gethin about this, months ago, when we were putting his books away on the newly painted bookshelves. I had a lovely Folio Society edition, replacement for the battered secondhand paperback I’d had since I was a teenager.
This one’s much older, an actual first edition. I can’t believe it. I turn the pages cautiously. It smells deliciously of old book. It has its original dust jacket, a bucolic rural scene with the castle(s) in the background and a figure in a red dress—Cassandra, presumably—in the foreground. On the flyleaf, the original inscription—To dearest Peggy, Christmas 1949, love from Uncle Richard and Auntie Dot—is followed by a newer one: To Jess, with love from Gethin, and the date. I close the book and clasp it, sentimentally, to my bosom, weeping foolishly.
“Jess,” he says. “Please don’t cry.”
I shake my head but can’t speak. I put the book on the table and cover my face with my hands.
“Hey,” he says. “Lucky I didn’t save it for you to open at lunchtime. Everyone would think I’d done something awful.” He puts his hand very lightly on my shoulder. It’s probably the longest physical contact I’ve had for six months. He squeezes gently, then pats me softly and takes his hand away.
After a while, I stop crying, wiping my eyes on my sleeve and sniffing elegantly.
“All right?” he asks. He passes me the box of tissues from the sideboard.
I nod, still unable to speak, and mop at my face. I blow my nose.
“I really didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I know.” I smile damply at him. “It’s okay. I’m not sad. Thank you so much. You’re very good at gifts.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. You know. I just pay attention.”
“That in itself,” I say, “is a…it’s a skill.”
“It’s not hard. I don’t know why people pretend it is. I see the crap people buy each other and wonder what they’re thinking.”
“Most people don’t pay attention.”
“Yeah, I dunno why. It isn’t hard to listen to people when they talk about the stuff they like.”
“You remembered this from January.” I really can’t believe it.
“Well, yeah, I made a mental note. I mean, I didn’t know when your birthday was, then, but I thought I might…that I might get you a present.” He shrugs. “I didn’t think about getting a first edition, though; I planned on getting a new copy. But then there were loads of different ones and I thought—aha!”
“And it’s amazing, and perfect. Now you’ve set the bar pretty high, haven’t you. I’d better start thinking about what to get you.”
“Seriously, don’t worry about that. I don’t need anything.”
Chapter Eleven
It’s Saturday, a week after my birthday, and I’ve spent the morning in the garden. We replaced the broken glass in the greenhouse, and oiled the door, which was stuck, and Gethin drove me to the garden center and told me to buy whatever I wanted. I justified this by telling myself it’s his greenhouse, and therefore the stuff wasn’t actually for me. We bought some staging, which is what those slatted benches are called, and seed trays and pots and a watering can, plus a sieve for the compost from the wooden compost bins at the bottom of the garden. A wheelbarrow, and some tools. And some seeds—nasturtiums, cosmos, and poppies. Some plants, too—tomatoes, to live in the greenhouse, and foxgloves and cowslips to plant. He spent nearly three hundred pounds and laughed when I asked if he was sure it was okay. Imagine not worrying about money. Well, I can’t, not really. Anyway, I’ve planted loads of seeds and had a lovely time. The sun’s shining, and although it’s not exactly warm, there’s a hint of summer in the air.
I hear Gethin calling me. He went to town earlier, to buy cheese from the cheese stall in the indoor market.
“Jess? Jess, where are you?”
I walk up the garden, shading my eyes. “I’m here, what is it?”
He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, gesturing to me. “Come in,” he says, “there’s someone I want you to meet. Oh—are you busy?”
“No, just finished.”
“Planting things?”
“Yep.”
I scrub my hands at the sink before following him into the front room.
Standing by the fireplace, looking at the bookshelves, is a tall, slender woman with white hair piled on top of her head in a deceptively effortless twist. I think it’s natural, although when she turns round, I’m not completely sure, because she looks very young to be completely white. Unless she has that thing, though, that deficiency. She’s wearing a beautiful slate-gray linen pinafore dress (Toast? Might be—they have a discount shop in Llandeilo) and a striped T-shirt, and a pale pink vintage suede jacket with big, covered buttons. I’ve rarely seen anyone so stylish. She also has a stick, a walking stick, covered in red and white painted flowers.
“This is Kate,” says Gethin. “Kate, this is Jess.”
“Hello,” I say, looking curiously from one of them to the other.
“Gethin’s been telling me about you,” she says with a smile. “Isn’t that the worst thing to say to someone?”
I laugh. “It might be.”
“I bumped into her in town,” he says. He sounds delighted. “I haven’t seen her for, I don’t know, twenty years?”
“More like twenty-five,” she says.
She shifts her weight, and I say, “Oh, sit down, won’t you? Can I take your coat? Shall I make some coffee?”
“I’ll make it,” says Gethin. “What would you like, Kate? Are you still a tea drinker? There’s Earl Grey?”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” she says, draping her jacket over the arm of the chair before sitting down. “That’s an excellent sofa,” she adds, looking at me. “This is a very nice room.” The emphasis convinces me she isn’t just being polite.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Geth said you chose everything.”
It’s funny how everyone always says this. It’s funny that this is what he tells them. Is he trying to deny responsibility? “Oh—not exactly. He chose the sofa, really—I just helped with the color.”
“It’s a great color.”
“Isn’t it? It works really well in here.” I look round, too, admiring the room as I do every day. “So—are you another of Gethin’s school friends?” I don’t think she is; she doesn’t have a Welsh accent. She sounds more like me.
She shakes her head, smiling. “No, I’m from Surrey. I moved here after college; that’s when we met. It was very unexpected to run into him. I don’t think we have any mutual friends, these days, so I had no idea he was back. He said he’s been meeting up with all sorts of people from his past.”
“Yes, there are loads of them still here—people he went to school with, and sixth form. Which is nice, I think. Although it’s always odd, isn’t it, to have missed pretty much all the big things in people’s lives, all the weddings and babies.”
“I suppose it is,” she says. “Back in time for the illness and divorce?”
We grin at each other. “Exactly.”
Gethin comes in with a tray of mugs. He sits down on the other angle of the sofa and beams at both of us.
“I’m so pleased,” he says, “I can’t tell you.”
Kate laughs. “Which is always good to hear.”
“So what do you do?” I ask her. “Do you work in town?”
“I do. I work at the gallery on Priory Street,” she says. “And I run art sessions, too, some for schools, and some during the holidays.”
“Oh, how lovely.” I’m surprised I’ve never seen her in there, but I guess she doesn’t mean “in the gallery shop.” “The gallery is great. You’re very lucky here, with the other galleries, too, and all the shops with art in them. In…where I come from, there isn’t a gallery. Even though the town is bigger. But I buy all my birthday cards in your shop.”
She laughs. “It’s good for cards, and presents, too. Yes, it’s a good place to work.”
“I’ll get those pictures,” says Gethin suddenly, jumping up.
“Oh Lord,” she says. She leans back, laughing harder. “He says he’s got photographs of my youth. Our youth, I should say.”
“Always fun to see photos you haven’t seen before. Or haven’t seen for ages.”
“I suppose I must have copies of some of them, but I dread to think.”
He’s thumping back down the stairs with a fat green photo album.
“Come and sit over here,” he says, “so you can see.”
She pushes herself up from the chair, slightly awkward. I wonder what’s wrong; is she injured, or is it something permanent—arthritis, perhaps? She doesn’t use her stick though, as she walks cautiously across the room.
He pats the sofa on both sides of him. “Come and look,” he says to me. “If you want to see how handsome I was in my twenties.” We all laugh, although I can’t see why he wouldn’t have been.
He opens the album and flicks through the early pages. “Oh look,” he says. “Here’s Julia; remember I told you about her?”
I lean to look at the photos, careful not to touch him.
Julia is a dark-haired girl with heavy bangs, a shift dress in dark purple, fishnets. She cups the elbow of one arm with the hand of the other, a cigarette held in her free hand, smoke coiling upward.
“The art student?”
“That’s her.”
“Oh yes. I can see exactly the sort of trouble she might have been.”
He laughs. “Right?”
“Is that you?” I point at the photo next to Julia.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, laughing again. “Before I got contacts.”
He has little round glasses and wears a white shirt and the waistcoat from a dark suit, his hair pushed behind his ears.
“You look so young,” says Kate. “How are we ever old enough to go away to university? My eldest does her A-Levels this year,” she adds, “and she already looks older than you do in that picture.”
“Ha.” He flips the pages. “These are Julia’s flatmates, look.”
“Oh, the Fashion people. Gosh, look at them.” The women are wearing those chunky-heeled shoes that were so fashionable back then, and a selection of self-consciously avant-garde outfits. They’re angular, with sharp, asymmetric haircuts. There’s one boy, in a hat.
“I lived with some Fashion students in my final year,” says Kate. “They didn’t look much like that, though. They were all really obsessed with tailoring. Alexander McQueen was doing his MA while we were undergraduates.”
I know about Alexander McQueen; Noosha and I went to the exhibition at the V&A the other year.
“You went to Saint Martins?”
She nods. “I did indeed.”
Gethin flips more pages. There he is sitting on the roof of a Land Rover in a field of rapeseed; squinting into the sun on a beach somewhere; laughing in a crowd of people in the rain, at a festival, I suspect; smoking in a variety of ugly student rooms; in his robes for graduation. I’m trying to work out what I’d have thought if I’d met him then. A bit straight, perhaps. It’s hard to say. He wasn’t bad-looking, even with terrible early nineties hair and, in some of the photos, a little goatee beard. Although he’s better-looking now—an annoying habit of men, to get more handsome.
“Here we go,” he says.
“Oh my,” says Kate, looking at a picture of herself in one of those floaty seventies Indian cotton dresses with bell sleeves, the exact color of her eyes—dark cobalt blue like a willow pattern plate—her hair a mass of scarlet ringlets. She’s utterly stunning.
