I considered this.
‘I find it rather annoying when people say things like that,’ I said eventually. ‘I think only a tiny handful of people would actually choose to be in an office nine to five. But you have to remember, most people don’t have a choice. You’re quite privileged, being able to do something like cabinetry out of a workshop in the Cotswolds.’
‘True,’ Eddie said. ‘And of course I know what you mean, but I’m still not sure I agree. It’s my contention that everyone has a choice, in everything. On some level.’
I watched him.
‘What they do, how they feel, what they say. It’s just somehow become the received wisdom that we don’t have a choice. About anything. Jobs, relationships, happiness. All beyond our control.’ He shooed the tiny spider back into the grass. ‘It can be frustrating, watching everyone complaining about their problems, never wanting to discuss solutions. Believing they’re a victim of other people, of themselves, of the world.’ That tiny hairline fracture had returned to his voice.
After a beat he turned to me, smiling. ‘I sound like an arsehole.’
‘A bit.’
‘I didn’t mean to sound unsympathetic. I just meant . . .’
‘It’s OK. I know what you meant. And it’s an interesting point.’
‘Maybe. But expressed very poorly. I’m sorry. I’ve just . . .’ He paused. ‘I’ve been quite worn down by my mother recently. I love her, of course, but I sometimes wonder if she even wants to be happy. And then I feel awful because I know that it’s pure brain chemistry, and of course she wants to be happy.’
He scratched his shins. ‘You’re just the first person I’ve talked to in the last few days who hasn’t been feeling sorry for themselves. I got carried away. Sorry. Thank you. The end.’
I laughed, and he leaned back, letting one of his knees fall sideways so it landed on my leg. ‘I’m having an even better time than I would have done with Lucy the sheep. Thank you, Sarah Mackey. Thank you for giving up your Thursday afternoon to drink pints with me.’
My chest filled with thick spirals of pleasure. And I let it, because it felt good to be happy.
Eddie went to the loo soon after and I deleted Jenni’s app from my phone. Rebound or not, I hadn’t felt this happy in a man’s company – in anyone’s company, really – in a very long time.
‘There’s something in this valley, isn’t there?’ Eddie said later. Even he wasn’t sounding sober anymore. The landlord had locked up for the afternoon and told us we were welcome to stay in the garden as long as we wanted.
‘The devil’s furnace?’ I suggested, fanning my face. ‘For someone who lives in southern California, I’m unconscionably hot. Where’s the Pacific when you need it? Or a pool. An air-conditioner at very least.’
Eddie laughed, angling his head towards me. ‘Do you have a pool?’
‘Of course not! I run a non-profit!’
‘I’m sure some charity executives pay themselves enough to have a pool.’
‘Well, not this one. I don’t even own an apartment.’
He looked back up at the hot bar of sky. ‘Yes, the devil’s furnace is here,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But there’s something else, don’t you think? Something old, or secretive. It’s always felt to me like a back pocket, this little valley. Somewhere where all sorts of stories and memories are shoved. Like old ticket stubs.’
I couldn’t agree more, I thought. I had more ticket stubs shoved down the back of this valley than I cared to think about. And it didn’t matter how many years I had spent living away from the place: they were still here, every time I returned. Echoes of my sister at every turn of the tiny River Frome; snatches of song in the old beech trees; the feel of her hand in mine. The mirror-stillness of the lake, just like the day we drove back from the hospital. It was all still here. Just out of sight, but never out of mind.
We lay there talking for hours, a part of him always touching a part of me. My heart expanding and contracting like hot metal.
Something was going to happen. Something had already happened. We both knew.
At some point Frank the farmer arrived to check his sheep and repair his fence, and gave us some cola and a packet of Cheddar from his shopping. ‘I owe you,’ he’d said, and then winked at Eddie as if I couldn’t see him.
We drank the entire bottle of Coke and ate almost all the cheese. I wondered if Reuben’s new girlfriend – who had apparently taken him on a date to a juice bar – had ever drunk several pints of cider, passed out in a pub garden with a stranger and then snacked on Coke and Cheddar. I found that I couldn’t have cared less.
I felt like I was at home. Not just with Eddie, but here, in this valley, where I’d grown up. For the first time since I was young, I felt like I was somewhere I belonged.
Our secret valley finally cooled as the broiling sun dropped off the side of the world. A twilight fox skeetered across the car park. Small groups of people came and went, the quiet clink of glasses and cutlery muffled by the sluggish rustle of trees. Bright stars stapled an inky sky.
Eddie was holding my hand. We were back at our table. We’d eaten something – lasagne? I barely remember. He was telling me about his mother, and how her depression was beginning to spiral downwards again. He was going on holiday in a week with a friend, windsurfing in Spain, and was worried about leaving her, even though she’d told him she would be fine.
‘Sounds like you’re very good to her,’ I said. He hadn’t replied, but he’d lifted our locked hands up and just kissed one of my knuckles.
And now the pub was closing, for a second time, and even though we hadn’t discussed it, even though I was still technically married, and meant to be suffering deep emotional trauma, even though I had never gone home with a stranger before – especially to a barn in quite literally the middle of nowhere – it was as clear as the cloudless night that I was going home with him.
Using the light of my phone, because his was so cracked the torch no longer functioned, we walked hand in hand along the tangled, silent towpath, past forgotten lock workings and glassy black pools of water.
He let me into his hermit’s barn – which really was in a woodland clearing, flanked by beautiful old horse chestnuts and dimly glowing cow parsley – but there were no elves or satyrs or silken-haired faeries here, just an old army Land Rover and a small patch of darkened lawn, at which Eddie stared suspiciously while he got out his keys. ‘Steve?’ I thought I heard him whisper. I didn’t question him.
He opened the door. ‘Come in,’ he said, and neither of us could quite look at each other, because it was happening, now, and we both knew already that it was bigger than the next few hours.
As we walked through the stilled machines in his workshop, I breathed in the pungent scent of cut wood and imagined Eddie in here: planing, hammering, gluing, sawing. Making beautiful things out of beautiful materials with those large brown hands. I thought of those hands on my skin and felt quite foggy.
We passed through two heavy doors – essential, he told me, for sawdust control – and finally up a flight of stairs to a big, open-plan space, full of old lamps and shadowy beams and gentle creaks. Outside, the trees moved slowly, black against black, and a fine twist of cloud wandered across the headlamp moon.
I got a glass of water in his kitchen and heard him behind me. I stood there for a while, eyes closed as I felt his breath on my bare shoulder. Then I turned round and leaned against the sink as he kissed me.
Chapter Seven
Dear You,
Look, I’m married. And I’ve a horrible feeling you already know.
I wasn’t lying when I told you I was single. And I definitely wasn’t lying about how you made me feel.
Reuben and I separated about three months ago. The thing that finished us off was that I couldn’t give him a baby, but I think we’d both known for a very long time that we’d come to the end of the road. It’s a long story – probably beyond the scope of Facebook Messenger – but it was very hard for him.
I was so horribly relieved when he sat me down; I knew what he was going to say. I only wished I’d had the courage to say it myself, years earlier. I sat there opposite him with a phone charger in my hand, weaving the cable round and round my fingers until he took it, and then I cried, because I knew he needed me to.