Hothouse Flower (33 page)

‘Of course, it was Annie who spotted it, saw the signs, grinned when I talked about you constantly,’ Kit was pacing again, ‘made herself scarce that night you came to supper at Wharton Park. Which, of course, subsequently added to your suspicions, I’m sure … and begged me to come clean about how I felt. I said you weren’t ready, she said you’d cope.’

‘I’m not ready, Kit.’

The words were out of Julia’s mouth before she could stop them. ‘It’s been such a short time since … I thought I was …’ Julia bit her lip, ‘but I’m not.’

Kit looked as if he was physically diminishing in front of her. ‘Right,’ he said eventually. ‘Okay. Well then,’ he cleared his throat, ‘serves me right, I suppose. And that
isn’t
self indulgence, it’s a fact. Shit! Anyway, I’ll leave you be.’

‘I’m sorry. I … just … can’t.’

‘No. I understand. Really, I do.’ Kit dug his hands in his pockets, walked towards the door, then walked back and took a deep breath. ‘What I want to say is that, if –
if
you ever feel in a position to, well, make the leap of faith and take a chance on me again, I promise I’ll be there for you. I really am very good at it. Or, at least, I was once. I’d never hurt you, not intentionally, anyway.’

‘Thank you, Kit.’

‘And the weird thing is,’ Kit stopped at the door, ‘
you
were always there.’

Julia could not look up at him as tears were flooding her eyes.

‘You know where I am,’ said Kit. ‘Try and take care of yourself for me, won’t you? Goodbye, sweetheart.’

The door closed behind him.

30

The following morning, wan and exhausted from a sleepless night, Julia came down the stairs to wait for her taxi. Cradling a mug of coffee, she stared into the now dead, ash-filled fireplace. Her brain was numb, unable to compute what Kit had said to her last night. And the intimacies he had shared …

No.
Julia stopped herself. Perhaps, when she was back in France, she could take the time to work it out and come to terms with the feelings he stirred in her, but not now.

She simply could not allow herself to love again.

Hearing footsteps coming up to the front door, Julia rose and walked towards it, picking up her holdall in anticipation of her taxi waiting outside. In fact it was the postman. Putting down her holdall, she said, ‘Glad I caught you. I’m leaving for France. I’ve redirected the post, what there is of it, mainly bills, usually …’ Her voice tailed off. She didn’t have the energy to make small talk.

‘Right-ho, Miss Forrester, I’ll take any post back to the sorting office and see it gets on its way to France for you.’ He handed her one obvious bill and one cream vellum envelope, addressed to her in a hand Julia didn’t recognise.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him weakly.

‘
Bon voyage
, Miss Forrester.’

Julia closed the door and sat down on the sofa whilst she opened the cream envelope.

Heathrow Airport

Monday 16th March

Dear Julia,

In haste!

My name is Annie. We met once a few weeks ago. I’ve heard from Kit what pain you’ve been through. He’s been through pain too. He understands and he will do all he can to mend you, because, for the first time in years, he’s fallen in love. Once he has (and, trust me, it’s rare!) you never need doubt him. I promise, he’s yours!

I’m now off to a new life, mostly because of Kit. He’s been wonderful – there for me when no one else was. He’s a truly good person. Before I left, I wanted to do something for him in return. As you know so well, life is short. We all think too much these days and analyse everything. Forget thoughts, just go with your heart – I have, God help me, and I’ve never felt happier than I do at this moment!

Pain can only be cured by love. I get the feeling you both need that.

Everyone deserves a second chance.

With very best wishes,

Annie

x

Julia heard the knock at the door. She stood up to open it.

‘Hi,’ she said numbly to the taxi driver, ‘be out in a second.’

‘Okay, Madam. I’m up the hill to the left. Bit of a walk, I’m afraid. Parking’s terrible around here.’

‘Thanks.’

Julia did a swift double-check to make sure everything electrical was turned off before taking her holdall and locking up the cottage. She trudged slowly up the hill towards the taxi that would carry her away from Norfolk … and from Kit.

‘There you go, Madam. Let me take that from you.’ The taxi driver held the door open as she climbed inside, then stowed her holdall in the boot. ‘All set?’

‘Yes.’

‘Should do the journey to the airport in a couple of hours, if we’re lucky.’ The driver set off back down the hill, along the narrow road towards the harbour. Julia gazed out of the window, watching the bobbing boats for the last time. The place was deserted, apart from a figure sitting on a bench, staring out to sea.

‘Stop! Sorry, can you just pull over for a second? I – wait here.’

Julia opened the door and walked back towards the figure. As she drew closer, she saw she hadn’t been mistaken. She stopped just short of the bench, knowing he hadn’t seen her.

‘Kit. What are you doing here?’

He turned in surprise and stared at her.

‘Oh. Thought you’d gone. I went up there just now – the cottage was deserted.’

‘I had to walk right up the hill to the taxi. We obviously just missed each other,’ she explained.

‘Right,’ Kit nodded. ‘So you’re off?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. Just thought I’d come and say goodbye.’ He shrugged. ‘Apologise again for my insensitive behaviour.’

Julia perched on the bench next to him. ‘Kit, please, I understand, I really do.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

Kit studied his fingers. ‘Good. Actually, Julia, I didn’t really come to say goodbye.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ He looked up at her and smiled wanly. ‘In fact, my intention was to prostrate myself at your feet and beg you to stay.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. I had the whole speech planned out. I was going to plead with you to give me a chance. To tell you I love you, and that I understand we would need to go slowly, for your sake. That I’d do anything to at least give us a try because, certainly for me, I know this feeling only comes once or twice in a lifetime. And it’s killing me to have to let it go. Selfish, I know,’ he added. ‘I decided in the early hours of this morning, I wouldn’t give up without a fight. So here I am. I was just bemoaning my normal bad luck that I’d obviously missed you. And, in fact, I haven’t.’

‘No. Looks like you’ve been given a second chance, Kit,’ she whispered, almost to herself.

‘Yes! Goddammit! You’re right! So –’ Kit knelt down in front of her and took her hands in his – ‘here goes: Julia, please don’t go back to France. I want you to stay here, with me. I love you, I really do. And I’m … desperate!’ He chuckled sadly. ‘Give me another chance, please, and I’ll never let you down again, I promise.’

‘Oh, God, Kit – I –’ She looked at him, trying to think rationally. Then, remembering Annie’s words about not analysing, she asked her heart what it wanted. Finally she said:

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘Yes, okay.’

‘You mean you’ll stay?’

‘Yes, for now, anyway. Maybe we should give us a try? What do we have to lose?’

‘Oh my God! Are you serious?!’

‘Never more.’

‘I’ll stand up then. My knees are killing me.’

Kit did so, at the same time pulling Julia into his arms. ‘I promise, sweetheart, I will look after you for as long as you want me to.’

‘And I’ll look after you too.’

‘Really?’ He tipped her chin up to look at her. ‘That’ll be novel,’ he smiled, kissing her nose gently. ‘You mean we can look after each other?’

‘Yes. Especially as we seem to suffer from the same … afflictions.’

‘Two basket cases together, you mean?’

‘Something like that,’ she murmured as he covered her face in kisses. She pulled away, spying the taxi driver leaning against the back of his car, arms folded, surveying them. ‘Better go and retrieve my holdall and tell Bob he can go home.’

‘Yes. And then, my darling Julia, I’m taking
you
home.’

‘Where’s “home”?’ Julia asked, confused.

‘To Wharton Park, of course. Where you belong.’

PART TWO

Summer

31

Wharton Park

Sometimes, when I wake to see the early morning sun streaming in through the unshuttered windows of Wharton Park, I find it difficult to believe I feel the peace and contentment I believed would never be mine again.

Yet here I am, basking like a cat as the warmth hits my face, turning to see Kit’s face on the pillow beside me. His hair, which I insisted he should cut so I could see his eyes, has defied the hairdresser’s scissors and a lock of it is falling over one closed lid. An arm is thrown back above his head, indicating total abandonment and trust in his surroundings.

I love watching him sleep in the morning and have the opportunity often, given that I usually wake first. It is my secret time, when I can cast away my fear and simply enjoy him. He knows nothing of these moments – he is an innocent victim of sleep – and does not realise I am studying every detail of his face and logging it in my memory.

I’ve learnt recently how important these things are. I can no longer picture my husband’s face – only a vague outline, a shape in which the finer details have become blurred and undefined.

When I have finished my study, I lie back and gaze at the room in which so many generations of Crawfords have slept. I doubt it’s changed since the day Olivia Crawford walked into it on her wedding night, seventy years ago. The once magnificent hand-painted Chinese wallpaper has faded from a warm, buttery yellow to a blanched and dreary shade of rice pudding. The butterflies and flowers adorning it are now shadowy images of their former selves.

The heavy, mahogany dressing table, with its three-sided mirror, sits along one wall. It is so ugly that no one wanted it in the contents sale, so I reinstated it where it belongs. I sometimes imagine Olivia sitting at it, putting on all the make-up a girl had to wear in those days, with Elsie patiently styling her hair.

I creep out of bed so as not to disturb Kit, and the carpet beneath my feet is threadbare, though around the edges of the bedroom one can see the thickness of the original weave.

I make my way to the bathroom, the floor covered in cracked linoleum, the bathtub with its snail-trails of green limescale behind the tarnished tap.

As I dress, I smile to myself, simply because I am at Wharton Park. Clumsy, dysfunctional and irritating in its unpredictability, it reminds me of a toddler who has not received enough attention from its mother, and yet is so endearing, one cannot fail to be won over by its charm.

And as I tiptoe back through the bedroom to go downstairs and put the kettle on, I think how much I love it here, with Kit. And how I feel I have come home.

Julia sat on the terrace of Wharton Park in the warm, early morning air and looked down on to the garden below her. June had always been her favourite month. It was the moment when flowers revealed their beauty hour by hour, blossoming into their short, perfect lifespan. The trees across the park hung heavy with leaves – so many different hues of green – set against the clear, soft, blue skies of an English summer.

She took her coffee and walked towards the crumbling steps into the garden – Adrienne Crawford’s creation – and smelt the almost sickly scent of the jasmine planted along the terrace. They, like the rest of the garden, had been neglected for years; only the lawns were granted a cursory cut by the lone gardener, who had far too many acres to maintain to worry about individual pruning and clipping. The roses, set in their beds around the fountain, were now a sprawling, overgrown mass. But apparently unperturbed by this neglect, they still bloomed untidily into obscenely large, bulbous pink flowers.

Gabriel had loved flowers …

Julia smiled sadly as she remembered how he’d appear in her study, his chubby hand clutching a motley collection of wilting wild orchids and lavender, which he and Agnes had found on a walk into the surrounding French countryside.

‘
Pour tu, Maman.
’ He’d hand them to her so proudly and Julia would make a big fuss of putting them in a glass, their stems uneven lengths where he had torn them clumsily from the plant.

She thought how much Gabriel would have loved it here at Wharton Park. He’d always been an outdoor child, just like his mother, and sometimes she’d tell him stories of the beautiful house in England she’d visited as a child. And how, one day, she would take him there and show him.