Your Roots Are Showing (39 page)

Mr. Brightman tugged at his left eyebrow. “After all, the sprogs can’t be in school yet . . . It wouldn’t be as much of an upheaval . . . Unless of course you’re wedded to the idea of London . . .”

“Mr. Brightman, are you offering me a job in Glasgow?”

His face lit up with appreciation of her quick understanding. “Indeed. I am indeed. Not just any job, my dear. I know I’m going out on a limb here . . . In short, I’m asking you to head up the Glasgow operation.”

“Head — head it up?”

“Yes, absolutely, I understand your feelings entirely. No management experience, I’m well aware of that myself . . . But it would be a very small operation, you understand. At least, at first. Just you and this young lass we have fresh out of university . . .”

Lizzie felt her eyes going hot. “Don’t you have —
anything
in London?”

Mr. Brightman furrowed his brow. “You’ve hit the nail on the head, my girl. Nothing in London. Nothing at all. If anything, we’re overstaffed. I may have gone a little overboard with the new hires once we got the extra business . . . But the Glasgow job is a great opportunity . . .”

“I can’t go to
Glasgow
!” she interrupted on a note of anguish. “I live
here
! I mean, a divorce is one thing, but going off to live at the ends of the earth is something else entirely. The children need their father. And I — I have people here. Family. A support network.” Not to mention a friendship with a man that was just reaching a very delicate and interesting stage in its development — a friendship that, above all else, needed proximity if it was going to mature into something altogether more important.

Mr. Brightman’s eyebrows were raised in alarm and his mouth formed a small, speechless “o.” Lizzie took a deep breath and stood up, smoothing down her interview skirt. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said in her calmest, most professional tone. “I’m just not in a position to take up this very flattering offer at the moment. But thank you for thinking of me, and I hope you’ll keep my CV on file.”

It hadn’t been a good day, obviously. But it was about to get a whole lot better because Lizzie was going to spend the evening with Bruno. He didn’t know it yet, because she hadn’t been able to reach him, but she had a big night planned for the two of them.

The thing was, she’d made up her mind about something. She’d made up her mind that the time had come to put an end to the hands-off policy she’d instigated after the wedding.

She had a pretty shrewd idea that Bruno’s lack of contact recently probably had a lot to do with the fact that he found it a bit of a strain to sit down to dinner with her in a romantic restaurant, hold hands, make deep eye contact, and then just take himself tamely home to a cold shower and an empty bed.

The fact was, he was avoiding her. It was patently obvious. And the reason was pretty obvious, too. After all, there was only so much flesh and blood could stand. The time had come for her to get over her scruples and offer him a proper adult relationship.

When Sarah walked in at seven that evening, her jaw dropped in amazement. “Mrs. Buckley,” she stammered. “You look — great!”

Lizzie did look great, and for once in her life she knew it. Her hair shone with caramel highlights, her skin was brown and glowing from all those hours spent jogging and gardening, and her stomach was flat as an ironing board again. Plus she was wearing an unbelievably flattering wraparound dress in the exact shade of blue of her eyes.

She looked like a woman who could successfully stage a seduction — and, better still, she felt like one, too.

Driving to Bruno’s cottage in Dunton Green, though, Lizzie began to feel just a tad nervous. By the time she’d parked her car in his driveway, her mouth was rather dry and she had several overexcited butterflies in her stomach. She didn’t know whether she’d be mostly relieved or mostly disappointed if he turned out not to be home, but she wasn’t going to have the opportunity to find out. His truck was in the shed, its trailer jutting out onto the gravel.

By the time Lizzie knocked on the door, she was feeling paralyzed by shyness. She waited tensely, trying to think of a suitable opening line. “Hey, do you fancy a curry at Farmer’s?” was the best she could come up with. Then the door flew open and he was in front of her, his face registering something like shock, and her stomach flipped with momentary panic. But then he smiled his cherubic smile, and her shyness evaporated.

“Hi,” she grinned.

“Hi,” he said back. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No, I know you weren’t. But I thought you might want a curry.”

His eyebrows rose.

“I mean, you know, I thought we might go out for a bite to eat. At Farmer’s? Didn’t you say you like the vindaloo there?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Here, look, come inside for a second.” He half pulled her through the door. “Sit down a moment. I’ll — I’ll get you a drink.”

She sat down obediently on his squashy leather couch, slightly mystified by his rather distracted air, but willing to play along. As he crashed about in the kitchen, she looked around appreciatively at the homey snugness of the little room. Madge, curled up on an armchair, opened one eye, flapped her tail halfheartedly, and then went back to sleep. The first time she’d been in here, Lizzie had felt like Lucy entering Mr. Tumnus’s burrow. From the hole-in-the-wall fireplace to the bare black ceiling beams and battered old furniture, Bruno’s living room spoke volumes for its owner’s unpretentious and slightly quirky charm. It would be a lovely room in winter, Lizzie thought, picturing Alex and Ellie toasting chestnuts in a coal scuttle over a cozy blaze while their damp socks dried on the mantelpiece. Why her mind threw up such a Dickensian image, she had no idea.

Bruno came back and gave her a drink, still looking preoccupied. “It’s gin and orange juice,” he said. “Sorry, I don’t have any tonic water.”

Lizzie took the drink and stretched luxuriously, admiring the golden glow of her tanned legs. “So are you up for Farmer’s or . . . or, hang on, are you cooking?” She sniffed deeply. “Mmmm. That smells good. What is it?”

There was a silence. “It’s . . . um, it’s roast duck.”

He had a really odd look on his face. Lizzie couldn’t place the expression. It seemed halfway between dread and excitement, if that were possible.

A loud knock at the door took Lizzie by surprise. Immediately, Madge leaped up from her deep sleep and skidded across the loose rug into the hallway where she began to scratch at the front door and howl. Really howl, at the sort of pitch of a pack of wolves at full moon. Before Bruno could make his way across the room, the door flew open and someone walked in. Madge jumped at the newcomer, almost knocking her over, still yowling.

It was a thin, dark woman with short hair tucked behind her ears, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and sandals with rhinestones in them.

“Down, Madge, down!” Bruno boomed.

“Oh, she’s okay, leave her be,” the newcomer murmured. She knelt down and spoke softly to the dog, then began to knead her ears. With a moan of pleasure, Madge turned upside down and started bicycling her back legs in the air.

Lizzie stood up, sloshing her drink. She looked from the crouching woman to Bruno and back again.

“Who’s this?” she asked. Bam, bam went her heart.

Bruno seemed to be blushing. Lizzie had never seen him blush before, hadn’t even known he
could
blush. “She’s . . . um . . . she’s . . .” Whatever he wanted to say, he couldn’t spit it out.

“I’m Nell, his ex-wife,” the woman cut in briskly. She was standing up now with her arms folded across her chest, her face white and tense. Madge still lay upside down at her feet, her feathery underbelly on display. “And I’m pretty sure I know who
you
are,” she added.

“ Sorry — what?” Lizzie shook her head. She couldn’t have heard correctly.

Bruno stepped toward Lizzie and took her hand. “Lizzie, I’d like you to meet Nell — my ex-wife. Nell, this is Lizzie. Nell and I, we, um, we used to be married. Obviously.”

Lizzie felt the gooseflesh popping out on her bare arms. “And she’s here — what — to take Madge for the weekend? She has joint custody? Or what?”

Bruno bit his lip. “Not joint custody,” he said.

“I’m here for dinner,” said Nell. “Bruno’s told me all about you. Let me guess — you dropped in for a drink?”

“Um — yes,” Lizzie squeaked. “ So — what? — you two have decided to be friends? Let bygones be bygones? Chew the fat about old times? Is that what this is all about?” She gulped down some air and looked at them with raised eyebrows.

“Not exactly,” said Bruno.

“Not really,” said the woman.

“We could never be
friends
,” said Bruno.

Lizzie blinked quickly. “Well, what then? You’re still sort of hammering away at the divorce? God knows, that stuff can drag on.”

“The divorce was final more than a year ago,” the woman said.

“The
divorce
was,” said Bruno. “ But — not us.”

Lizzie felt herself go deathly white, then red as a beetroot.

“Sit down,” said Bruno gently. “Smelly bear, do we give her sugar water? Brandy? Aspirin?”

Smelly bear?

“Rescue Remedy,” the woman said decisively. “I have some in my pocket. Here, stick out your tongue for a couple of drops.”

Obediently, Lizzie stuck out her tongue. With Bruno patting her on the back and the dark-haired woman crouching down at her side like an emergency worker at an accident scene, they told her their tale.

Bruno explained that Nell had been living in America for the last few years, but had come back recently because she simply couldn’t make a go of things over there. He’d bumped into her out of the blue at a nursery (plants, not babies) just last week and been rocked to his very foundations by the experience. Not laying eyes on her for a couple of years, he’d convinced himself that she no longer meant anything to him. But the moment he saw her face, all that hard-earned conviction was blown right out of the water.

“It was the same for me,” the woman said, rubbing Lizzie’s hand briskly.

“The timing was wrong, Lizzie,” Bruno explained. “We would’ve had a chance, you and I, if I’d met you before I ever came across Nell. Or if Nell had gone off to the States forever and I’d never seen her again. But — but seeing her like that, loading up her trolley with fish blood and bone, right at the beginning of things between you and me —”

Lizzie took her hand away from the woman. She felt as if she might be sick. “I’d like to go home now,” she said.

Bruno went on patting her on the back. “Lizzie, I’m so sorry. It’s just — Nell is my
wife
. The divorce didn’t cancel things out. We both realize that now. We can’t live apart. We belong together.”

Lizzie stood up, clutching her bare arms. “I’m very happy for you both,” she said tonelessly. “But right now I have to go home.”

Bruno took Lizzie by the hand and pulled her into the kitchen, closing the door on Nell’s white face. “I’m so sorry, Lizzie,” he said again. “I wasn’t stringing you along. I just — I thought I was over her. I really did. You know, until about three days ago? We went out to eat, and — and that’s when I knew for sure I’d never be over her. I was going to tell you soon. I was just trying to figure out the best way to . . . Oh shit, the rice is burning.”

Looking at his stricken face as he snatched the saucepan off the gas ring, Lizzie knew he was feeling rotten, but it really made no difference. She still just wanted the floor to open up and swallow her in one large gulp. “I have to go home,” she repeated.

Bruno turned from the stove and folded her in a bear-hug. She simply stood there, stiff and still, enduring his touch. He pulled gently away from her when the woman poked her head through the door. “Something’s burning,” Nell said, sniffing the air.

Something was burning, all right. Lizzie’s hopes for the evening had gone up in flames — not to mention her ridiculous happily-ever-after-with-Bruno hopes for the long term.

Lizzie pulled away from Bruno and pushed past Nell out of the kitchen. She grabbed her handbag off the squashy couch and let herself out of the front door. They followed her out, apologizing, urging her to drive carefully, even pressing her to stay and talk the whole thing through over dinner. As she accelerated away, they lingered in the road, waving.

She could only imagine how glad they were to see her go.

Safe in her own driveway at last, Lizzie simply sat in the car, her forehead resting against the steering wheel, feeling that she’d never have the nerve to walk into the bright light of her hallway and pick up the sorry threads of her life again.

She’d made a complete mess of everything, and that was the truth.

First off — and through what amounted to sheer laxity — she’d estranged her husband. Then she’d gone on to lose her prospective boyfriend. If that weren’t enough, she’d also failed to publish her verses, and then failed to reclaim her old job. On top of all that, she’d rented a house she couldn’t afford and committed herself to a marathon she was pretty sure she’d never be able to run.

And now she’d have to endure the mortification of telling her well-wishers and supporters that she no longer had a backup man waiting to mend her broken heart. Why, oh why, had she ever confided in Janie and Tessa and Ingrid and Maria? They would all be pitying her, all over again, and she simply couldn’t bear the thought.

Sitting in the dark, Lizzie felt an almost overpowering urge to run off into the moonlit fields and never be seen or heard of again.

She couldn’t do it, of course. What would happen to the twins?

But how she longed to be able to cancel everything out and start all over again, with a clean slate. If only she could just close her eyes a moment, and then open them to find herself in a new world, a new place, a neutral setting where nobody had ever heard of James Buckley or Bruno Ardis, or even Lizzie herself.

And that was when she thought of G. H. Brightman and his stumbling offer, that morning, of a position in Glasgow.

Glasgow was pretty remote. Glasgow was practically the other end of the world. Glasgow would do just nicely.