Page 51 of Secrets of Starshine
I turn around to face him, find the green of his eyes intent on mine as he waits for my response. I reach out, hold the palm of my hand against his cheek. Remember exactly how good that kiss was, and ponder how much I’d like to do it again. Wonder what it might be like to just see what happens for the first time in a life that has been crammed full of things to do for as long as I can recall.
“Why not?” I say, smiling as I speak. “What’s life without a little bit of danger?”
TWENTY
As it turns out, just going with the flow is a lot more fun than I expected it to be. There is no huge change, no announcement of a relationship on a Facebook page, no sudden plunge into commitment. There is simply a gentle liberation – a sense that I am relaxing into something that feels good. Feels right, at least for now. I have given myself permission to do nothing, or to do everything, or anywhere in between.
I carry on doing a few hair-dos, because I enjoy it and because it is a way of giving back to this crazy little community, and because much as I am trying to be a lady of leisure, I do get easily bored.
Sam starts to work at the café, which he seems to be loving – he is naturally outgoing, and enjoys the chance to interact with different people, and also to earn some money. It’s reignited something in him, something he lost after the Ollie nightmare, and that makes me very happy. He’s full of plans now – he will save the money he earns here, he says, and he’s started putting out feelers for a job back home as well. He’s looking at some internships, and also browsing working-away options.
He’s found a website that offers placements for young people all over the world, doing a variety of jobs in return for board and lodging – at the moment he’s torn between fruit picking on an organic farm in Spain, becoming a teaching assistant in Thailand, and joining a rural collective in Sami territory. This, I have since learned, is in the far northern reaches of Scandinavia. I don’t know what he’ll end up doing with the time he has left before he starts at university in Manchester, but he is all fired up and full of optimism again, which is a lot better than this time a month ago.
He’s even come across a job for me – apparently cruise liners are always looking out for experienced hair stylists.
“You could do that,” he said, showing me one of the posts about it. “You don’t have to worry about Gran any more – you could have an adventure, Mum! Travel the world, see new places, meet a sailor or six…”
I’m not a well-travelled woman. I went on a school trip to Holland when I was sixteen, and managed a couple of quick breaks abroad before Sam was born – but I’ve never left Europe. I must admit the thought is an interesting one, and I surprise him by saying I’ll think about it. My future, as well as Sam’s, feels as yet unformed – for the first time ever I have choices.
My mum still hasn’t contacted me, but did send Sam a message making sure he wasn’t emigrating to Australia any time soon. He told her no, not as yet, and also filled her in on our extended stay in Starshine. After that, silence. I am still hurt, but trying to ignore it – telling myself it is not my fault, and that I can’t do anything about it anyway. I’ve spent years worrying about my mum, and now she’s gone, I’m working very hard to not let her still dominate my life.
That, it has to be said, has been made considerably easier by the presence of Archie. For the last week, we have seen a lot of each other. Lilly is back in school and Meg back in nursery, and he is working – but as he is his own boss, there has been some flexibility in that.
We have shared lunches, and gone for walks, and I have gone to his house for movie nights with the girls. He has taken me out to local beaches and other villages, and we have made the most of those occasions to hold hands as we stroll, to sneak more delectable kisses, to talk and talk and talk. I hadn’t realised how starved I’d been of conversation outside my own family and work, and now I am gobbling it all up, ever-hungry for more. It is like hanging round with a best friend who can also make you go warm and fuzzy inside with the quirk of an eyebrow, raise your temperature with a casual touch, get your heart racing with a single suggestive look.
There is a side to him emerging that leaves me breathless – a side of him that isn’t about being a dad, or being a friend, or being a supportive gentle giant. A side of him that is flirtatious and sexy and, frankly, a little dangerous. I feel as though I’m the only one who gets to see it, and that is both thrilling and frightening – because I know that he is only on loan. I know we are on borrowed time, and that he is not really mine, and that this will eventually end.
We have made a deal to at least attempt not to over-think it all, not to try and force this thing between us into a certain shape – and to always, always be honest with each other. This is strange and new for both of us; we are taking tentative steps into alien territory. Despite the fear, despite the potential for hurt, I am happy with it – because I trust him, and because he is addictive.
Sam has picked up on what is happening, but so far nobody else seems to have. It is a complex situation, living as we do surrounded by Archie’s close family, the people with whom he shares so many bonds. I wonder if he is worried about that – concerned that Connie or George might see this as somehow a betrayal of Sandy, and all they had together.
I wonder sometimes if he feels that way too – and if it’s only the transient nature of this fling that makes it work, if it is the fact that I will be leaving that is allowing him to take these steps. I can’t ever replace Sandy, and I would never try – I know she still holds his heart, and that I am merely a visitor in his life.
When I catch myself going down that route, I crush it into oblivion. That is the very definition of over-thinking, and it will lead nowhere good.
For now, I am not only content, I am relishing my time here. I love my walks along the beach, my occasional visits to the magical caves, the sense of new beginnings. I am like a little seedling, just starting to pop my tender shoots out into the sunlight of a different world – or perhaps I have simply been spending too much time around a gardener.
Today, I am helping him in the greenhouse. It is a vast glass palace, tucked away behind the Betties’ bakery, crammed full of plants and veggies and pots and trays and tools. It is a foreign land to me, but one that I very much like.
Snow hasn’t fallen for days, but swathes of it remain on the ground, at the edges of the pathways, clinging to rooftops. It is still picturesque, but I’ll be glad when it’s cleared. Archie, despite the weather, is still always out and about – winter, I am told, is less hectic than spring or summer, but there are always jobs to be done in the village, in the greenhouse, and on the allotment where he grows veg for himself and for Connie to use in the café.
I sometimes spot him pruning apple trees in a random garden, clearing leaves, or trimming back the ivy that curls over the brickwork of some of the cottages. He always looks focused and content, a man in his natural element. Seeing him at work, in his heavy-duty jeans and his thick fleecy plaid jackets, it’s almost impossible to picture him sitting behind a desk in a London law firm. It’s also impossible not to picture him in some other scenario, something that involves him doing these jobs without his shirt on, sweating in the midday sun…
He caught me watching him chopping wood a few days ago, and I swear to God he could totally read my mind. He’d stopped what he was doing, given me the big sexy smile, and said: “See something you like?”
“Yep,” I’d replied, half-embarrassed and half ready to jump his bones, “nothing gets me more excited than a pile of freshly chopped firewood.”
Today, he is doing something unfathomable with seed trays that are broken down into little compartments. He is also planning on sowing some winter salad, and taking root cuttings. I’m not entirely sure I’ll be much help with any of that, so he’s given me the job of sorting through a vast box of seed packets, checking for any that are out of date or damaged. After that, he promises, I might be lucky enough to help him with planting. We have music on in the background – a nineties compilation that is taking me back in time.
I look at him, his hands buried deep in rich dark soil, scooping it into the little trays as he sings along to the chorus ofYou’re Gorgeousby Babybird. He has a terrible voice, but does it with such gusto that it’s impossible not to smile.
He turns around, as though he can sense me watching, and gives me one of those full-wattage grins that always makes me want to sigh. He holds up his filthy hands, and says: “Fancy a cuddle?”
“No, thank you – you’re very dirty, and not in a good way!” I reply, dodging him as he makes a lunge for me anyway. I skip away around a long trestle table full of pots, and he comes right after me. I throw a gardening glove at his face to delay him, but eventually he catches up with me, grabbing me up in a bear hug. He roars like a Viking, lifts me up off my feet and spins me around.
I am part laughing, part begging him to put me down as he twirls me around – like many ladies of a more generous build, I always feel a bit self-conscious about things like this. He ignores me, and keeps me lifted, feet dangling and kicking a few inches above the ground. As the song reaches its chorus again, he throws back his head and yells: “You’re gorgeous!” at the top of his voice.
This pushes me over the edge, and by the time he finally places me back down, his arms still around me, holding me close, I actually have tears of laughter in my eyes. I swipe him across the back of the head and tell him he’s an oaf, and in return he puts both his hands on my cheeks and gives my face a gentle squeeze.
