Page 75 of Best Man
I shake my head. “How is it that I’m sitting here letting you two lecture and advise me on love? It’s like Henry the Eighth advising people on how to keep women happy.” Felix opens his mouth, but I hold up my hand. “I just want the address,” I say slightly pathetically. “That’s all I want. I know I’m in love with him. I’m coming to terms with it slowly. I just need to get him back, explain things properly, and tell him to come home with me.”
Felix and Max look at each other. “Good luck with that,” Felix says slightly doubtfully.
“The address?” I say loudly.
“Oh, it’s St Mary’s Church in Dunsford.”
“You knew it all along,” I say indignantly.
He shrugs. “Of course. I knew at some point you’d fuck up on a grand scale and then need to complete a dramatic race to forgiveness.”
I stare at him. “You’re actually scarily clever.”
“I know,” he says over-loudly. “So clever that murdering someone and concealing their body would be very easy for me.”
“I’m off,” Max says quickly and within seconds he’s gone.
I use the journey to Devon to overthink what I’m going to say. It’s an abject failure. Normally, words come easily to me. They roll off my tongue, and I use them to soothe people. It’s ironic that for the first time in my life I need them to serve a purpose and they’re deserting me.
I try to marshal well-thought-out arguments, but all I can concentrate on is how Jesse must have felt seeing me with Patrick and how stupid I’ve been that I’ve somehow given him the impression that I want Patrick at all when the truth is very far from that.
I can see now that even though I’ve let him in this month, I’ve still done it with a hand holding him away slightly. So focused on how I’d feel when he eventually realised I was too old for him to see that I was actually making him go.
Eventually, I drive down a sleepy village street. It’s typical of Devon, with old cottages set back from the road with vivid gardens full of flowers. I find the vicarage at the end of the high street marking the entrance to the old Norman church.
I park the car on the verge and look up at Jesse’s home. It’s rambling and very old and has obviously had a lot built onto it at some point. It’s also very charming with wisteria smothering the brick and looking very purple in the sunlight.
Getting out of the car, I stretch after the long drive. I hope Jesse is here because otherwise I’m out of ideas. I unlatch the gate and walk up the path, inhaling the heady intense scent of roses from a bush near the front door. I look around curiously and it isn’t hard to imagine a small Jesse here playing in the garden, mucky and happy. The smile is still on my face when the front door opens and I find myself staring at an older man.
He looks to be in his seventies, his hair thick and silvery. His glasses rest halfway down his nose and he’s small in stature. He doesn’t look anything like Jesse, but when he smiles at me there’s something in the sweetness of the gesture that tells me instantly that this is his father.
He looks me up and down, and I fidget, suddenly aware that I’m still in full morning dress. I’d raced off without bothering to getchanged and had therefore caused a few raised eyebrows in the service station surrounded by people in holiday clothes.
“Now at a guess I’d say that either fashion has become very formal in London nowadays or you’ve followed my son who appeared in the same style a couple of hours ago.” His voice is warm and rich with an undercurrent of laughter.
“He’s here?” I gasp, feeling relief pour through me and weaken my limbs.
He nods. “He got here this afternoon in a fearful temper. I set him to mowing the graveyard. That will make him cool down a bit and give us time for a little talk.” He steps back, and, before I can blink, I find myself in a dimly lit hallway.
He ushers me into a study with lead windows open to the warm summer breeze. The walls are covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases that are crammed with books and papers and all around them are piles of more books. I look at his desk covered with folders and more paperwork and my fingers itch to organise it.
He smiles at me and gestures me to a chair in front of the desk. When I sit down, the leather is smooth and comfortable, obviously worn thin by the generations of penitent bums that have sat on it. He stares at me, and a silence falls, broken only by the sound of a mower in the distance. I wonder if that’s Jesse and feel a powerful yearning to get to him.
“So, you’re Zeb, then?”
I smile anxiously at him. “I am. It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”
He shakes his head. “Call me Michael.” He looks at me assessingly. “Jesse told me about you last week. He seemed very happy.Then.”
I squirm. “It’s my fault he isn’t happy now,” I hear a voice say and want to look around to see what idiot is talking, but it’s me, and I carry on. “I pushed him away and hurt him.”
“Why?” There’s no condemnation in his voice. Just honest curiosity on that kind face.
“Because I still can’t believe that someone like him would look at me.”
“With his looks, you mean?” A shard of disappointment crosses his face, and I shake my head.
“No. Oh, he’s pretty, but it’s not that. He’s such a good person,” I say earnestly. “He’s fun and clever and kind. And young.” I spread my hands. “You must see how much older I am than him.”
