Page 41 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
I glance up at the tree and the leaves shake, splattering me with raindrops. Maybe a sign that I’m wasting my time. What difference would it make if I found it? Do I want it to somehow prove I was right to kiss him? To explain what it was that made me think hewantedto be kissed? If Ryanhasforgotten, I certainly don’t want to jog his memory. It’s better to let it be lost to time and the weather that batters the clifftop.
Talking to Edie has boosted my confidence and confirmed my feelings that there are many more people who would be up in arms about the hotel – we just have to find them. My fingers trail over the bark as I walk around the vast trunk, like I can somehowfeelthe amount of life this tree has seen. Every name, every date, every symbol is an emblem of a life that’s passed under these branches.
I jump back into the tree, leaving Baaabra Streisand looking up me dejectedly. Probably upset that her chances for murdering me are reduced by the fact sheep can’t climb trees.
The rain has dulled to a drizzle now as I look out at the empty strawberry patch, but the heavy grey clouds are making it feel much later in the day than it actually is, and I crack open my laptop again.
I lose track of time passing and I’m still tweaking the website hours later. Baaabra has shredded the remains of my umbrella and spat the pieces out all around the base of the tree, like she was trying to trap me in some sort of pentagram, and I had to gather them up and shove the wad of sheep-drool-covered fabric into my bag before they blew away and further polluted the ocean.
I look up when the gate rattles, and instead of saying hello like anyone else would, Ryan starts singing “Here Comes the Hotstepper”, the Nineties classic by Ini Kamoze, and I’m kind of impressed that his musical tastes haven’t got any more refined after all this time.
I can’t help laughing as I join in, effectively murdering the song. It was on one of the playlists he used to make us listen to at Sullivan’s Seeds, and we always duetted it, even though neither of us can sing.
We don’t stop the duet until he gets close enough for me to see his face in the early evening light.
‘Even after so many years, you never forget the pinnacle of Nineties music,’ he says, smiling widely.
It’s an unmistakable segue into a bout of “Never Forget” by Take That for us both, complete with the dance move of clapping and throwing your arms out on my part.
‘I debated going for “Return of the Mack”, but I’m not a “mack” whatever one of those is. Did anyone ever find out what a “mack” is and why it needed to return? Mind you, I’m not much of a hotstepper either, but hotstepper sounded better than drawing comparisons to a raincoat favoured by old ladies.’
I burst out laughing. ‘I don’t know what a hotstepper is either.’
He tilts his head to the side, screwing up one eye as he considers it. ‘Me neither, actually. Was all Nineties music about random made-up words that no one understands?’
‘Probably. There were songs about Peaches and Scrubs and MmmBop. Maybe the appeal is in no one having a clue what they’re about.’
He’s grinning a proud grin and holding something behind his back, which he pulls out as he approaches the tree. A paper bag dangles from his index finger. ‘I brought sustenance.’
My eyes fall on the logo. ‘No way! That place is still open?’
‘Same family. Recipe hasn’t changed in twenty years. I’m assuming you’re still vegetarian?’
I nod. I don’t know why it makes me smile so much. Twenty years ago, not eating meat wasn’t as popular as it is now, and Ryan and I were always the odd ones out at Sullivan’s Seeds. Vegetarian takeaway food wasn’t a big thing, but there was this restaurant further round the Gower coastline on the peninsula that did vegetarian fish and chips, and it was even better than the real thing. It was always my favourite place to eat. After I introduced him to their merits, he started getting food from there on special occasions. Birthdays, if something good happened, sometimes just if we were working late.
The bittersweet tang of him bringing in a bag just like that on the lunchtime of my last day – hours before The Kiss That Shall Not Be Mentioned.
The last time I ever ate their food.
He says hello to Baaabra Streisand and steps right up to the trunk, smiling up at me. I’m still a way up in the tree, but he’s tall enough that if he leans up and I lean down, I’m only a little bit above him.
‘I can’t believe you remembered.’ I shove my laptop aside and take the bag when he holds it up.
‘Are you serious? How can you possibly think I’d forgetanythingabout you?’
It makes me go warm all over, even though there aresomethings I’d certainly hope he might have disremembered.
He pushes himself up on tiptoe, folds his arms against the curve of the trunk and rests his chin on them. ‘It’s nice in there, right? Like a treehouse crossed with a childhood den. Makes me feel like a kid again.’
‘Yeah. And with a bonus of homicidal sheep not being able to reach you.’
It’s his turn to burst out laughing, and I love the way his eyes still crinkle up – more crinkles than there used to be now, but the sight of his crow’s feet makes me smile, and I still want to reach across and smooth them out.
His laughing eyes meet mine and he wets his lips slowly with his tongue, making me swallow hard. His eyes are bright, and his stubble is dark and just the right level of tantalisingly prickly to make me imagine the feel of it against my skin.
‘God, I missed you.’ He pushes himself up and I don’t realise I’ve automatically moved towards him until our foreheads come within a millimetre of crashing, and my balance suddenly goes and I have to grip the tree trunk to avoid falling out.
‘It’s only been a few hours,’ I say quickly to distract from how close that was – both the kiss and ending up face first on the ground.
