Page 41 of Once Upon a Thyme
In my pocket my phone began to trill its message that my mother was calling again. I stood, paralysed.
‘To be seen, perhaps,’ Zeb said, gently. ‘To make something of this place in your own right. Your mother does seem to regard you as something of an extension to herself, doesn’t she?’
I pulled my phone out and looked at the screen. That old familiar guilt was tugging away at my insides, the feeling that I needed to make sure that Mother was all right. But pulling the other way was this conversation that I was having with Zeb. I hadn’t realised how little opportunity I ever had to be truly honest with myself, with someone else, and he seemed to understand.
But Mum needed me.
‘I should…’ I held the phone up, as though Zeb might have thought I was talking about something else.
‘Should you? Yes, perhaps you ought. Although…’ He trailed off, staring at the phone.
‘Although, what?’
The ringing stopped and the silence was as heavy as the dust-laden sunlight.
‘I’m not sure. But I think there’s a story here that’s beginning to piece itself together. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle and you are standing so close to the picture that you can only see the bits that are right in front of you.’
‘Oh very enigmatic.’ I was holding the phone, my mind a huge whirl of uncertainty. Should I call her back? What would happen if I didn’t? ‘You’re like Yoda, only without the cuteness.’
‘Thanks.’ Zeb looked genuinely hurt.
‘Sorry. You are quite cute really,’ I said, then clamped my lips together.
Zeb seemed mollified. ‘All right then. I’m just beginning to wonder about some things.’
‘I’m wondering aboutlotsof things.’
‘So, shall we go out then?’ Now he pushed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders slightly as though he expected me to push him away. ‘Or would you rather go to your mum’s?’
I stared at the phone again. Why didn’t she text? Why did she have to ring and then hang up, so I didn’t know whether she wanted to ask me something or whether she’d fallen down the stairs and needed my help?
Zeb was looking at me and I felt my insides give that twist again. Oh God. It felt horribly as though I fancied Zeb! No. No, no, no. This just wasn’t possible. I fancied Mika, I couldn’t fancy Zeb as well, I just didn’t have enough oestrogen in me. Besides – it was Zeb. A dead ringer for David Tennant’s younger, scruffier and lankier brother with a huge side order of no career path and an extra helping of what the hell…
Mum hadn’t rung back.
‘I think going out would be a lovely idea,’ I said, all in one breath. Mum could look after herself for a while, I’d check in on her afterwards. And Zeb really did have lovely eyes.
He brightened. ‘Fabulous.’
Although. ‘But…’ I could feel it now, that pull of guilt and duty. Perhaps shewascrumpled at the bottom of the stairs and that call had used the last of her energy?
‘Look, how about we go for a walk, and during that walk we pass by your mother’s house? You could phone her back and if she needs you then we can call in.’
I felt myself relax. I hadn’t known that I was in such a state of high tension until it left me. ‘I think that sounds…’
‘Just bear in mind that I think your mother might possibly be playing on her illness just a touch to keep you close at hand.’
The tension coiled itself up again. ‘I know. I think so too. But she’s genuinely not well. I’ve seen her some days, she’s so pale she looks as though all her blood has drained away; she can barely stand up or hold a cup and her whole body shakes. She couldn’t fake that, not just to make sure I come when she calls.’
‘I’m not saying she’s faking.’ Zeb held out a hand to me. ‘Come on. You can ring her back on the way. It’s a lovely evening going begging out there while we sit in here. We could be out in the fresh air comparing terrible work experiences.’
I didn’t seem to be entirely myself this evening, almost as though losing my temper and confronting Mika had thrown me into another universe, one where I was much more emotional, and more open to suggestion. On any normal day, I would have answered the phone. I would have kept quiet about my feelings that I was trapped at Drycott. And I most definitely would not have taken Zeb’s hand and headed off out of the cottage into the warm late afternoon.
13
We wandered lanes where the hedges were heavy with late honeysuckle, threaded with meadowsweet and splattered with beginning-to-ripen sloes, their bitter green fading to bruise-black beneath the leaves.
Zeb talked about life. About things beyond herb gardens – working in a busy kitchen where the head chef threw plates out into the yard if he didn’t think the meal looked right. About the break-up of his marriage and returning to study with hours looking at business plans.
