Heather and Jonathan check in and they take two single rooms, as discussed. I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath until the air suddenly whooshes out of my mouth and I feel my body release tension. I check into the room I booked while on the train. I have asked to be on the same floor as Heather and Jonathan. All I have is my work briefcase and it seems strange not to have luggage when checking in, but I have survived a spontaneous dirty weekend on disposable spa thongs and I know I can do the same here.
I don’t spend any time in my room. I go straight back down to the lobby to wait and hope I haven’t missed them. They hold hands as they explore the grounds outside, I try to keep as much of a distance as possible, but it’s not enough for me to see Heather from afar, I need to see her face. I need to be able to read her to make sure she is really okay. I get a bit braver and hide behind nearby trees. They find a playground beside a group of holiday homes that is alive and swarming with children. Heather sits on a swing and Jonathan pushes her. I sit on the grass and lift my face to the sun and close my eyes, and listen and smile at the sound of her laughter. I’m glad that I’m here, I’ve done the right thing.
They spend ninety minutes in the playground and then they go swimming. I watch her yellow swim hat bobbing up and down in the water, as Jonathan pretends to be a shark, as they play volleyball, badly, as she shrieks as he splashes her. He is caring and thoughtful and takes care of her every step of the way, almost treating her as though she is fragile, or perhaps precious, as though it is his honour to assist her. He opens doors, he pulls out chairs, he is a little clumsy but he accomplishes everything. Heather is so independent and yet she allows him to do this, seems happy for him to do this. She has spent so many years not wanting to be a person that needs unnecessary assistance, seeing her like this surprises me.
They change for dinner, Heather wearing a new dress we shopped for together, and lipstick. She doesn’t usually wear make-up, and lipstick is a big deal. It is red and it doesn’t match her pink dress, but she’d insisted on it. She looks mature as they walk together and I notice her hair is flecked with grey at the roots and wonder when that happened. When they are safely in the lift I follow the path they took and breathe in the perfume she is wearing. Faced with the impossible decision of which one to wear, she’d asked me which one Mum wore, and bought that. Mum’s scent fills my lungs as I follow Heather’s trail.
They eat downstairs in the main dining room. I choose to sit in the bar where I can still have a view of them. Heather orders the goat’s cheese starter and I’m confused because I know she doesn’t like it. I think she has misread it. I order the same to see what it’s like, if she ever talks about it in the future, I’ll know exactly what she’s talking about. They order a glass of wine each, which concerns me as Heather doesn’t drink. She takes a sip and makes a face. They both laugh and she pushes the glass far away from her. I order the same and drink it all. I’m contented, sitting here and watching her, feeling a part of it despite not completely being a part of it.
She eats the apple and beetroot from her starter but leaves the goat’s cheese. I hear her explain to the waiter that she misread it and thought it was normal cheese, she doesn’t want him to think it was the chef’s fault. She’s nervous; I can tell by the way she keeps fixing her hair behind her ear, even though it never comes loose. I want to tell her that it’s okay, I’m here, and for a moment I consider letting her in on my secret, but then quickly decide against it. She needs to think she is doing all this alone. They eat three courses, Jonathan finishes off his entire steak and sides, Heather eats battered fish and chips. They taste each other’s desserts. Jonathan spoons his chocolate fondue into her mouth, only he must be nervous too because his hand jerks and she ends up with chocolate on her nose. He turns puce and looks as though he wants to cry, but Heather starts laughing and he relaxes. He dips his napkin into his glass of water and leans over to tenderly clean the chocolate from her face. Heather does not take her eyes off him for one moment and it occurs to me that I could have sat right beside them and they would never have noticed me at all.
The Lithops plant is commonly called the Living Stone. These plants thrive in deserts, hidden away in rocky beds so that when their yellow flowers burst into bloom it’s as if they’ve sprung out of nowhere. Surprise! I want to do that now, but no. I’ll stay right here where they can’t see me. It’s natural to deceive.
That night when I turn on my phone there are four more missed calls from Monday and the text messages range from angry to concerned.
Caladium steudneriifolium pretends to be ill; the pattern of its leaves mimics the damage done by moth larvae when they hatch and eat through the plant, and this prevents moths from laying their eggs there. I tell Monday I have been terribly ill. It’s natural to deceive.
Heather calls me when she and I are back in our rooms and tells me everything that has happened to her today. It is everything that I have seen already and I feel happy that she has shared it all with me, not leaving anything out.
I drink a bottle of wine from the minibar and I listen out for the opening and closing of bedroom doors in the corridor. Each time I hear a door I think is in their direction, I peep out and duck back in again. They stay in their rooms all night.
The following day they take a trip to Fota Island. They spend a long time looking at and photographing the Lar gibbons, who sing loudly and swing wildly, much to Heather’s delight. They take photographs of each other and then Jonathan asks a teenage boy to take a photograph of the both of them. I don’t like the look of the teenager, he is not someone I would have personally trusted with my phone, and Jonathan doing this annoys me. I move closer, just in case. The teenager’s gang of friends are already sniggering at Jonathan and Heather’s happy faces pushed together for the photo. I move closer and closer, ready to pounce on him when he runs off with Jonathan’s phone. The boy takes the photo and hands it back to them. I freeze, then step in behind a tree so I’m not seen. Jonathan and Heather examine the photos and then surprise me by heading back in my direction, and as they do my phone beeps. It is a message from Heather; the photograph of her and Jonathan. This makes me feel sad inside, disappointed at myself for being here. It is as though somebody has taken a pin and popped my balloon. Why didn’t I trust that Heather would keep me informed and therefore involved every step of the way? I had wanted to share this place with her, had been put out by my own suggestion that they come here and yet, she is sharing it with me. Feeling unnerved, I hang back a little further.
Heather and Jonathan spend four hours in the park. It is hot and humid and busy with school tours and families. Wishing I had a change of clothes more suited to this weather than the black suit I’d put on for my interview, I stay in the shade, but I never lose them. They stop for ice cream and talk for an hour, then they return to the hotel. They sit in the bar, both drinking 7UP and they continue their conversation. I don’t think I have ever spoken to anybody for so long at one sitting, but the words flow from each of them and their attention is completely focused on one another. It is beautiful, but again I feel a tinge of sadness, which makes me feel ridiculous. I am not here to feel sorry for myself. They eat in the bar and go to bed early, tired from their long day outside.
I have one message from Monday. Call me. Please.
My finger hovers over the call button but instead my phone rings and I talk to Heather for forty-five minutes about the day she had. She tells me absolutely everything that I have already witnessed and the jubilation I felt yesterday at being here and knowing she is sharing everything with me has disappeared. I feel like a traitor. I should have trusted that she would be capable. I shouldn’t be here.
It is day three. They will be leaving tomorrow and they are sitting outside the hotel talking. What began as a beautiful day has quickly turned. While everyone moves inside to shelter from the cool breeze, Heather and Jonathan, oblivious to the cold, continue to talk. Sometimes they don’t talk and sit comfortable in each other’s company,
and I can’t stop watching them, absolutely fascinated by what is going on with them.
Something inside me shifts. Although it has already dawned on me that I shouldn’t be here, I realise that I should leave now. Because if Heather ever finds out, I know it would jeopardise my relationship with her. This trip is important to her and my being here is disrespectful to her. I know this and yet it only hits me now. I have betrayed her by coming here, and I feel ill and upset with myself for that. I betrayed Monday for this – another betrayal. I have to leave.
I hurry to my room to collect the few belongings I brought with me. I check out. As I scurry through the lobby, suddenly eager to flee the scene, I run smack-bang into Heather and Jonathan.
‘Jasmine!’ she says, shock written all over her face. At first she is happy to see me and then I watch how she processes it, joy turning to confusion. Bafflement, then wonder. She is too polite to be angry with me, even if she has figured it out.
I’m so stunned by the sight of them, and feel so caught out, that I don’t know what to say. Guilt is written all over my face. They both know it and look to each other, seeming as appalled as I feel.
‘I wanted to make sure that you’re okay,’ my voice wobbles. ‘I was … so worried.’ My voice cracks and I whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’
Heather looks at me in shock. ‘Did you follow me, Jasmine?’
‘I’m going now, I promise. I’m sorry.’ My lips brush her forehead quickly as I leave, clumsily bumping into people in the halls as I make my way to the door.
The look that Heather gives me, and the way that I feel, is not natural.
For the next few hours I sit on the train, face in my hands, repeating the mantra. I have let Monday down, I have let Heather down, I have let myself down.
The taxi pulls up outside my house and I climb out, exhausted and desperately in need of a change of clothes. I look at my garden, hoping to feel the familiar sense of relief or rejuvenation that I’ve come to expect from it. But I don’t. Something isn’t right. It has lost its vibrancy.
Reality has taught me a lesson, the universe has gotten me back. I have neglected my garden in a heatwave for three days without any instruction to anyone to help. The flowers are thirsty. Worse, slugs have eaten their way through my garden. My cream roses are drooping, my pink peonies are ravaged. I have managed to keep it in all day, but the sight of my precious garden brings me to tears.
I have let Monday down, I have let Heather down, I have let myself down.
I missed an important opportunity in my life, in order to be there for Heather. But Heather didn’t need me. I repeat this to myself. Heather didn’t need me. Perhaps it is me that clings to her, looking for help, for escape from my own world. Instead of living my own life for myself, I have taken on the role of guiding her and in a way mothering her. Whether this was a result of caring for her, or the reason I chose to do it, I’m not sure. I don’t think it matters either way, but I know now that it’s a fact.
Feeling out of control this year, I have turned to my garden to maintain control, thinking it would bend to my will. It has shown me that it will not. Nothing can bend to our will. I neglected my garden and I allowed the slugs to take over.
That is exactly what I have done with myself.
21
Apart from betrayal, June also brings a christening, godmother duties and a one-night-stand with my ex-boyfriend Laurence, the boyfriend who lasted longest, the one everybody thought I’d marry, including me, but the one who left me in the end. Sleeping with him again after two years of Laurence-celibacy was a mistake, it was an enjoyable mistake, but it won’t be happening again. I don’t know what I was thinking, but after a day spent drinking in the sun, the old familiar feelings came back, or the memory of them did, their echo, and so I confused them as easily as I had the male from the female toilets and the glass of water from the straight vodka. Just another oopsie on that long summer’s day. And maybe I was longing for a moment of security, to go back to the feeling of being loved, of feeling in love. Only it didn’t work out that way, of course it didn’t. Recreations never work. The ‘here’s one I made earlier’ can rarely be replicated. Don’t try this at home, kids.
And so I end up outside your house at two in the morning, drunk, throwing pebbles at your window, with a bottle of rosé and two glasses in my hands.
You open the curtains and look out, your face sleepy and confused, your hair standing high on your head. You see me, then disappear from view and I sit at the table and wait for you. Moments later you open the door, tracksuit on, and sleepily make your way to me. When you register my state, the groggy inquisitive look on your face quickly changes to amusement, the expression that makes your blue eyes sparkle mischievously, though smaller and surrounded by the crinkles that squeeze them when you smile.
‘Well, well, well, what have we got here?’ you say, coming towards me with an enormous grin. You give my hair an annoying big-brother ruffle before joining me at the garden table. ‘You look fancy tonight.’
‘Just thought I’d call an urgent neighbourhood meeting,’ I slur, then push a glass towards you and lean over to fill it. I almost fall off my chair as I do so.
‘Not for me.’ You place your hand over the top of the glass.
‘Still not drinking?’ I ask, disappointed.
‘Have I made you get out of bed in the middle of the night lately to get me into my house?’
I think about it. ‘No.’
‘Not for four weeks.’
I top my own glass up some more. ‘Party pooper.’
‘Alcoholic.’
‘Potato, potato,’ I say. I slug back some wine.
‘That’s supportive,’ you say good-naturedly.
‘You’re not an alcoholic. You’re a pisshead – there’s a difference.’
‘Wow. That’s controversial. Explain that please.’
‘You’re an eejit, that’s all. Selfish. Choose late nights over early nights. You’re not addicted, you don’t actually have a drink problem, you have a life problem. I mean, do you go to meetings?’
‘No. Well, kind of. I sit with Dr J.’
‘A retired GP doesn’t count.’
‘Dr J is an alcoholic. Hasn’t had a drink in over twenty years. There’s a lot about him that you don’t know,’ he says, seeing my shocked expression. ‘His wife said she wouldn’t have children until he cleaned himself up. He didn’t stop until he was over fifty. Too late. She stayed with him though.’
‘Well, she’s dead now.’ I drain my glass.
You frown. ‘Yes, Sherlock. She’s dead now.’
‘So she got away in the end.’ I have no idea why I’m saying the things I’m saying. Probably for the sake of being annoying, which I clearly am. It’s fun to be you, I can see why you do it.
You get up and leave the table and disappear into the house. I think you’ve gone for good, but you return with a bag of cheese nachos.
‘Are the kids in there?’
‘Kris and Kylie asked if they could stay another night. They’re enjoying the plot.’
‘Kris and Kylie. So that’s their names. They even sound like twins.’
‘They are.’
‘Oh.’
You have quite an impressive plot of vegetables growing at the side of the house. Though it’s dark, I eye the area. You laugh.
‘You’re jealous.’
‘Why would I be? When I have that.’ We look at my garden. It’s the best on the street, if I do say so myself. ‘Don’t try to compete with me, Marshall,’ I warn.
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ you say, mock-serious. ‘Fionn still isn’t getting into the spirit of things.’
‘He might not ever,’ I say thoughtfully, my finger running around the rim of the glass. ‘No matter what you do.’
‘Well, that’s positive, thanks.’
‘I’m not here to be positive. I’m here to be realistic. If you want cheery tips, talk to okey-dokey Dr J.’
‘I do.’
&nb
sp; ‘I’m surprised about him, you know. He’s lucky he didn’t kill someone at the practice.’
‘He was a functioning alcoholic. The worst kind.’
‘Lucky for you, you weren’t.’
You take both insults: that you’re an alcoholic and that you couldn’t function.
‘I know. He’s made me see that.’
We go quiet and you munch on the nachos. I slug my wine. I realise I’ve been doing the usual thing of attacking you.
‘Every boyfriend I’ve ever been with has left me. Did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ You have that amused expression again. ‘But I can’t say I’m surprised,’ you add, sarcastically, but gently.
‘Because I’m very difficult to live with,’ I say, to your surprise.
‘Why are you difficult to live with?’
‘Because I want everything done my way. I don’t like mistakes.’
‘Jesus, you wouldn’t want to live with me.’
‘You’re quite right. I don’t.’
Silence.
‘Where’s this coming from tonight?’
‘I slept with my ex.’
You look at your watch. It’s two a.m.
‘I left when he was asleep.’
‘He was probably pretending to be asleep.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘I used to pull that trick all the time.’
‘Well, it worked. She left.’
You don’t like that joke so much, probably because it didn’t come out as a joke.
‘So is that what he told you? That you’re difficult to live with?’
‘Not in so many words. I came up with it all by myself. It’s something I’ve realised since …’ I look over at my garden, beautiful and blooming, drawing the magical source of knowledge into myself. The more I dig into the soil, the more I dig into myself.