‘The fridge, not a bad idea, Jasmine. I’ll get ice.’ Dr Jameson hurries away.
‘Will she need stitches?’
Stitches?
You examine me and I can see your strawberry-blond nose hairs. One wiry grey pokes out and I want to pull it. ‘What frying pan did you use?’ you ask Dr Jameson.
‘Non-stick, Tefal aluminium,’ he says, returning with provisions for my head. ‘I’ve got the entire set. Five SuperValu coupons and you only have to add fifteen euro. I do a mean French toast on it,’ he says, face pushed up close to mine as he concentrates. His breath smells like barley sugar.
‘Jasmine, what on earth were you doing?’ you ask incredulously.
I clear my throat. ‘I used my keys, I thought you had an intruder. Must have been Dr J,’ I say weakly, closing my eyes as he dabs at my head. ‘Ouch.’
‘Sorry, dear. It wasn’t me because I contacted Matt as soon as I saw your torch,’ Dr Jameson says.
‘Jasmine,’ you say in a low warning voice. ‘Cough it up.’
I sigh.
‘I gave you the wrong letter. From Amy. The one I gave you was one that I had written. For someone else. I got them confused. Mixed up the envelopes.’
I open one eye to see if you’re swallowing it.
Your arms are folded across your chest, you’re looking down on me, assessing me. You’re wearing a faded Barcelona ’92 Olympics T-shirt and stripy baggy boxers. You seem unconvinced by my story, but not completely. It could still work. You suddenly back out and head to the kitchen.
‘Don’t open it,’ I yell, and the shouting makes my head worse.
‘Hold on, don’t move,’ Dr Jameson says, ‘I’m almost there.’
You bring the envelope in. I don’t like the look on your face. It’s that naughty mischievous look. You’re tapping the envelope against your open palm, slowly, rhythmically, while you pace the floor before me. You are going to play with me.
‘So. Jasmine. You broke into my house—’
‘I had a key.’
‘—to retrieve a letter that you say that you wrote for someone else. Why wouldn’t you just tell me that?’
‘Because I was afraid that you would open it. It’s very personal and I don’t trust you.’
You hold a finger up. ‘Plausible. Well done. I would have read it.’
Dr Jameson instructs me to hold the bag of frozen peas to my head and as I sit up to face you, he sits down beside me.
‘That’s plausible to me too,’ he says. He has messy bed-head hair, unbrushed eyebrows and is wearing smart leather shoes with a shell suit that I’ve never seen before, obviously the first things he grabbed when getting out of bed.
‘What am I, on trial here?’
‘Yes,’ you say, narrowing your eyes at me as you pace.
You are so dramatic.
‘Are you sure my head hasn’t fallen off?’ I ask Dr Jameson.
‘Is your neck sore?’
I move it. ‘Yes.’
He moves closer and starts prodding at my neck. ‘Is it sore here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it sore here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it sore here?’
‘Yes.’
You stop pacing and look at me. ‘Who is your letter addressed to?’
I stall. Assess the situation. I know you will check it.
‘Matt,’ I say.
You laugh. ‘Matt.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a coincidence.’
‘Hence the mix-up.’
You hold it out to me and I quickly reach out. It’s just beyond my grasp, millimetres away from my fingertips when you whip it back and tear it open.
‘No!’ I groan and cover my face with a pillow.
‘Read it out loud,’ Dr Jameson says, and I throw the pillow at him and reach for another to hide behind.
‘Dear Matt,’ you say, the mischievous cheeky face on, a reading voice that drips with sarcasm, but as you read ahead silently to yourself to see what’s coming, the sarcasm drops. You pause. You look up at me, then resume reading with your normal voice.
‘We all have stand-out moments in our lives, periods which influenced small or profound changes in us. I can think of four life-changing moments for me: the year I was born, the year I learned I would die, the year my mother died and now I have a new one – the year I met you.’
I cover my face. It’s all coming back to me now.
‘I have heard your voice every day, listened to the unsavoury words that formulate your tasteless thoughts and made a judgement on you. I did not like you. But you are proof that you can think you know someone yet never really know them at all.
‘What I have learned is that you are more, more than what you pretend to be, more than what you believe yourself to be. You are less an awful lot of the time, but being less has driven people away. I think sometimes you like doing that and I understand that too. Hurt people hurt people.’
You clear your throat and I peek at you through a gap in my hands, thinking you might cry.
‘But when you think no one is listening or when you think no one is paying you any attention, you are so much more. It’s a pity that you don’t believe that yourself, or show the people you love.’
For the next part your voice warbles and I peek at you. You are genuinely moved and I am glad, but I am horrendously embarrassed. I watch you read.
‘The year I met you, I met myself. You should do the same, because I think you’ll find a good man.’
You stop reading and there is a long hush in the room.
‘Well, well,’ Dr Jameson says, eyes twinkling.
You clear your throat. ‘Well, I’m sure whoever this Matt is, that he’ll be very appreciative of what you’ve said to him.’
‘Thanks,’ I whisper. ‘I hope so.’
I stand up to take the letter from your hand and as I do, you refuse to let go of the letter. I think you are playing with me, but when my eyes meet yours, I realise you are serious. Your hand brushes mine instead. You nod in thanks, a sincere, touched thanks.
I return it with a smile.
25
We are in the middle of our second heatwave this summer. We are also in the midst of a water shortage; the council have cancelled water for a few hours every day and if anyone is seen using a hose to clean their car, garden, dog or self they are liable to be hanged on the spot. Or something.
Sick days records are at an all-time high this week, greens are packed with half-naked bodies, the scent of suncream and barbecue are in the air and overflowing buses from the city centre to the seaside sway from side to side as they carry their merry load.
Caroline and I are staring across the garden table at each other in a long impatient silence, both clearly wanting to say something but biting our tongues. It is a beautiful Saturday and we are sitting out under the sun umbrella in her back garden, the first time I have seen her since Heather staged the intervention into my non-moving life. What has led to this staring stand-off is yet another of my propositions which she has once again batted away. I have suggested she change the name of her idea to ‘Frock Swap’, in order to give it more of an international appeal. I know that she knows it makes sense but she’s finding it hard to let go of her clever logo and the fact that this new name isn’t her idea. I understand this but what I was afraid was happening is actually happening. She has recognised my success in this area, which was why she came to me in the first place, and there is nothing wrong with that, only she is chasing success and success alone. What she has failed to take into account is the reason why my projects have worked: because I have injected my sensibilities, my passion, my ideas and my heart, and not blindly followed other people’s orders. I know that this will never work with us. I now understand how it is that I work; how I want to work and how I have to work.
And though this makes for uncomfortable conversation, it would be one I could have maturely if it were someone I have no personal ties to, but
not Caroline, my friend of ten years, whose garden I’m sitting in, whose head I’ve held over the toilet bowl, whose swollen breasts I’ve held cabbage leaves to, whose tears I’ve dried when her marriage ended, and whose daughters’ home-made fairy cakes I am now eating. It has taken us this long to come together after the circle of support meeting in my house and I know it is because neither of us want conflict or confrontation, but at the same time neither of us is prepared to settle.
‘Caroline,’ I say gently, and I take her hand in mine. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I fear that we must consciously uncouple from working together on this.’
And on that she throws her head back and laughs, and I know that we’re okay.
The sun still shines and I venture out to Bloom, Ireland’s largest gardening, food and family event, that takes place in Phoenix Park over the bank holiday weekend and attracts thousands. There are cookery and craft demonstrations, free gardening advice from the experts, Irish produce, live entertainment, gardening workshops. My own little slice of heaven, and I was invited by Monday, who left the ticket in my postbox along with a dried bluebell pushed between the pages of the invitation. The only communication we’ve had since then was a phone conversation where he allowed me to stay on just long enough to accept the invitation and then tell me rather mysteriously that I’ll know where to find him. I think the bluebell is a clue. In fact it is. Worried that he would end up sleeping overnight in Phoenix Park while I wander off following the wrong clues, he texts me, ‘The bluebell is a clue,’ which is rather pathetically sweet of him.
There are kids’ zones, cooking zones, main stages and smaller stages with chefs doing cooking exhibitions, audiences crowded around, tasting, Irish dancers, DIY displays, bubble displays and fashion shows. The park is buzzing with event after event, something for everyone. Around me, award-winning garden designers have created entire new worlds in their small plots of land. There is a sharp and sleek Scandic garden, a Japanese garden, a Chinese garden, a Wizard of Oz garden, some fun, some quirky, some breathtaking, all of them taking me into another world.
Though my heart is bursting to see him, I take my time wandering around, not wanting to miss a clue, and also enjoying the atmosphere. This time last year I would not have thought about being here, I wouldn’t have considered this event to be for someone like me, unless I was there to work, unless I was pitching something to someone and with my eye on the prize. And if I had been here under those circumstances I would have missed the beauty of the place. It is almost a cliché to hear people talking about ‘slowing down’, but it is true. I have slowed down and through slowing, I see so much more.
It is when I see a recreated Irish landscape with Connemara drystone walls and a caravan – the idea being to capture the ‘staycation’, holidaying in Ireland in summertime – that I sense I’m close. There is a field of bluebells, the purple haze like a carpet, leading the eye all the way past the drystone walls, the bog marshes and the lake … and there he is. Monday stands at the door of a sixties caravan, which sits in the long grass as though it has been there, abandoned for years. The door is open, there is a floral window blind flapping in the breeze.
I stop by the rusted gate.
‘Fáilte, Jasmine,’ he says, a coy smile on his face, and I sense nervousness too.
I laugh.
‘Come on in,’ he motions, and as I push the gate open it gives the perfect creak, as though it’s not real. I make my way through the tall purple flowers which line the pathway, mixed with fluffy cream-coloured blossoms that perfume the air with their fragrance: loosestrife and meadowsweet. It’s a hot day and for the occasion I’m wearing a floral summer dress, though the poppies are more pop art than country garden. The fragrance of the meadowsweet gives way to pungent garlic as the wild garlic reaches my nose.
When I get closer, he sees the enormous lump caused by Dr Jameson’s frying pan, and he holds my face in his hands, concern, and anger all over his face.
‘What happened?’
‘An accident.’
‘Who did this?’ Dark, concerned, angry face.
‘Dr J. It’s a long story …’
‘What?’
‘An accident. To do with the letter …’ I bite my lip.
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘Honestly, I’ve never met anyone like you three …’ He kisses my bruise tenderly. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you, full stop.’ He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing against my palm, which makes me shiver, and he leads me to the caravan. I peer inside and see the table has been set for lunch.
‘Do you do this for all the people you headhunt?’
‘Depends on the commission.’
‘I can imagine what you give them when you get actual commission,’ I tease. ‘Really wish I’d got that job now.’
He fixes me with a look that makes my heart race and I try to calm my flustered innards as we sit in the tiny caravan, our knees touching under the fold-out table.
‘So instead of always going to your house, I thought I’d bring you to my home and show you a slice of where I come from.’
‘Monday, this is beautiful. And incredibly sweet.’
He blushes but forges onward, ‘And in the spirit of being home, I brought you what I grew up eating.’ He opens the containers. ‘Blackberries, wild strawberries. We used to pick them and my grandmother made jam. Apple pie.’ He reveals the delights, Tupperware box by Tupperware box. ‘Wild garlic pesto with hot brown bread.’
My mouth waters. ‘Did you cook all of this?’
He’s embarrassed again. ‘Yeah, but they’re Maimeó’s recipes. Foolproof. My mam can’t cook to save her life, so for lunch I had …’ he makes a grand gesture with a Superman lunchbox, ‘salad-cream sandwiches.’
‘Wow.’
‘I know. She was hopeless. Still is. Maimeó raised me, really. Tough woman, moved over from the Aran Islands when my mam got pregnant with me, even though she was an Aran islander at heart and being away almost killed her. She brought me there every chance she could.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He doesn’t say anything, just starts sharing out the food.
‘Your home is a lot more peaceful than mine was the last time you were there. I’m sorry about the meeting …’ I need to address it.
‘Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry it was sprung on you. That lady who works with your sister, Jamie, told me it would be a surprise for you. I thought maybe you’d like it.’
‘You didn’t think that I’d like that, surely.’
‘I don’t know you very well, Jasmine. But I want to.’ No blushing this time, just hazel emerald eyes. ‘How’s your ex?’
‘Oh God. Monday. I’m so sorry about that. Really—’
‘You don’t need to apologise. We weren’t … there was nothing …’ But I can see that it hurt him.
‘And I’m sorry about the interview.’ I cover my face in my hands. ‘I haven’t started very well at all, have I? If all I have to say to you is sorry.’
‘I understand about the interview,’ he says. ‘I can understand how you’d want to follow Heather. You should have just told me, you know? I was calling and calling. I could have tried to change the date.’
‘I know.’ I wince. ‘I couldn’t think what to say to you.’
‘The truth is always fine with me.’ He shrugs easily.
‘Okay. Yes. Sorry.’
‘Stop saying sorry.’
I nod. ‘Don’t suppose you’d want to headhunt me for anything else?’ I try weakly. ‘I can be quite reliable—’
‘I have a wonderful prospect for you,’ he says, spooning clotted cream on to strawberry-jam-covered scones.
‘Yeah?’ I light up.
He stops what he’s doing and fixes me with one of his looks. ‘How about a six foot, black-haired, green-eyed, freckle-faced black man from Connemara? One in a million. Actually, one in four point seven million.’
&n
bsp; My heart soars. ‘I’ll take it,’ I say, and he leans in to kiss me and it is as long and luscious as I have daydreamed and imagined it would be.
‘Your elbow is in the jam,’ I whisper, mid-kiss.
‘I know,’ he whispers back.
‘And you’re not six foot.’
‘Ssh,’ he whispers again, kissing me. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’
We laugh as we pull apart.
‘So now it’s my turn to apologise,’ he says, playing with my fingers. I’m no small lady but my hands look like doll’s hands in his. ‘I’m sorry it took me so long to—’
‘Make a move?’ I offer.
‘Yes,’ he finally looks me in the eye. ‘I’m really quite shy,’ he says, and I believe him. For someone who is so confident when it comes to work, he is endearingly awkward at this kind of thing. ‘I used the job as an excuse to keep seeing you while I tried to summon up the courage, and every single time I prattled on about the job I was trying to figure out if you were going to say no, or laugh in my face. Obviously headhunting someone doesn’t usually bring me to their house for dinner.’
‘Or to help with their water fountain.’
He laughs. ‘Or that. Or help them spy on their neighbour.’
‘You weren’t too shy to organise this,’ I say.
‘I’m more of a grand gestures kind of man,’ he says, and we laugh. ‘The ex-boyfriend thing gave me the kick up the arse I needed.’
I cringe again.
‘Is he … keen to get you back?’
‘Yes,’ I say, gravely serious.
‘Oh.’
‘He called me at one a.m. a few nights ago singing All Saints’ “Bootie Call”. He sings like an altar boy.’
‘Oh,’ he says in a lighter tone, less concerned.
‘So obviously you have a lot to contend with,’ I add.
‘Maybe a sing-off,’ he suggests. ‘You know, as soon as I saw your red head covered in muck and garden leaves I knew I wanted you. I just couldn’t figure out what to do about it. The job bought me time. So none of it was a waste of my time, if that’s what you’re worried about.’