The Things I Know(88)
‘If nothing else, it’s the only way to meet fellas where we live. Not that you’re going to need any introductions – they’ll go mad for your accent over there.’
Thomasina felt her smile slip as she tried to imagine walking in that strange city with her head held high, avoiding eye contact with anyone who stared, and she wondered again if Grayson was right. Had she been hiding? Was now the time to get her mouth properly fixed? She covered her lips with her hand, almost in reflex.
‘You still missing Grayskull?’
‘Yes, a bit.’
‘You need to get back out there. I mean, look at me,’ Shelley said with a sigh. ‘I was gutted when your Jonathan left. We were getting on great. I felt like we had a real connection – he’s lovely. And then, just like that’ – she snapped her fingers – ‘he’d taken off for bloody America! What is it with your family and me? We get close and, before I know it, you’re applying for visas! Don’t let me meet Pops, or the next thing you know he’ll be heading for Chicago and your mum to Florida!’
Thomasina stopped and stared at her. ‘I didn’t know that you and Jonathan, that he and you . . .’ She felt at a loss for words.
‘Oh, nothing happened, but you know when you both know that something might and it’s so exciting!’ She beamed and bit her lip. ‘We were at that stage.’
Thomasina remembered a conversation about Shelley before her brother left.
‘You like Shelley?’
‘Kind of . . . I would never want to be mean to her – she’s fabulous!’
‘I had no idea.’ She thought of how different things might have been if her brother had stayed at home and settled down with this girl, who was indeed a bit fabulous. Home. It was a moment of realisation that the Waycotts had farmed the area for generations and yet, in a couple of weeks, it would all come to an end. She wondered what Great-Grandma Mimi and Great-Grandpa Walter would make of that.
‘You look miles away. What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking I’m ready for that coffee and cake!’ she lied, linking her arm through Shelley’s and swallowing the nostalgic bloom at the back of her throat. Just a few weeks, and that would be it: a different surname on the deeds. She placed her hand on her chest and tried to ease the sting where the realisation of what was about to happen had pierced her heart. She pictured the Big Apple and the wonderful adventure that beckoned and, not for the first time, she felt torn.
Thomasina fed the cattle, cleaned out the chickens and, with Buddy on the front seat, she drove around the lower lanes to find Bonnie and Clyde, the two ducks that had gone AWOL. Again. This time, she found them in a muddy, shallow puddle, looking rather pleased with themselves.
As she pulled back around to the front of the farmhouse with the ducks in the rear, a taxi pulled up at the front of the house – a rare thing now that there were no bed-and-breakfast bookings, not with them so close to completing the sale, which would happen only next month. She drove past the vehicle and pulled into the yard and, as she did so, the breath caught in her throat, her legs turned to jelly and she felt sick.
There in the back seat of the cab sat none other than Grayson Potts.
Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Grayson!
Her first thought was to hide, her second to run away.
She had, in the first weeks since she’d seen him, longed for him to turn up, imagined the sweet joy of reunion, jumping out of her bed and looking out of the window at the slightest squeak of a brake or the whirr of an engine, but this was nothing like that. Things were different now: she had started to prepare for New York and her bedroom was packed away into boxes. At the sight of him, she felt the spread of panic as her heart beat fast and her mouth went dry. She wasn’t sure if it was excitement, anger or anticipation at the thought of seeing him again – possibly, a combination of all three – but whatever it was, she felt light-headed and more than a little nauseous. Her thoughts raged: Why had he come back? Had she brushed her hair? Was she covered in cow shit? She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear whatever it was he had to say – her hurt had been visceral and the wounds still smarted. These thoughts, however, were all underpinned by an internal whoop of joy over which she had no control.
She turned her attention to Bonnie and Clyde, the escapee ducks.
‘Come on! Come down, you two! You can’t be wandering off wherever you like. You’ll cause your mum and dad no end of worry!’ She scolded the birds, trying to keep her voice steady and ignoring the wide flap of their wings and squawks of protest as she thrust them into the yard, shooing them towards the inner pond and their awaiting family. She was aware of Grayson walking up the side path, recognising the lope of his gait, the scrape of the soles on his lace-up London shoes and the outline shape of him, his height, his quiet calm . . . all from no more than an awareness in her peripheral vision. Buddy, the traitor, ran over and pushed his muzzle into his hand. She heard the enthusiastic welcome and the small laugh that underpinned his words, coming from this man who was no dog lover, apparently.
‘Thomasina!’ he called to her.
‘What?’ she answered, still concentrating on driving the ducks towards the pond and closing the iron gate behind them, not giving Grayson the courtesy of turning around to face him.
‘I’m here!’