The Switch(78)

‘Skip the party,’ I say impulsively. ‘Come to the launch of the Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club.’ I press a kiss to his cheek. ‘It would be so lovely to have you there.’

He pauses. ‘Well, I … I suppose I could.’

I beam. This project has been the most important part of my time here in London – it feels right to have Tod there for its grand opening. And perhaps what he says is true. Perhaps this doesn’t have to be over, just because I’m going to move back to Yorkshire. It’s only a couple of hours away on the train, after all.

It only occurs to me after I leave his house that Howard has said he will be at the grand opening, too. Oh, dear. I suppose this is when dating gets complicated.





27


Leena


‘Absolutely not,’ I say firmly.

‘But Vera’s got the squits!’ Penelope wails at me.

I’ve got so much to do I don’t even have time to find that funny.

‘Penelope, I have to be out there making sure everything is running smoothly! Surely there is a young woman in this village who can be coerced or bribed into being May Queen.’

‘I suppose … There’s Ursula …’

Ursula is the sixteen-year-old whose parents own the village shop. She is usually to be found curled up with a book in the corner by the fresh vegetables. I have never seen her exchange a word with anybody.

‘Perfect,’ I say, turning back to the beautiful coat-of-arms garlands currently being slung between the lamp posts on Peewit Street. It’s a chilly morning; the garlands are reflected in silver in the puddles on the pavement, and the flags we’ve fixed to the war memorial at the end of the street are flying beautifully in the wind. ‘I leave it in your capable hands, Penelope.’

‘That garland is wonky,’ Roland says.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. ‘Thank you, Roland.’

‘No trouble,’ he says amiably, buzzing away after Penelope.

‘It is, you know,’ comes Jackson’s voice.

I turn. In the end, I went very gentle on him with the May King costume. He’s dressed in green trousers tucked into tall brown boots, and a loose white shirt belted at the waist, kind of like how I imagine Robin Hood, only as if he was a massive rugby player instead of a wily man of the forest. The May Day wreath is already around his neck. It’s beautiful – Kathleen wove it out of wild flowers and leaves she found in the hedgerows.

The pièce de résistance, though, is the horns. Big green ones, curving like ram’s horns, as tall as my Easter bunny ears were.

I went gentle, but I wasn’t going to let the man off without some ridiculous headwear.

‘Hey,’ he says as I suppress a smile. ‘I kept a straight face when you looked like Roger Rabbit.’

I press my lips together and adopt the most solemn expression I can manage. ‘Very regal,’ I say. When I turn back to the garlands, I feel something land around my neck. I look down; the May Queen wreath, the same as Jackson’s, but with a few pink flowers woven among the white.

I spin on my heels to look at him again. ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ I say, moving to take off the wreath.

Jackson’s hand catches my wrist. ‘You know Ursula will never do it. Come on. Community spirit.’

‘I can’t be in the parade, I’ve got to organise everything!’ I protest. ‘The May King and Queen float has rotted through the middle – I need to either find a very talented carpenter or another float – and …’

‘Leave it with me,’ Jackson says, one dimple beginning to show in his cheek. ‘Be my May Queen and I’ll find you a way to travel in style, all right?’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘In case you’re wondering, this is my suspicious face.’

‘I’ve grown pretty familiar with that face, actually,’ Jackson says. His hand is still on my wrist; I wonder if he can feel my pulse fluttering. ‘Leave it to me,’ he says again, and when he drops my arm I can still feel the memory of his fingers on my skin, warm like sunlight.

I need Ethan to get here. It’s been too long. I’m getting silly and distracted by this stupid – this whatever-it-is, this crush on Jackson. This week I’ve caught myself thinking about him when I shouldn’t be, re-running our conversations as I make dinner, imagining what he might have been thinking. Remembering the sandy freckles under his steady blue eyes and the feel of his body pressed against mine as I was thrown back against the living-room mirror.

I check my phone – I’m waiting for Ethan to text and let me know when he’ll get here – but I’ve got no signal, as per usual. I growl, turning back to the garland-arranging, my brain ticking its way through the list of jobs still to do: check Portaloos have arrived, deal with flooding in field currently planned for parking, ring the man about ice delivery, check in with Betsy on food stalls …

Penelope returns. ‘Ursula said she’d rather let one of those falcons peck out her eyes than be May Queen,’ she announces.

‘God, that’s … graphic,’ I say. I have clearly misread Ursula. ‘OK, I’ll think of someone else once I’ve sorted food stalls and ice and flooding and Portaloos.’

‘Breathe, dear,’ Penelope says, laying a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ve done so much already! I’m sure Betsy won’t mind if you take a little break.’