“But none of it’s true!”
“It is! I mean…it will be. It can be. I’m going to get this printed up on special paper,” I add.
I already know the paper I want to use. It’s a recycled, unfinished paper that we used once at Cooper Clemmow for a cereal brand. I remember Demeter giving the office one of her spontaneous lectures on why this paper was the ideal choice, and, I have to admit, I lapped up every word. It’ll look perfect.
I could probably spend all day discussing the design, but after a while Dad says he has to check on some sick cow, and he heads out.
“Ansters Farm Country Retreat.” Biddy is looking lovingly at the front of the leaflet again. “Doesn’t it look beautiful? I don’t know how you can leave, darling. Don’t you ever think about moving back?” There’s a wistful cast to her expression, and I feel a familiar wave of guilt. I think Biddy picks up on it, because she quickly adds, “I mean, I know your life is very exciting in London….”
I let her words hang in the air without contradicting them but without nodding either. It’s quiet and cozy, sitting here with Biddy, and I almost feel like drawing closer and confiding in her. Asking her about Dad, how hurt he really is. Whether he’ll ever get over the fact that I’ve chosen London over him.
But I haven’t got the guts to speak. I guess I’m too scared of what I might hear. The prickliness between me and Dad isn’t great, but it’s tolerable. Whereas to have my worst fears confirmed would just…Even the thought makes me flinch. No. Don’t go there.
Biddy would never volunteer anything without being asked; she’s scrupulous like that. She’s positioned herself in our family with the utmost tact, and there are places she just doesn’t go. So even though I feel as if the subject is dancing around us in the ether, demanding to be discussed, neither of us says a word about it. We sip our tea and it slowly ebbs away again, like these things always do.
After a while, I pull the leaflet toward me. The truth is, I do feel a little tug in my heart as I survey the farm, looking as picturesque as any glossy magazine spread. It gives me such a feeling of…what, exactly? Pride? Love? Longing?
“Evening, all.” A familiar voice breaks into my thoughts. A familiar, droning, totally unwelcome voice. I look up, trying to mask my dismay—but there he is, Steve Logan, striding into the room with his long, long legs. He’s six foot five, Steve. Always has been.
Well, not always, clearly. But since he was about twelve, and everyone at school used to dare him to go into the off-license and buy a can of beer. (Because obviously a super-tall twelve-year-old boy looks exactly like an adult.)
“Hi, Steve,” I say, trying to sound friendly. “Happy Christmas. How are you?”
Steve works for Dad on the farm, so it makes sense that he’s popped in. But I was really hoping he wouldn’t.
OK, full disclosure: Steve is the first guy I ever slept with. Although, in my defense, there was not a lot of choice.
“Cup of tea, Steve?” says Biddy, and when he nods, she disappears to the kitchen. Steve and I are alone. Great. The thing about Steve and me is, we were together for about five minutes, and I regretted it as soon as we began, and I can’t now imagine what I saw in him apart from: 1. He was a boy. 2. He was available. And 3. I was the only one of my friends not to have a boyfriend.
But Steve has behaved ever since as though we’re some long-standing divorced couple. He and his mum still refer to me as his “ex.” (Hello? We barely dated and we were at school.) He makes in-jokes about the time we spent together and shoots me “significant” glances, which I deliberately misunderstand or ignore. Basically, my way of coping with Steve has been: Avoid him.
But things should be different now, after what Biddy has told me.
“So, congratulations!” I say brightly. “I heard you got engaged to Kayla. Fantastic news!”
“That’s right.” He nods. “That’s right. Asked her in November. It was her birthday.” Steve has this low, intense, monotonous way of talking which is almost mesmerizing. “Put the proposal on Instagram,” he adds. “Want to see?”
“Oh. Er…of course!”
Steve gets out his phone and hands it to me. Dutifully, I start scrolling through photos of him and Kayla in some plushy restaurant with purple wallpaper.
“Took her out for dinner at Shaw Manor. Three courses…everything.” He looks up a bit belligerently. “I know how to spoil her.”
“Wow,” I say politely. “Lovely photos. Gorgeous…forks.”
There are pictures of every detail of the restaurant. The forks, the napkins, the chairs…When the hell did he propose if he was taking all these photos?
“Then I gave her the presents. But the proposal, that was hidden in the last present. In a poem.”
“Amazing!” I search for words. “That’s just…Wow.” I’m still scrolling through pictures of place settings, trying to keep my face set to “interested.”
“I mean, if it had been you, I’d have done it different.” Steve shoots me a look from beneath his brows. “But of course it wasn’t you.”
“What do you mean, ‘if it had been me’?” I feel a stab of alarm.
“I’m just saying. Everyone’s different. You’d like different things out of a proposal. You and Kayla, you’re different.”
OK, this conversation has gone awry. I do not want to be talking to Steve Logan about what I might or might not like out of a proposal.