The Year I Met You (26 page)

‘Jasmine,’ Monday says, joining me in the kitchen. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No,’ I lie, and he knows I’m lying.

After he leaves, I stay at the kitchen table and bite all of my nails down to the quick.

Monday calls me on Thursday ninth when I am in Heather’s apartment packing with her, to make sure everything is okay for her trip the following day. He is suspicious and he is right to be, I am vague, and though I am committed to going to the interview in my head, when I say the words aloud even I don’t believe them. I need the job. I need to get my life back on track. But Heather. My heart is completely torn and I am overwhelmed with worry.

‘See you tomorrow, Jasmine,’ Monday says.

‘See you tomorrow,’ I finally say and I almost choke on the final word.

The following day I am seeing Heather off at Heuston train station as if she’s a soldier going off to war, and at eleven a.m. when I should be sitting in a boardroom selling myself and getting my life back on track, I am instead sitting in the carriage connected to Heather and Jonathan’s, watching them play Snap, as we travel to Cork. Monday calls me four times and I ignore each one. He couldn’t understand right now, but I know I am doing the right thing.

A man sits in the seat diagonally to me and blocks my view of Heather. I always thought that the garden, that nature, was honest, truthful, open. You work hard on it and you receive the rewards, but even in a garden there is deception and trickery. It seems to be natural, we do it to survive. The Stapelia asterias plant knows how to attract beneficial insects by looking and smelling like rotting flesh. It emits a putrid stench to go with its less than pretty appearance. I take its lead. I clear my nose of mucus and try to clear my throat, noisily. The young man is rightly grossed out by me and moves to another seat. I can see Heather again. It’s natural to deceive.

Monday calls my phone for the fifth time. The passion flower vine developed little yellow spots that resemble Heliconious butterfly eggs, which convinces female butterflies to look elsewhere so their offspring won’t have to compete with other caterpillars when they hatch. I think of my friend who, when in a nightclub and asked to dance by a man she’s not interested in, mentions the baby she doesn’t have and watches him turn on his heel quickly. I ignore Monday’s call. It’s natural to deceive.

There is a car to greet Heather and Jonathan at the train station; we organised this with the hotel and I see the driver standing with a sign with their names on it before they see it. Heather and Jonathan walk by him, searching in the wrong direction, and I want to call out to them but bite my tongue at the last minute. It’s just as well because they turn around, as if hearing my thoughts, and see him as they make their way back.

The male orchid dupe wasp is so attracted to the tongue orchid that it ejaculates right on to the flower’s petals. Flowers that can trick insects into ejaculating have the highest rates of pollination. I think of my friend who got pregnant so that her boyfriend would marry her, and then got pregnant again to keep them together when they were falling apart, and I remember that it is natural to deceive. I get into a taxi and follow their car to the hotel.

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.