Wildflower Hill (47 page)

I’d called Patrick straight after I’d booked the flight, I’d called him to say I had to return to London indefinitely and to wish him luck with the concert.

“Mina will be disappointed,” he’d said. And damn him for saying the only thing that could make me feel guilty. Apart from that, he hadn’t begged me to stay. He made no sudden declaration of love. What would I have done if he had?

The fog rolled off the river and lifted to reveal a clear autumn morning. I dug around in the bottom of my suitcase for my old address book, to look up old friends.
Friends
was
perhaps a bit of a stretch. Old acquaintances, people I’d air-kissed and promised to call sometime in the past.

First call: answering machine.

Second call: rang out.

Third call: no longer at this number.

I kept going, determined to find somebody.

Fourth call: a human being.

“Hello, is Miranda there?” I said, knowing I sounded desperate.

“This is Miranda.”

“Hi, it’s Emma Blaxland-Hunter.”

A short pause. “Emma?”

“I know, I know. It’s been a long time.”

“I thought you moved to Australia.”

“I was there for a while, but now I’m back. I’d love to catch up some time.”

“Well, certainly, but I’m catching a plane this afternoon to Switzerland for a season of
The Firebird.
I won’t be back until Christmas Eve.”

I was speechless for a moment. That was my life once. Jetting about, turning up at new theaters in new cities, being dressed and made up, taking to the stage under the blazing lights, giving my body over to the music.

“Perhaps I’ll give you a call then,” I managed.

I continued on through my book, came across another Miranda, and suddenly wasn’t sure which one I’d been talking to. I sighed. Put the book away. I knew Adelaide would be down at the rehearsal studio, running errands for the Flying Fascist. She would be glad to see me, at least. It was
time to climb out of my pajamas and enjoy the life that I’d so longed to get back to.

The last time I’d been at the studio had been the night of my accident. The smells of the place—hair spray, glass cleaner, perspiration—almost overwhelmed me. I spoke briefly to the receptionist and then headed up the stairs,
those
stairs, to find Adelaide.

Instead, I ran into Brian, the artistic director.

“Oh, my!” was the first thing he said. “You’ve packed on the weight!”

I was so taken aback that I couldn’t speak for a moment. Then I said defensively, “I haven’t been able to do anything with this wretched knee.” His words weren’t even true: yes, I was heavier than I had been, but I had been far too thin before. Bony. We all were.

“Let me see,” he said. I had to lift up my skirt to show him the scars from the operations, and he inspected them eagerly. “It was perfect timing, really,” he said, smoothing my skirt down. “If you had to have an accident, that was the time to have it. Right at the end of your career.”

“I’m only thirty-one.”

He shrugged. “I saw you dance. You had two years left if you were lucky.”

“Emma!” An excited voice from down the hallway.

“Adelaide!” I left Brian muttering darkly into his clipboard and gave Adeladie a hug.

“When did you get back?”

“Yesterday morning. Can you come out for lunch? I have so much to tell you.” I dropped my voice low. “Josh asked me to come back.”

Adelaide’s eyes widened in surprise. “He did? And you came?”

“It was all I’d dreamed of for five months.” The words left my mouth hollow.

Adelaide checked her watch. “Alberto’s in rehearsal until twelve-thirty. Would an early lunch now suit?”

“My body clock is so out of whack that it hardly matters,” I said. “Now is fine.”

Outside on the cold street, the scent of roasting chestnuts mingled with the traffic fumes. I’d not remembered London being so noisy, so full of smells and movement. I found it unnerving, disorienting. I blamed that on the jet lag, too. I’d get used to it again.

We wound up at the little café we’d always have our Monday-morning briefings at. It was almost empty—a little too late for morning tea, a little too early for lunch. The only other patrons were a man in a tracksuit eating a fig tart, and a thin woman reading the
Daily Mail.
We ordered and sat down in a warm back corner, as far as we could from the speakers that pumped out jazz music.

“So,” Adelaide said, pushing a curl of black hair off her face. “Josh.”

“Yes. Josh.”

“How did it happen?”

“He split with Sarah. He called me. I came back.”

“And that’s . . . okay with you?”

“Of course.” But I felt awkward around him. And I couldn’t bring myself to sleep with him yet. Didn’t tell her that. “Though I admit,” I said, “it’s all a bit sudden. Let’s talk about you for a while. I can’t bear the scrutiny.”

Adelaide was comfortable to change the topic and told me lots of stories about life with the Flying Fascist, of whom she had come to feel strangely fond. As our meals arrived, she prompted me to tell her what I’d been doing in Tasmania—something Josh hadn’t yet asked me—and I felt a little swirl of melancholy while I told her. It felt an awful lot like homesickness.

In Adelaide’s company, at last I started to relax, not to feel so strange and surreal. The Moselle helped, I was sure. Soon enough, she had to get back to work and walked me out to the street to wait with me for a cab.

“Do you think you’ll stay?” she asked.

“I guess so.”

“Hm.”

“Hm? What does that mean?”

“It’s just . . . When we were talking then, you only mentioned Josh twice.”

“So?”

“You mentioned somebody named Patrick eleven times.”

I laughed it off, was about to tell her that she must have misheard, when a cab came tearing around the corner and we both stepped out to hail it.

“Bye, Emma,” she said, kissing my cheek. “See you soon. Maybe for the wedding.” She winked, but the mention of a wedding made my stomach go ice-cold with fear.

I was just tired. That’s what I told myself in the cab. I was tired and not thinking straight, and that was why being back here in London didn’t feel as fabulous and exciting as I thought it would. Jet lag and two glasses of lunchtime wine conspired against me. I sat on Josh’s couch, trying to concentrate on the television, but fell asleep with the sun on my cheek.

Later, I wasn’t sure how much later, I woke to a tickle on my leg. Somebody’s warm fingers were drifting up under my skirt, creeping between my thighs. My head felt hot, and I was woolly and disoriented. I opened one eye to see Josh lying next to me on the couch. His hand slid up and inched under the elastic of my knickers.

I pushed his hand away. “No, Josh,” I said.

“No?” He made a sad puppy-dog face.

I laughed. “No. I’ve got the worst jet lag I’ve ever had. You’ll have to give me a few days.”

“So you’re too tired? Is that why you’re saying no?”

I sat up. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“And you’re sure this isn’t about me and Sarah?”

I thought hard about the question and realized I didn’t care a great deal about what he’d done with Sarah. Although at the start I had, I’d cared very much. Should I be worried? I didn’t know how to answer that question. “No, I think I’m over that,” I said carefully.

“Then what’s the problem? You’re here, we’re back together. Let’s pick up where we left off.” His voice dropped low, and he murmured close to my ear, “I’ve missed your beautiful body.”

What the hell was wrong with me? I’d dreamed of him saying these things to me, doing these things to me. But right here with him, I felt awkward. Embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel strange. I don’t feel like myself. I’m sure by the weekend I’ll be feeling better. When we can spend some extended time together, I won’t feel so odd.”

“That reminds me,” he said, sitting up and straightening his tie. “Saturday night we’re going to a dinner party at Hugh’s place. I hope that’s okay with you. It’s his fortieth birthday, been organized for months.”

Hugh was Josh’s boorish best friend from work. “Are they expecting me or Sarah?” I asked.

He couldn’t see the humor in the question. “You, of course. I’ve told everyone you’re back, that we’re back together. You needn’t be narky about it.”

I didn’t point out that I wasn’t narky. He’d gone to the cabinet for a bottle of bourbon. We followed the same routine we’d had in the last days of our relationship. We had a drink and cooked together, I talked about my day, he talked about his. But this time I listened to what he was saying, trying to make an effort. I knew that I’d been bad at listening before our split, that I’d been too self-obsessed to care much about the minutiae of his day. I was determined this time to get it right.

I realized, with a terrible sense of disappointment, that Josh didn’t have all that much interesting to say.

*  *  *

Two days passed and not a single old friend returned my calls, so I learned that way that they weren’t really my old friends. I didn’t blame them, I blamed myself and I blamed the scene. We were all trying to get ahead, we were all pretending to like each other, when in truth, we would have climbed over each other’s corpses for bigger and brighter successes. Those people were never my friends, and I was never theirs.

So what was a friendless girl to do? I headed to the library. I caught the tube up to St. Pancras and went looking for information I couldn’t get at home in Australia. I thought Raphael Blanchard might be accounted for in some obscure book in the British Library.

I checked my bag and coat and registered for a reader pass. Once I had my books, I found a seat in the deafening quiet of the reading room and began to leaf through. He was one of three Raphael Blanchards, but I managed to track down a reference to him in a book from the 1950s about minor nobility from the Warwickshire region. I was secretly hoping I’d find out Raphael’s nickname was Charlie, that Grandma had had an affair with him and that was how she’d gotten the farm for free.

Page 181 rewarded me, but not in the way I’d hoped.

The Blanchard family made an unsuccessful attempt to develop agricultural interests in the colonies. Raphael Blanchard was sent by his father to purchase a large sheep farm in Tasmania (far southern Australia, once a penal colony). The business did not prosper and he returned to
Warwickshire in 1935. Rumours circulated that he had lost the farm in a game of poker, but the family maintained that Raphael returned to England for his health.

I would have laughed out loud, only I was in a library. Instead, I sat there with a stupid grin on my face. Grandma won Wildflower Hill in a poker game? She’d always been violently opposed to gambling, from what I could remember. Could it be true? After all, she did get the farm for free.

I wanted to ring my mum and tell her, but that would mean admitting to her that I was in London, and she wasn’t going to take that well at all.

Instead, I asked if I could photocopy the page. I took it back to the apartment with me to wait for Josh to finish work.

My body clock was totally out of its usual rhythm. I couldn’t keep my eyes open during the day and was wide awake before dawn. Josh kissed me goodbye every morning to go to work, and as the week went by, he got less and less patient with me. I didn’t melt into his embraces, I wouldn’t have sex with him, I pushed him away if he got too close. He kept asking what was wrong with me, but I didn’t know, so I couldn’t tell him.

On Friday morning, I woke early. A moment or two passed before I knew where I was. I was expecting to hear birds. Then I opened my eyes and I wasn’t at Wildflower Hill. I was in a serviced apartment in London, with the heating humming softly. I felt desolate: I wanted birds.

I felt so far from home.

I got up and pulled on my robe, quietly opened the door to Josh’s room. I needed warmth and comfort, but I hesitated. My eyes adjusted to the dark as I stood there, and I could see the outline of Josh’s well-muscled shoulder. He was easily as gorgeous as I remembered him, but I observed this fact as I might observe it in a movie. It didn’t feel like it belonged in my life. Tears pricked at my eyes. I had made such a cock-up of things. I had let people down. Now I was starting to suspect I had chased an empty fantasy to the other side of the world.

I calculated the time back home in Australia. Three-thirty in the afternoon. Patrick would be home soon. I wondered how preparations were going for the concert. Perhaps I could donate them some money or something, send flowers for Mina over the Internet. I felt a desperate urge to make contact.

I left Josh to sleep and went to the kitchen. I turned on the lights, blinking at their brightness, and picked up the phone. Fog pressed against the window. Daylight would not come for hours, if it came at all. But where the phone was ringing, it would be full, bright afternoon.

Monica picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Oh, hi, Monica. It’s Emma.”

Silence, probably icy.

“Is Patrick home?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s okay, I’m glad I got you anyway. I probably owe you an apology,” I said.

“No, you don’t.”

I hesitated.

“You owe Patrick an apology,” she said. “And Mina. And Marlon. And the rest of the Hollyhocks. But you owe me nothing, and I wouldn’t accept it anyway.”

I felt almost sick with shame. “Look, I know you’re angry. But I told Patrick that I was leaving, and he understood.”

“Did he? Because I don’t. You promised you’d be here to help with the concert, and now you’ve pissed off to England three weeks before the big night.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” I said. “I left London under such difficult circumstances. All I’ve wanted was to be back there.”

“That much was obvious,” she interjected. “Our little town wasn’t good enough for you.”

“That’s not true,” I said, but it was true. At least I’d thought it was true once. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I didn’t intend to hurt anyone.”

“I really don’t care what you intended, Emma,” Monica said. “But you did hurt a lot of people. Now I’m getting off the phone before Patrick gets home, because I don’t want him to know that you called. And I’ll thank you not to call him yourself.”