22. Twenty-Two

Twenty-Two

M idnight blue stretches onwards above us, and stars twinkle in the clear evening sky. Art leads me through a huge oak-panelled dining room and through a set of patio doors that lead out onto the terrace I saw from his old bedroom window.

I lift the hem of my dress, determined not to trip. I gingerly step off the slabs onto a line of stepping stones, sunk into the grass, which disappear into a hedge of conifer trees to the left. "Where are we going?"

"A special place," he cryptically throws back over his shoulder as he continues across the stones.

The wall of thick conifer gives way to a cottage garden beyond. The stepping stones wind to the right and lead up to a dark green wooden bench. White spotlights in the gravel around the bench add a magical feel to this quiet, secluded spot, hidden away from the rest of the world. There's an untamed quality about the beds of wild red poppies, purple foxgloves, and white daisies that encircle the bench, and the little garden is in stark contrast to the straight lines and groomed topiary of the rest of the grounds. It's as though we've stumbled upon a secret garden.

"This is beautiful," I breathe, sinking onto the bench beside Art.

He rests an arm across the back of the bench. "This place was Dad's pride and joy. Mum's religiously had it tended to since he died because she can't bear to see it become overgrown. On summer evenings, he used to come and sit out here with a copy of The Times and a cup of tea."

I smile at his fond memories of his dad and peer down at the mass of delicate blue flowers at my feet. "Forget-me-nots."

"They were Dad's favourite flowers."

I suddenly remember the flowers I found on my desk all those weeks ago. The romantic, thoughtful gesture had been Art all along, not Olly.

"Oh my God. They were from you. The forget-me-nots on my desk … they were from you."

His fingertips idly brush my bare shoulder as he glances around the garden. "Some of my fondest memories of Dad are from this garden. He'd weed the beds while I played, or we'd chat about whatever I was up to – school or rugby. We talked about whether I should apply to Oxford and what I might do after I graduated."

"You were really close to him, weren't you?"

"I didn't like going to school much when I first went into care. When you're a foster kid, you're easy prey for the bullies. Straight away, you're different from the other kids. I'd hear other kids talking about their dads – that they were taking them to watch the local footie team play or out on their bikes. I used to wonder what I'd done to make my father not want to be in my life."

I place a hand on his thigh. "You didn't do anything."

"It took me years to realise that. It wasn't until I came here that I understood what a dad really was, and I got to do all those things I'd heard the other kids talk about."

It's not difficult to understand why Art struggled to cope when he lost his dad. It was hard enough when my dad died, but at least I hadn't had to wait for him to come into my life.

"My happiest memories of my dad are from when we used to go to Cornwall each summer. Mum would sunbathe, and he and I would sit on our stools, watching the waves. He'd paint, and I'd try my best to copy him." I smile at the memory. "That's my happy place."

Art's eyes slide to me. "This is mine. Whenever there's something weighing on my mind, I come here, and I always leave, knowing what to do. It's my sanctuary. When I first met you, you threw me into a tailspin. Made me feel things I'd never felt before. I ended up here. The flowers seemed right."

I lean my head against his chest, and a warm feeling envelops me in the knowledge he's slowly letting me in. He's brought me to his sanctuary, his most private space.

"Thank you for bringing me here."

He kisses me on the cheek, and I close my eyes.

"I wanted to share this with you."

A high-pitched beep sounds from inside the clutch bag tucked under my arm, disrupting the moment. I instinctively know it's a text from Lucy. I don't want to ruin the mood, but I also need to know that she's okay after yesterday's circus. I pull out my phone and read the text.

Mark and I have talked and decided to go our separate ways. He's gone to Toby's for a while. Don't suppose you fancy coming on my honeymoon to Ibiza with me? X

"Is everything okay?"

My heart sinks at the news. It's not a surprise, but I still can't quite believe they're over. I slide my phone back into my bag. "It's Lucy. It's official; she and Mark are finished. I'll give her a call later and check that she's all right."

I decide to skip the fact that she's invited me to go to Ibiza with her.

"That's sad." Art kisses the top of my head. "They were together a long time, weren't they? Are you okay?"

"Yes. It's sad, but it's ultimately what's right for them. I think they got stuck in a rut and grew apart."

His fingertips glide down my shoulder. "That won't happen to us."

The commitment in his tone makes me smile, and I nuzzle my nose against the base of his neck.

"Won't it?"

Warm lips rest against my head. "As long as there's breath in my body, we'll be together."

By the time we return to the house, Barbara is at the front door, seeing off guests.

"Goodbye, Margaret. I'll see you at the coffee morning on Tuesday." Barbara waves her guest goodbye, clutching a glass of white wine.

Art squeezes my hand and leans into me. "Careful, Mum's on the wine now," he jokes, and I smile. "Mum, Sophie and I are going to head off."

Barbara takes a sip of her drink and beams. "Of course, darling. Thank you both for coming. It was so lovely to see you again, Sophie."

His phone rings, and he pulls it from his pocket with a frown. "It's the club. I'll be two minutes." He glances at me and answers the call, wandering off into another room.

Barbara's eyes twinkle from one too many glasses of fizz. "I had such a lovely afternoon the other day at The Ritz."

"Yes, it was nice wasn't it?"

"And I'm so glad you and Art worked things out after your fight last week."

I smile. "So am I. We agreed no more secrets and talked things through."

"Really?" Her eyes widen, and I can't miss the surprised note in her voice. "I am pleased he's told you everything. I really hoped he would. He made some bad decisions but paid the price."

Told me everything?

Paid the price?

Something jars deep inside me at her words. I don't like the fact that I'm not entirely sure what she's referring to. "What do you mean, you're glad he's told me everything?"

Her mouth drops open, and then she shuts it quickly. "But … I thought … you said there were no secrets between the two of you and you talked. I thought he'd told you."

"He told me about owning the club. What else is there?"

She takes a long sip of wine, looking like someone who's just realised she's put her foot in it. "I'm so sorry. You need to speak to Art. You need to ask him."

Uneasiness churns in my stomach. The last time she said this, I didn't like what he had to tell me.

"But he moved on and put it all behind him with a little support from the right people," she carries on brightly, clearly eager to move the conversation on.

I'm not fooled. Her positivity does nothing to budge the dark cloud that's descended on my thoughts, and when I don't reply, she continues talking.

"After Arthur died and what with everything else that happened, Art was in a very dark place for a time, but he saw a therapist, and it helped."

"Hey, sorry that took longer than anticipated."

I turn to see Art next to me, smiling, and I find myself unable to muster up any sort of smile in response.

"Shall we get going?"