Forget Me Not (18 page)

‘I do. But don’t worry – they’re still in their quiet winter mode. The odd worker pops out occasionally to do a recce – like those ones buzzing about over there – but it’s still a bit early for any real activity although I think they’ll start again soon – maybe next week.’

‘How long have you been keeping them?’

‘Since I moved here nearly two years ago. I’d been through an awful break-up and needed to sweeten my life,’ he added wryly as we sat on a wooden bench. ‘I saw a TV programme about beekeeping and fell in love with the idea.’

‘The bees must make your garden even more beautiful.’

‘I certainly get more flowers because they’re such good pollinators.’

‘So that’s why the question you asked at the church fair was staged – you knew the answer.’

‘Yes. But I just wanted to … make myself known to you again.’ He smiled. ‘Plus there was a bit of self-interest at work. The more bee-friendly flowers there are in people’s gardens, the better for me and my bees.’

‘You bought all the raffle tickets,’ I said.

‘Damn …’ He reddened, then smiled again. ‘How did you know?’

‘I bumped into the vicar’s wife and she mentioned it.’

‘Well … I wanted to win that first prize.’

‘I’m very flattered.’ I laughed. ‘But it would have been far cheaper just to phone me up for a normal consultation!’

‘It would – but I thought it would be more fun to do it that way. Plus I’m fond of that church as Sam – that’s my little boy – was christened there. Anyway,’ he said, his voice suddenly catching, ‘back to the bees …’

‘Yes … The bees. So … what do you do with the honey?’

‘I sell about half to local delis and cafés. But the rest I give away to charitable events as it’s only a hobby – I’m not out to make a profit.’

I remembered the pots of honey at the church fund-raiser. ‘Is your honey called Bee Good?’

‘It is.’

‘There were a few beehives at the Chelsea Physic Garden where I did my design course – but I’ve never seen one in a private garden in London.’

‘There are lots of them in cities. I have a friend in Manhattan who keeps a couple of hives on his roof terrace. They forage for miles around, so all you need is the space for the hive itself.’

‘And is it fun?’

‘It’s fascinating – and it keeps me calm. Now …’ he said. ‘The light’s beginning to fade – let’s have that drink.’

We went inside and I sat in the coral-coloured sitting room as Patrick busied himself in the kitchen. On the sideboard were a number of family photos, several of them of Sam – a beautiful little boy with large hazel eyes, like his father’s. How heartbreaking for him to be so far away. I wondered why that was. Perhaps Patrick had had a fling with someone out there.

He reappeared with a tray – he had a gin and tonic, while I sipped a weak spritzer. He told me about his work – he’d started an Internet company fifteen years before, at the beginning of the technology boom.

‘It specialised in payment systems for Internet shopping,’ he explained as he cradled his drink. ‘Then last year I got an offer I couldn’t refuse from Paypal and sold it.’

‘What will you do next?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m in talks with an old colleague about starting another Internet venture, but in the meantime my bees keep me busy – and sane.’ He offered me an olive. ‘And you? You said you’d been a garden designer for two years, so what did you do before?’ I told him about my time in the City. ‘And your little girl? She’s what? Three?’

‘In June.’

‘So who’s looking after her now?’

‘My au pair, Luisa. Her English is appalling, but she adores Milly and vice versa.’

‘And what about Milly’s father?’ he added slightly anxiously.

‘Well … he’s not really around. We’re on good terms,’ I went on, keen to make myself appear attractively positive rather than embittered and sad. ‘But he works in Indonesia. He’s been there for three and a half years now.’

I could see Patrick doing the maths. ‘That must have been tough for you,’ he said. ‘And for him,’ he added feelingly, ‘being so far from his child.’

‘It
is
hard for him,’ I said. Especially now that he has a relationship with Milly, I thought. Seeing her intermittently, then having to say goodbye, must be far worse than if he’d never got to know her. ‘It’s very hard for Milly too. And you?’ I added. ‘You must find long-distance fatherhood … difficult, to say the least.’

He rattled the ice in his drink. ‘I find it unbearable. Sam was taken to New Zealand the day after his third birthday.’

‘I didn’t think the law allowed ex-wives to take the children out of the country,’ I said, ‘let alone to the other side of the world.’

‘I wasn’t married to Sam’s mum. I was wary of marrying her,’ he went on, as if he felt he had to justify it, ‘largely because I’d only known her three months when she got pregnant.’

‘Were you happy about it?’

‘Not at first, no – I felt trapped.’

‘At least you did the decent thing and made a home with her,’ I said bitterly, thinking of how Xan had failed to do that with me.

‘I did make a home with her – and when Sam arrived I was thrilled. But I gave Suzie a very nice life. She didn’t have to work. We lived in a big house in Brook Green. She had a nanny, a cleaner and a gardener – we took great holidays. She was very well looked after.’

‘It sounds like the life of Reilly,’ I said wistfully.

‘I’d say it was. But it still didn’t seem to be enough, because when Sam was two, I discovered that Suzie was having an affair with a guy at our tennis club. Three months later she left me, taking Sam, which was terrible enough: then a few weeks after that she dropped the bombshell that she and Sam would both be moving to New Zealand with her lover – he’s a Kiwi.’

‘But … couldn’t it … be stopped?’

‘God knows I tried. But as an unmarried father I had no automatic rights and she’d refused to give me a parental responsibility order. It went to court, but the judge took against me.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh … because … Suzie …
lied
.’ Bitterness suddenly twisted Patrick’s features. ‘She told these blatant lies – it was shameless.’ I found myself wondering what she’d lied about. ‘I then appealed against the decision but lost. And I was preparing to take it to the House of Lords when her lawyer wrote to say that Suzie was four months pregnant. My solicitor advised me that in this situation the courts wouldn’t want to break up her “happy family unit”’ – he rolled his eyes – ‘so there was no point in fighting on.’

How terrible to have his child whisked away from him – transplanted to another country, on the other side of the world – let alone for that child to be brought up by another man.

‘Relations between Suzie and me then broke down to the extent that a final meeting was arranged, with a social worker present, at an office near Holborn, for me to say goodbye to Sam.’ I felt tears prick the backs of my eyes. ‘All I’d got was the right to phone him and write to him “occasionally”, but I then negotiated a separate agreement with Suzie to be able to visit him twice a year. I’m lucky in that I can afford to do that,’ he went on, ‘otherwise I’d never see him. Anyway …’ he seemed suddenly embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean to talk about it. It’s depressing, to put it mildly, but as there’s nothing I can do about it, I just try to cope with the resentment I feel – and the stress.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. I glanced at the ormulu clock on the mantelpiece. It was 7.30. ‘Well …’ I picked up my camera. ‘I’d better go. It’s been lovely, but I told Luisa I’d be back by now and I like to put Milly to bed myself.’

‘I can understand that,’ he said feelingly as we stood up. ‘What bliss to be able to.’

We went into the hall. ‘I’m afraid I can’t think of anything to suggest for your garden,’ I said. ‘It’s gorgeous as it is – a traditional English garden with lovely proportions, beautifully landscaped and imaginatively planted.’

‘I’m still glad you’ve seen it,’ he said, ‘and I … hope that you’ll come again.’ He looked at me. ‘Will you?’

‘Maybe … it’s … a possibility …’ I smiled at him.

‘Can I tell you something?’

I looked at him. ‘Yes.’

‘I saw you on the TV a few weeks ago – I never watch at breakfast time, but that morning I happened to have it on. And there you were, and I just thought you looked so … nice. The way you talked about plants – your passion for them – the way you said that they even have “personalities”.’

‘They do – they have distinct “characters”. My mother taught me that.’

‘What was that thing you said about Cinderella plants?’

‘I was talking about snowdrops and other early spring bulbs. They’re shut away, out of sight for most of the year, then in February they get the chance to go to the ball and everyone’s enchanted with them. Then at the stroke of twelve they vanish into the ground and you see nothing of them. Then the following year, the fairy godmother obligingly waves her magic wand and off they go to the ball again.’

‘I liked that.’ Patrick smiled. ‘Then I recognised you in the shop that Saturday morning and when I found the little shoe and it turned out to be your daughter’s, well …’ He shrugged. ‘I felt it was fate. But you probably thought I was a bit of a weirdo,’ he added with a laugh.

‘No – I thought you looked rather nice: but I
was
taken aback when you asked me to have a cup of coffee.’

‘But I felt I’d already met you – though you couldn’t have known that. But now that we have met properly, perhaps you’ll come and have dinner here one evening? I’d love to talk to you again and I’m not a bad cook. You don’t have to say yes now,’ he added diffidently. ‘You could think about it.’ He kissed me on the cheek and I felt a sudden frisson of desire.

‘You know I would like that, Patrick. Thanks.’

‘Beast!
Beast
!’ Milly exclaimed on the Monday morning. She had grabbed the DVD of
Beauty and the Beast
and was brandishing it at me. ‘Want watch Beast, Mum!’

‘Not now, darling,’ I said. ‘I know you love it, but we’ve got to have breakfast, haven’t we, then we’re going to Sweet Peas to see all your friends. So come and have your Rice Krispies.’

‘Kribbies,’ she repeated happily as I tipped some into her Peter Rabbit bowl. ‘
Leche
!’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Want
leche
!’

‘You mean milk?’ I opened the fridge. ‘I do wish you’d stop speaking Spanish, darling.’

‘
Leche
!’ she shouted as I poured some in. ‘
Más
!’

I suddenly noticed that Milly was clutching a doll. It was brand new, with a sweet, smiley face, curly red hair, a pink leopard-skin coat and shiny pink trousers.

‘Darling – where did you get that?’ I asked. It looked expensive.

Milly sat the doll down next to her plate. ‘Luisa gib to me.’

‘Oh.’ Suddenly I heard a creak on the stairs and Luisa appeared. She usually leaves the house early – before Milly and I have breakfast – so I don’t see her in the mornings. Milly jumped off her chair and ran to her for a hug.

‘
Caramelo de buenos días
!’ Luisa crooned as she picked her up and kissed her. ‘I go school now, Anna.’ She smiled.

‘Luisa,’ I said. ‘Did you give Milly this doll?’

She nodded. ‘
Sí
. Iss nice.’

‘It’s lovely – but you really mustn’t buy things for her. You bought her that book a couple of weeks ago. It’s very sweet of you, but please, no more presents for her, OK? It’s not as though you can afford it.’

To my surprise, Luisa blushed, as though I’d offended her.

‘All I mean’, I tried again, ‘is that you must try and save your money, Luisa – as you’re not paid very much.’ She reddened again, rather oddly. ‘But thank you for being so kind.’

‘I go school now,’ she said. She gave Milly a noisy kiss, like water going down the bath plug, then put on her small blue rucksack. She waved. ‘I go school now.’

‘
Hasta la vista
!’ Milly said.

‘So … tell me about your friends?’ I said to Milly a little later as I walked her to Sweet Peas. She was clutching the teddy Xan had given her under her left arm. ‘What are their names?’

‘Erm …’ Milly stopped to scratch her nose, then placed her right hand in mine again. ‘Carna …’

‘Yes, Carla.’ The cherry trees that lined the street frothed with pink blossom.

‘Phoebe …’

‘Yes, she’s very nice.’

‘Erm … Alfie …
and
… Lily …
and
’Ris …’

‘Iris, yes. And what about Erasmus?’

‘No,’ Milly said firmly. ‘
No me gusta. Me mordeó
.’

‘What, darling?’

Sweet Peas is in a large Victorian house overlooking Brook Green. The morning session starts at 9.30 and parents stay for registration, where they sing a couple of songs with the children, before ‘lessons’ start.

As Milly and I arrived – picking our way through the usual pile-up of buggies and scooters – the other parents were hanging their children’s coats and hats on the painted pegs, or helping them on with their smocks. Erasmus came in – dressed in brown corduroy knickerbockers, a miniature green Barbour and a tweed cap – as though he was about to go on a shoot. This morning, unusually, he was accompanied by his dad. I knew why. Citronella had spent the previous day’s column describing how she’d sacked the nanny for stealing a gold ring of hers, an accusation that, without accompanying proof, struck me as defamatory. Claudia, Citronella had added with an odd kind of pride, had been the fifth nanny she’d sacked in a year.

‘Good afternoon, hel-lo …’ we all sang to the piano
.

‘Hip, hip, hip hooray!

We’ve come to school to work and play
and be happy all the DAY!
’

‘Anna?’ The headmistress, Mrs Avis, approached me as I was about to leave the building. ‘Could I have a word?’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’ I followed her down the brightly painted corridor to her office, my heart instinctively sinking.

‘We’re a little concerned about Milly,’ she began as she motioned for me to sit down. ‘Her speech is not all it should be. I don’t know how you feel, but …’