The Year I Met You (33 page)

And though this makes for uncomfortable conversation, it would be one I could have maturely if it were someone I have no personal ties to, but not Caroline, my friend of ten years, whose garden I’m sitting in, whose head I’ve held over the toilet bowl, whose swollen breasts I’ve held cabbage leaves to, whose tears I’ve dried when her marriage ended, and whose daughters’ home-made fairy cakes I am now eating. It has taken us this long to come together after the circle of support meeting in my house and I know it is because neither of us want conflict or confrontation, but at the same time neither of us is prepared to settle.

‘Caroline,’ I say gently, and I take her hand in mine. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I fear that we must consciously uncouple from working together on this.’

And on that she throws her head back and laughs, and I know that we’re okay.

The sun still shines and I venture out to Bloom, Ireland’s largest gardening, food and family event, that takes place in Phoenix Park over the bank holiday weekend and attracts thousands. There are cookery and craft demonstrations, free gardening advice from the experts, Irish produce, live entertainment, gardening workshops. My own little slice of heaven, and I was invited by Monday, who left the ticket in my postbox along with a dried bluebell pushed between the pages of the invitation. The only communication we’ve had since then was a phone conversation where he allowed me to stay on just long enough to accept the invitation and then tell me rather mysteriously that I’ll know where to find him. I think the bluebell is a clue. In fact it is. Worried that he would end up sleeping overnight in Phoenix Park while I wander off following the wrong clues, he texts me, ‘The bluebell is a clue,’ which is rather pathetically sweet of him.

There are kids’ zones, cooking zones, main stages and smaller stages with chefs doing cooking exhibitions, audiences crowded around, tasting, Irish dancers, DIY displays, bubble displays and fashion shows. The park is buzzing with event after event, something for everyone. Around me, award-winning garden designers have created entire new worlds in their small plots of land. There is a sharp and sleek Scandic garden, a Japanese garden, a Chinese garden, a
Wizard of Oz
garden, some fun, some quirky, some breathtaking, all of them taking me into another world.

Though my heart is bursting to see him, I take my time wandering around, not wanting to miss a clue, and also enjoying the atmosphere. This time last year I would not have thought about being here, I wouldn’t have considered this event to be for someone like me, unless I was there to work, unless I was pitching something to someone and with my eye on the prize. And if I had been here under those circumstances I would have missed the beauty of the place. It is almost a cliché to hear people talking about ‘slowing down’, but it is true. I have slowed down and through slowing, I see so much more.

It is when I see a recreated Irish landscape with Connemara drystone walls and a caravan – the idea being to capture the ‘staycation’, holidaying in Ireland in summertime – that I sense I’m close. There is a field of bluebells, the purple haze like a carpet, leading the eye all the way past the drystone walls, the bog marshes and the lake … and there he is. Monday stands at the door of a sixties caravan, which sits in the long grass as though it has been there, abandoned for years. The door is open, there is a floral window blind flapping in the breeze.

I stop by the rusted gate.

‘
Fáilte
, Jasmine,’ he says, a coy smile on his face, and I sense nervousness too.

I laugh.

‘Come on in,’ he motions, and as I push the gate open it gives the perfect creak, as though it’s not real. I make my way through the tall purple flowers which line the pathway, mixed with fluffy cream-coloured blossoms that perfume the air with their fragrance: loosestrife and meadowsweet. It’s a hot day and for the occasion I’m wearing a floral summer dress, though the poppies are more pop art than country garden. The fragrance of the meadowsweet gives way to pungent garlic as the wild garlic reaches my nose.

When I get closer, he sees the enormous lump caused by Dr Jameson’s frying pan, and he holds my face in his hands, concern, and anger all over his face.

‘What happened?’

‘An accident.’

‘Who did this?’ Dark, concerned, angry face.

‘Dr J. It’s a long story …’

‘What?’

‘An accident. To do with the letter …’ I bite my lip.

He smiles and shakes his head. ‘Honestly, I’ve never met anyone like you three …’ He kisses my bruise tenderly. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you, full stop.’ He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing against my palm, which makes me shiver, and he leads me to the caravan. I peer inside and see the table has been set for lunch.

‘Do you do this for all the people you headhunt?’

‘Depends on the commission.’

‘I can imagine what you give them when you get actual commission,’ I tease. ‘Really wish I’d got that job now.’

He fixes me with a look that makes my heart race and I try to calm my flustered innards as we sit in the tiny caravan, our knees touching under the fold-out table.

‘So instead of always going to your house, I thought I’d bring you to my home and show you a slice of where I come from.’

‘Monday, this is beautiful. And incredibly sweet.’

He blushes but forges onward, ‘And in the spirit of being home, I brought you what I grew up eating.’ He opens the containers. ‘Blackberries, wild strawberries. We used to pick them and my grandmother made jam. Apple pie.’ He reveals the delights, Tupperware box by Tupperware box. ‘Wild garlic pesto with hot brown bread.’

My mouth waters. ‘Did you cook all of this?’

He’s embarrassed again. ‘Yeah, but they’re Maimeó’s recipes. Foolproof. My mam can’t cook to save her life, so for lunch I had …’ he makes a grand gesture with a Superman lunchbox, ‘salad-cream sandwiches.’

‘Wow.’

‘I know. She was hopeless. Still is. Maimeó raised me, really. Tough woman, moved over from the Aran Islands when my mam got pregnant with me, even though she was an Aran islander at heart and being away almost killed her. She brought me there every chance she could.’

‘Is she still alive?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He doesn’t say anything, just starts sharing out the food.

‘Your home is a lot more peaceful than mine was the last time you were there. I’m sorry about the meeting …’ I need to address it.

‘Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry it was sprung on you. That lady who works with your sister, Jamie, told me it would be a surprise for you. I thought maybe you’d like it.’

‘You didn’t think that I’d like that, surely.’

‘I don’t know you very well, Jasmine. But I want to.’ No blushing this time, just hazel emerald eyes. ‘How’s your ex?’

‘Oh God. Monday. I’m so sorry about that. Really—’

‘You don’t need to apologise. We weren’t … there was nothing …’ But I can see that it hurt him.

‘And I’m sorry about the interview.’ I cover my face in my hands. ‘I haven’t started very well at all, have I? If all I have to say to you is sorry.’

‘I understand about the interview,’ he says. ‘I can understand how you’d want to follow Heather. You should have just told me, you know? I was calling and calling. I could have tried to change the date.’

‘I know.’ I wince. ‘I couldn’t think what to say to you.’

‘The truth is always fine with me.’ He shrugs easily.

‘Okay. Yes. Sorry.’

‘Stop saying sorry.’

I nod. ‘Don’t suppose you’d want to headhunt me for anything else?’ I try weakly. ‘I can be quite reliable—’

‘I have a wonderful prospect for you,’ he says, spooning clotted cream on to strawberry-jam-covered scones.

‘Yeah?’ I light up.

He stops what he’s doing and fixes me with one of his looks. ‘How about a six foot, black-haired, green-eyed, freckle-faced black man from Connemara? One in a million. Actually, one in four point seven million.’

My heart soars. ‘I’ll take it,’ I say, and he leans in to kiss me and it is as long and luscious as I have daydreamed and imagined it would be.

‘Your elbow is in the jam,’ I whisper, mid-kiss.

‘I know,’ he whispers back.

‘And you’re not six foot.’

‘Ssh,’ he whispers again, kissing me. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

We laugh as we pull apart.

‘So now it’s my turn to apologise,’ he says, playing with my fingers. I’m no small lady but my hands look like doll’s hands in his. ‘I’m sorry it took me so long to—’

‘Make a move?’ I offer.

‘Yes,’ he finally looks me in the eye. ‘I’m really quite shy,’ he says, and I believe him. For someone who is so confident when it comes to work, he is endearingly awkward at this kind of thing. ‘I used the job as an excuse to keep seeing you while I tried to summon up the courage, and every single time I prattled on about the job I was trying to figure out if you were going to say no, or laugh in my face. Obviously headhunting someone doesn’t usually bring me to their house for dinner.’

‘Or to help with their water fountain.’

He laughs. ‘Or that. Or help them spy on their neighbour.’

‘You weren’t too shy to organise this,’ I say.

‘I’m more of a grand gestures kind of man,’ he says, and we laugh. ‘The ex-boyfriend thing gave me the kick up the arse I needed.’

I cringe again.

‘Is he … keen to get you back?’

‘Yes,’ I say, gravely serious.

‘Oh.’

‘He called me at one a.m. a few nights ago singing All Saints’ “Bootie Call”. He sings like an altar boy.’

‘Oh,’ he says in a lighter tone, less concerned.

‘So obviously you have a lot to contend with,’ I add.

‘Maybe a sing-off,’ he suggests. ‘You know, as soon as I saw your red head covered in muck and garden leaves I knew I wanted you. I just couldn’t figure out what to do about it. The job bought me time. So none of it was a waste of my time, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

We kiss again and I could quite literally move into this little caravan and stay with him for ever, despite neither of us being able to stand up straight without bowing our heads, but we hear voices right outside the window as another group survey the garden.

‘Hey, I bought you something.’ He rubs his nose, scratches his temple, all of a sudden in a fluster and he is mumbling incoherently, and I find it so endearing I just sit at the table and watch with a great big smile on my face, doing nothing to help him out at all. ‘It’s for your garden,’ he says, embarrassed, ‘But if you think it’s stupid, I’ll take it back, no problem. It’s not expensive, I saw it and thought of you, or thought you might like it, I mean, I don’t really know anyone else who lives in their garden as much as you, apart from my mam of course who literally lives in her … anyway, I’ll take it back if you don’t like it.’

‘Monday, that’s a beautiful way to present something,’ I say sarcastically, putting my hand on my heart.

‘Get used to it,’ he says gently, then reaches under the table and presents me with a gift for the garden. He covers his face with his hands so he can’t see my reaction. ‘Do you like it?’ he asks in a muffled voice.

I kiss his hands. He lets them fall to his lap and his uncertain face breaks into a relieved smile.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I wouldn’t say it’s
beautiful
.’

‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’

We kiss in the middle of a caravan in Connemara in the Phoenix Park with a battered garden signpost that says,
Miracles only grow where you plant them.

26

Monday and I are lying in my bed. It is August. It is ten p.m. and my curtains are open. The sky is still bright. I can hear children from surrounding streets still out playing. My garden is still plump with life. There are still sounds of life and activity around us, the smell of barbecue in the air. I am in a wonderful bubble of bliss, lying naked with Monday, bathing in after-sex glory and contentment. I’m looking out at the sky, marvelling at the red sky.

‘Red sky at night,’ I start to say, and then your face suddenly appears in the window. ‘Ahhhhhhhhh! Arrrrrrgggghhh!’

I almost give Monday a heart attack, jumping up and pulling the sheets around me, getting tangled in the process.

‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ Monday screams when he sees you.

You start laughing, a depraved lunatic sound, and I can see from your wired eyes that you’re drunk.

‘Nice trellising,’ you shout, knocking on the window and I’m beginning to regret constructing the climbing frame on the wall of my house that leads to my bedroom window, from which parkdirektor riggers, a hardy perennial deciduous red rose, is growing up the front of the house.

Monday groans.

‘I think he’s drunk,’ I say.

‘You think?’

I look at him.

‘Go,’ he says tiredly. ‘Go do whatever it is that you two do at ten p.m. on a Thursday night.’

I open the front door in my robe, and find you sitting at the table in your garden. You’re wearing a tuxedo.

I whistle.

You swear at me.

Seeing your front door wide open, I drop your house keys into my pocket and I sit down.

‘I see he finally gave you a job,’ you say, and then snort and laugh that disgusting filthy chesty laugh again. You’re back on the cigarettes tonight too.

‘You forgot to cut your grass today,’ I say.

‘Keep your opinions to yourself, Delia Smith.’

‘She’s a chef.’

‘Fuck off.’

You’re angry tonight, Matt, back where we started. You finish the bottle of beer then throw it across the road. It breaks on my side of the path. Monday peers out the window, sees that I’m okay and disappears again.

‘What happened tonight?’

‘I went to the radio awards. I wasn’t nominated. I was disgusted. I told them so. Said a few other things about a few other people who haven’t been there for me like they should have been. Said it on stage into the microphone so everyone could hear what I had to say nice and loud. The organisers didn’t like my behaviour. So they fucked me out of there.’

Two steps forward, one step back. It’s the same with both of us. It’s natural, I suppose. Nobody and nothing is perfect. I don’t judge, not aloud anyway. You rant about work, about not working, about all the people in the world who work. It is difficult to keep up with, you start and stop, abandon ideas before they’re fully developed. Your thought process is indicative of where you find yourself now. In a way, I agree with you. Some of what you say is how I felt at times during the past year, how I still sometimes feel as I struggle to find my place every day. Society is built around industry, you say, only children and retired people relax into not working and the percentage of retired people who die of heart attacks soon after retirement is a worry to you. You think you will die of boredom and make a note to visit Dr J about that.