Written in the Stars (14 page)

‘Then maybe you should get rid of that Chewbacca pencil behind your ear,’ I point out, trying to suppress a smile.

Nick does so with a flourish, looking at the pencil before setting it down on the desk in front of him beside a mug that says ‘I may not be the best, but I am the boss’.

‘Welcome to the world of settling, Bish! May you be as ambivalent about this job as I am!’

I take his hand and grin at him, trying to ignore the thud that is the sound of my heart sinking to my feet.

As I sit down at my desk I click on my Facebook page, pulling a croissant out of its packet and taking a giant bite as I rap out my latest status update.

Bea Hudson is now PERMANENT.

I feel a little glow of warmth and security at being back. Yes, the office is damp due to the proximity of the river and draughty due to the lack of double glazing – a heady combo – and OK, the ‘view’ is of a rain-soaked alleyway, but with my window boxes and the lovely employees at Eagle’s, this job is the closest thing I’ve had to feeling at home in my career. I open up hotmail and spot an email in there from Loni.

Darling Bea!

Hope you’re settled back in and over the shock of being a WIFE. I can barely type that word, let alone think it! I mean, my daughter, a WIFE! I’d love to see you and Adam when you have a spare weekend. Cal and I miss you terribly. You’re welcome here whenever you like. The door is always open, even if the house is often full.

I love you.

L xx

I feel a wave of guilt. Not counting the wedding it has been weeks since Ad and I went back for a visit.
Months,
my turncoat memory points out. I swallow the lump of discomfort lodged in my throat; torn as ever between my two lives. The problem is when I go back home (no matter how long I’m away, or how old I get, it will
always
be home) I feel like I can hear things: not just the creaky croakiness of Loni’s rambling cottage, but echoes of my past. It feels like every nook and cranny, every crack, every corner, every picture, every blade of grass in the beautiful garden is dragging me back to another time.

I shake my head
. I have moved on
, I tell myself.
I’m starting a Whole New Life. Marriage, career, maybe even babies soon!
I pause for a moment, distracted by the glow of the Facebook icon at the top of my home page.

It’s probably Milly wanting to find out how my first day back is going, or Adam . . .

My mouth drops open as I begin to read, my eyes skimming across the screen, like stones over water.

Dear Bea

I hope you don’t mind me sending you a message but I just had to get in touch. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I saw you . . . although if I’m truly honest I have never stopped thinking about you.

I know me turning up at your wedding must have been a shock for you. But I couldn’t keep away any longer. I know it’s been too long but I hadn’t felt ready to see you; I knew it would have brought back too many memories of that summer, of Elliot. And part of me was always worried it’d be too late. But when I was back in Norfolk and I heard about the wedding it just felt like . . . fate. I had to see you, Bea. You looked so beautiful, and yes, so incredibly happy.

I’m glad, really I am.

After the ceremony I went down to the beach. I just felt the need to be there, you know? Take a step back into the past. I wish you all the happiness in the world, Bea. I really do.

Kieran x

I gaze at the message, feeling the walls of the office closing in on me. I feel like I’m drowning.

I look back at my computer screen and see the icon telling me I have a friendship request. I open it and look at Kieran’s picture, at the face that I once loved so much until it all went so tragically wrong. He’s in a bar wearing some sort of uniform, grinning languidly and surrounded by people like he always was. People who knew the twins used to say that Kieran and Elliot didn’t go to the party, the party came to them. They both had this charisma and confidence, partly from always looking out for each other, and partly because they felt free not to care what other people thought of them. Elliot didn’t seem to care about anything, in fact. He had a harder edge than Kieran, an impenetrable wall, a bitterness that made him mean sometimes. He could turn in an instant, especially on me. I always knew he struggled to accept how serious Kieran and I got so quickly. But he was also hilarious, the life and soul, a joker always playing for laughs. Kieran walked the line better than his twin. He was the oldest by two minutes, and those a hundred and twenty seconds seem to have given him a maturity, a stability, a sense of responsibility lacking in Elliot. But he could be restless, too. From the moment I met him he made me feel that way too.

But not any more, I think angrily. Why is he dragging the past up now when I’ve pulled myself up and moved on?
I have moved on
, I think defiantly as I grip my desk.

I shut down Facebook, then I dutifully pick up the phone, ready to do some work.

Chapter 19

Bea Bishop is trying to get back on her feet again.

I glance around, suddenly overwhelmed by the bustling, excited people flooding past me and into the show and have to stop myself running back to Milly’s flat and getting back under the duvet. I can do this, I tell myself. I’ve come to the Chelsea Flower Show every year since I moved to London. I may have given up on the dream of being a garden designer myself, but it has never stopped me appreciating the work and talent and vision, precision and dedication that go into making these prize-winning gardens. It’s this time of year that I miss my dad the most. I know he would get it. If he hadn’t left us I’m sure coming here would have been our annual father–daughter outing. A bonding moment no one could have taken away from us.

I pat my pocket and pull out the diary he left for me. It was on my first night back at Milly’s that I found a suitcase in the small loft space hidden above the bathroom door. I remember leaving it there when I moved in with Adam because I wanted to take as little stuff as possible. Have a fresh start. Leave my past behind. Opening it had been like unlocking a giant box of memories. In there, underneath the plaid shirts, battered old jeans and the Monet garden prints from my teenage bedroom, was Dad’s diary.

It was the one item in that suitcase I wasn’t expecting, the one I thought I’d lost forever. I hadn’t meant to put it there, you see. It was meant to come with me. Even though I knew every month off by heart as I’d read it so many times as a child. This diary had been every birthday and Christmas card I’d missed from Dad, it was my GCSE and A level congratulations when he wasn’t there to give them. It was my shoulder to cry on when I needed support and guidance, my secret confidant and counsel when I had no one else to turn to. This diary was there through it all, including stuff I was too cowardly to tell Loni, Cal or Milly about . . .

This diary became another version of my dad. A dad who didn’t walk out without a backwards glance, but instead stayed and taught me all about gardens, and life, in his own unique way. Whenever I opened it, I knew I could instantly be by his side, or he by mine. This diary was the reason I’d never lost hope that one day he would come back. It was why I couldn’t properly forgive Loni for pushing him out, and it was why I had a connection to him that Cal just couldn’t comprehend. This diary was everything to me. And when I lost it, I lost my dad all over again.

It was the day after my seventh birthday. I’d had the best day I could remember for a long time. I got a new bike and a wildflower-spotting book and we’d gone to Holkham beach for a long walk; me and Dad dithering behind Loni and Cal who had raced ahead, as always. We were meandering slowly, pausing to study each plant and find it in my new book. I was savouring the moments with him as Dad had not been around much recently. Even when he still had his job as a History of Art lecturer he often went off on resource trips, or to some course, or just to find space and solitude to paint and study. But for the past year he’d not taught and even though he seemed to be at home more, it was like he was with us less and less. I can’t explain it, but he just wasn’t present. It was like he was always in another world. I’d learned when I was very young that the only way I could have his full attention was in the garden, but now he spent most of his time in the caravan at the bottom of the garden and when I went in to see him he would cover up whatever it was he was writing. When I told Loni she just brushed away my concerns. ‘He just wants space to work, that’s all, darling.’ Then she’d instigated an epically riotous game of hide and seek. But as I lay in my hiding place under their bed, I knew there was something more serious going on. Dad
never
needed space from me. He said he was never happier than when he was with me and that I reminded him of everything that was good in the world. That’s when I saw the small suitcase hidden under the headboard. I dragged myself towards it and unzipped it slowly, feeling my heart rate quicken out of fear that someone would discover me. I lifted the lid and peered inside. It was packed to the brim, pyjamas, socks, pants, Dad’s washbag and a clear wallet that was full of family photographs.

I jumped as I heard Cal’s squeals of delight and then anger at being found. As I heard him and Loni thundering towards the bedroom I zipped the case shut quickly and pushed it back under the bed and then hid behind a curtain with my arm deliberately sticking out so they wouldn’t have to look anywhere else to find me. I pretended I no longer wanted to play after that and the game petered out. Cal went off to play Superheroes, Loni was doing some studying whilst making my birthday tea and I decided to make a card for Dad.

After tea, Dad led me into the garden; he said he had a special present to give me. It was, he said, a secret; a special little gift from him to me. He didn’t want Cal to feel left out but he knew I was the only person who’d appreciate it. I unwrapped the gift, gasping when I saw the beautiful, palm-sized book with its soft blue lambskin cover and the gold-embossed letters that said ‘Bea’s Guide to Gardening and Life’. The pages were gilt-edged and featherweight and on the first page Dad had written a message accompanied by a pen-and-ink drawing of our horseshoe garden. And there, kneeling under the willow tree at the end of the garden, just in front of the gate that led back into the spinney, was a little girl, lost in thought, surrounded by a collection of garden tools.

‘It’s me!’ I exclaimed and he nodded and kissed the top of my head. He told me to promise to read it on my own, after he’d gone. I’d thought he meant from the garden. A few days later I realised that he’d actually meant for good.

I flick to the front of my book now as I reread the words that were his final goodbye. Then I slip the book back in my pocket. I’ve always believed that the diary was his way of telling me that he would be back soon. Now I’ve found it again I’ve been slowly making my way through the pages, feeling a renewed sense of connection to him and an urgent need to rediscover the girl I used to be, and to know my dad as the man he is now.

I need to find him,
I’d thought as I’d sat in the bathroom that day, slowly making my way through the pages, feeling my loss, longing and disappointment resurface. My wedding day had been my final deadline for him – and for me. If he didn’t come, I’d told myself, I would give up. Part of me wonders if the reason I ran away that day was because I’d rather give up my own chance of happiness than give up on him. Do I think
he
deserves a second chance more than
I
do?

As I hand over my ticket and walk through the bull ring gate of the Royal Hospital, I feel like I’m walking in his shadow and that every step is taking me to Dad.

I spend a happy couple of hours looking at all the different categories of gardens on display. So many of them stop me in my tracks and I feel myself soaking up ideas for the future; floating trees, a grass-free lawn, ideas for small spaces on small budgets.

But there’s one particular garden that has the biggest impact on me. It’s simply called ‘Time’. The garden has been split into four quarters: ‘Day’, ‘Night’, ‘Past’ and ‘Future’. Down the centre is a line of
Heucherella
hybrid perennials, their glossy bronze leaves signifying the Greenwich meridian line. ‘Night’ features a suspended ceiling of star jasmine over a pond of water lilies: like a starlit sky reflected in water. ‘Day’ is a giant yellow burst of sunshine, with beautiful orange, yellow and white wildflowers. On the other side of the timeline, ‘Past’ is a formal, classic, Victorian-style garden with flowers cleverly planted in reclaimed vintage containers, such as a Victorian roll-top bath. ‘Future’ is an urban office terrace and features an iPad/herb bar. In the middle of the garden, holding all four quadrants together, is a large round hedge on a raised platform, the hedge acting as an oasis for hundreds of bright red cosmos – my birth flower. A weather vane is on the top just like the Royal Observatory’s time ball. It is brilliant and beautiful. I stare at the garden for what feels like an eternity and then read the plaque that tells me all about the designer, James Fischer of JF Design, who is based in Greenwich. I want to Google him immediately and see what other work he’s done. I feel like I have some creative connection to him somehow.

I drag myself away to explore the rest of the show feeling happier, more excited and more certain of the direction I want my life to go in than I have for weeks.

Chapter 20

The next morning I wake up early again, buzzing with newfound determination.

‘You look happy. Good day yesterday, was it?’ Milly says airily over breakfast. I know she’s pretending not to appear too interested as she’s learned I tend to shut down when she grills me.

I take another bite of toast and munch on it thoughtfully. ‘It really was. Actually, going there helped me make another big decision about what I’m going to do with my life.’