Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,30

the car. I glance around, wondering if he’s already here and which his car might be. Not seeing any sign of life, I open the tailgate and take out my wellington boots.

‘Lydia?’

‘Yes!’ I jump. I turn around and it’s him. Patrick looks exactly like his photograph. Better, in fact. He is tall, slender, clean-shaven and he has a dimple in his right cheek. Wearing a dark blue waxed jacket over an open-necked checkered blue-and-white shirt and faded jeans, he leans towards me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. The scent of his aftershave is sublime. For a moment, I am dumbstruck, so I turn away quickly, fiddle with my wellington boots, then stand up straight and lock the car. If he wonders about my expensive motor, it doesn’t show on his face.

My eyes are drawn to his face, but I don’t want to stare. His eyes are a clear pale blue outlined with long dark eyelashes. His hair is somewhat unruly, thick and curly. With features that are not exactly symmetrical, craggy almost, I can’t put my finger on why he is so gorgeous.

‘You chose a beautiful day for a walk on the Downs.’ He grins. ‘Are you ready?’

I nod.

We walk for a while in silence, our feet crunching on the chalky gravel.

‘I haven’t been here in years,’ he says. ‘I used to come up to Chanctonbury Ring when I was a kid. There were more trees in those days. How about you? Have you always lived in Sussex?’

‘No. I was brought up in Cheshire. Mum moved to Worthing after Dad died. I went to college in Brighton. My hus… Adam was from here. How about you?’

‘I’m from all over. A bit of a nomad. But I like Sussex. Look, forgive me, but I did a Google search on you, Lydia, and I know what happened. I’m really sorry. Just wanted to get that out of the way.’

‘Oh.’ I stop walking. He also comes to a halt. Should I admit I did a search on him too and I found nothing? Or, at least, I couldn’t discern which of the four hundred Patrick Grants on LinkedIn he might be. And obviously he isn’t the famous fashionwear designer of the same name.

‘You must have had a dreadful year.’

‘Yes. Not the best. What the papers won’t tell you is that Adam and I had decided to divorce. Our marriage had been over for a few years.’

‘Nevertheless.’ He gazes towards the sea.

‘The kids are devastated, obviously. Do you have any children?’

He shakes his head and I sense a hint of regret. ‘Nope. Divorced a number of years ago. My wife cheated on me and turned me into a sworn monogamist.’

I don’t want to talk about Adam or Patrick’s ex-wife, so I change the subject and ask about his hobbies, but I don’t get a straight answer. Instead, he asks me lots of questions. I tell him about my crafting addiction and, out of habit, wince as I’m explaining it, remembering how Adam used to tease me and tell me I was old before my time. But Patrick’s smile doesn’t falter. He simply says how he’s looking forward to seeing what I make, and that knitting and crocheting remind him of his beloved grandmother.

When we arrive up on Chanctonbury Ring, the views are breathtaking. To the south, the sea glistens alluringly in the distance; to the north, the vistas are even more extensive, across the Weald, with its green fields and hedgerows, patches of woodlands and the silvery river Arun snaking through fields to the faraway North Downs.

‘This was a small Bronze Age hill fort,’ Patrick says, indicating the ridge we are standing on. ‘In the Roman days it was a temple, and in 1760, beech trees were planted in a circle. Sadly, many were knocked down in the big storm in 1987, although some have been replanted. Local legend has it that if you walk around the ring seven times in an anticlockwise direction, the devil will appear and offer you a bowl of soup in return for your soul.’

Despite the warmth, I shiver. ‘It’s a legend, Lydia.’ Patrick smiles, briefly touching my arm.

I laugh, unsure why the place makes me feel uneasy.

‘Anyway, if we hurry, we’ll catch last orders for lunch at the pub. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

As we walk briskly back down to the car park, we don’t stop talking. He tells me about his work, how he goes from company to company, helping sort

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