The Garden of Forgotten Wishes - Trisha Ashley Page 0,34

another, smaller circular bed right in the middle of the garden, that I hadn’t been able to see and—

Ned’s voice stopped me in my tracks as I moved towards the plan.

‘College was a long time ago and we’re different people now,’ he said, going to an area at the other end of the long room that looked designed for customers, with a minimalist sofa and chairs arranged round a coffee table, and switching on a kettle.

‘Leopards may grow older, but I don’t think they change their spots,’ I said, but he didn’t seem to hear that.

‘Coffee?’ he snapped.

‘Coffee, hemlock, whatever’s on offer,’ I agreed, seating myself on one of the angular chairs. The seat seemed to hang from the frame and swung as I sat down, which was a little disconcerting, but it was surprisingly comfortable.

He was taking his time over the coffee mugs, back turned to me, so I thought I might as well begin what I had to say.

‘Yes, college was a long time ago and we didn’t keep in touch – plus, I’ve been living in France lately, so I had no idea what happened to you last year, until Myfy told me,’ I said. ‘But I immediately realized that the Ned Mars I’d known wouldn’t have behaved like that, even before I’d googled it and seen all the details – and although I never liked Sammie Nelson, I’d never have thought she’d turn out to be such a lying cow!’ I added. ‘But you seemed quite willing to believe any vile tale about me.’

He finally turned from the kettle, teaspoon in hand, and stared down at me, frowning. ‘But I was told by someone who actually saw your resignation email that it was totally …’

‘Unhinged?’ I suggested helpfully. ‘A long, rambling list of deeply detrimental statements about my boss and colleagues? Yes, I know – I’ve seen it too. But I neither wrote it nor sent it.’

‘But he said you’d been off work – and everyone understood that it had affected you badly, once your husband had explained it.’

I felt myself go white: this was ripping old wounds apart with a vengeance. The pregnancy, unplanned and initially unwanted, had been quickly followed by a traumatic miscarriage and my being rushed into hospital …

‘Tongues have been busy,’ I said, when I could control my voice. ‘Yes, I had an early, but bad, miscarriage and was off work for a month recovering, but I had no intention of resigning … or not in a way that would slam the door in my face for future jobs,’ I said, because when Treena and I drew up my original escape plan, I was to email HHT and tell them I’d been called away urgently to France because of family illness. Then, after that, resign on the grounds that I would be absent for some months.

‘I loved my job and was in line for promotion – and I can guess who told you the sorry tale and then got that promotion himself.’

He looked thoughtfully at me, as if actually seeing me properly for the first time, then carried two mugs of coffee over and set them on the table, before sitting down opposite.

‘I did think at the time he shouldn’t be spreading the story about like that, but he had seen the letter you say you didn’t write, so perhaps you’d better explain a bit more. I mean, maybe you wrote it while you were ill and don’t remember?’

‘I lost a baby, not my mind,’ I snapped. ‘And I suppose I will have to explain a bit more, though I’m only asking you to employ me as a gardener on a pittance, not take out adoption papers.’

Given what I’d read in the papers online about the scandal nearly scuppering his director’s adoption proceedings, that was perhaps an unfortunate turn of phrase and he scowled at me.

‘I’d forgotten there was always a certain unripe fruit tartness about your conversation and you don’t seem to have mellowed.’

‘Well, dig a bit deeper and you might remember that I was about as down to earth as it was possible to be without growing roots,’ I advised him, then took an unwary sip of coffee. My taste buds immediately shrivelled and died and my throat tried to close up.

He was looking at me curiously. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Your coffee is disgusting,’ I said, when I’d mastered the urge to spit it out, which would not have quite set the tone for the rest of the conversation, besides