flowers, but you can’t stop spring from coming. I don’t care what they say, you can’t. It pops up. It won’t be subdued. It’s there all the time, deep underground, dormant, waiting. The minute I saw that email from Kirk, I felt a daisy spring up, bobbing its head around as though to say, “You never know….”
It wasn’t overoptimism. It wasn’t some deluded fantasy. It was just…maybe. Everyone’s allowed a maybe, aren’t they? And that maybe feeling propelled me all the way through packing up, saying my farewells to Farida and Felicity, flying home, choosing an outfit, applying my makeup, and coming out here tonight. Hope. Just a little daisy of hope.
But now a brisk wind is blowing and the daisy’s feeling pretty buffeted. Actually, I might leave now. I’ve said hello to everyone from the group and we’ve promised we’ll have another reunion, and it’s been nice to see them in a way. Although it’s not the same. How could it be? In Puglia we were a group of unburdened souls in kurta pajamas. In this London pub, Richard has turned into an anorak-wearing bore, and Eithne can only talk about her grandchildren. Anna has told me endlessly about her brilliant career and looked gleeful when I told her that Matt and I had broken up. Everyone’s just a little paler and frownier than they were in Italy. Including me, I’m sure.
Mouthing a general vague apology at Eithne, I step outside the pub and into the drizzly London street, then breathe out, trying to shed all the feelings that have been building up over the last few days. And I’m just peering at a passing bus, wondering if I should catch one home, when my phone jangles with a FaceTime request. It’s Ronald, wanting to chat, and I smile wryly. Of all the moments.
Ronald is the one member of the Warwick family I’ve stayed in touch with. I speak to him maybe twice a month, sometimes more. He called me soon after I arrived in Puglia, and we had a nice, aimless chat. He was interested to hear about Italy, and he had a few things to say about the news. Then he started telling me about his awful scam again, and even though he was repeating what I already knew, I listened sympathetically. I sensed he needed to say it, and he doesn’t get a chance to at home. We didn’t talk about Matt. When he strayed in that direction, I said, “Actually, could we not talk about Matt?” And we haven’t mentioned him ever since. Or any of the family. But we’ve chatted. And it’s been nice.
Not now, though. It’s not the time. I decline his request and send a quick text suggesting we talk another day. Then I start walking briskly, trying to put distance between me and the pub. I need to move on from all this, both literally and mentally. Enough. Regroup. Onward.
As the word “onward” passes through my mind, I think of Sarika, and my heart contracts. Because that’s where I should be. With my friends. With my squad. I haven’t even told them I’m back yet. Not sure why. I suppose I hoped…
Stupid daisy.
With firmer resolve, I turn my steps toward the tube. I’ll go round to Nell’s and surprise her. Should have thought of that before.
* * *
—
It takes me about half an hour to reach Nell’s street, picking up some flowers on the way. As I stride along the pavement toward her building, it really hits me, what I’m doing, and I start to feel excited. Exhilarated, even. Because it’s been months! And I’ve finished my book! And I’ve missed my friends so much. So much. And they have no idea I’m back!
I have to thank Maud especially, because my flat looks amazing. So tidy! She’s upcycled the shelving unit and the kitchen chairs and the dresser, which is now blue with wallpaper inside the cupboards. It’s gorgeous. It’s all gorgeous. It was definitely worth waiting for.
The trees on either side of Nell’s street are covered with blossom, lit up by streetlamps, and the sight of it makes me smile wryly in spite of myself. There we are. The spring. Can’t stop it.
It’s only when I’m on the forecourt of her building that I suddenly feel nervous. No, not nervous, but…Should I text her at least, rather than just arriving on the doorstep?
I find myself a discreet place to perch, on a low bollard between two parked cars,