Sunday morning. Normally, this would be pottering day, but today, this morning, now, I have something to do. The walk is not far and the sky is bright and clear. The nearer I get, the more nervous I feel, as if I am about to sit an exam or enter onto a stage, and will suddenly blunder out there, blinking in the bright lights and opening my mouth in goldfish O’s because I don’t know my lines.
There is no answer when I ring the bell, only the sound of my heart thudding in my ears. I should have phoned first, of course, but what could I say? It seems silly to lug the package home again; perhaps I will leave it in the garden under the pergola and call later.
Through the side gate, along the path. I breathe in the swoony scent of a pink viburnum. I don’t see him at first, but I hear the clipping of his secateurs and his breath as he tugs at a stubborn weed. He is there, beyond the garden seat, half-hidden by plants in the far border as if he had grown there. Through the slatted back, I see stripes of Will, rectangles of black jeans and that needlecord shirt that I never really liked; now I want him to wear it always – this is how I will see him when I picture him in my head. He is working with his back turned towards me and I watch for a minute as he dips and leans into the plants, pruning with his secateurs, his movements fluid and precise.
I am tempted to creep up on him, to reach out and touch him, scare him with a lover’s certainty, but I am not sure how he will respond, so I call out.
‘You’ve missed a bit.’
He starts slightly and stands up, then slowly turns round, twisting in the way I once drew him, as he does in the painting I have in my arms.
He looks at me and he does not speak and I do not speak.
I walk towards him, then, and hold out the package. He smiles as he realizes what it is and he peels back the paper, looks down at his own image standing before the mural in my garden – the crumbling stone arch, a promise of sunlight glimpsed beyond.
‘I wanted to call you so many times,’ I say.
‘Me too.’
‘Me three.’
He reaches out to tuck a strand of my hair back from my face.
‘So, are you here just as a courier or have you got time for a proper visit?’
I look at my watch and suck in my breath.
‘Hmm, always time for a cup of tea … say about fifty years or so?’
‘So, is that like a yes then?’
‘That is very like a yes then. A YES of skyscraper dimensions.’ I reach up and stroke my fingertip across his eyebrow, pausing at his scar. ‘Did I mention that I actually “L”-word you quite a huge amount? Will that be a problem at all?’
‘I guess I can handle it.’ He smiles and takes me in his arms.
I cup his dear, precious face in my hands and stretch up to kiss him. ‘Can we start now?’
THE END