whiz through math homework declaring, “This is so easy!” If she had learned to say no to David, would things have been different? Would he be here with them now?
* * *
The engines droned as the plane flew closer to England and Tilly struggled to keep her mind from Sebastian. But Bramwell Chase was a village. She could bump into him walking down the High Street or cutting through Badger Way. Even an imaginary meeting left her giddy.
Should she slug him and say, “Naff off, asshole?” No, that smacked of amateur dramatics. She could give him a curt “Do I know you?” Nope, that was petty. If only she could snap out a Rowena-comment, a one-liner that shriveled up your desire to exist.
What was his wife’s name? And the kids—a boy called Archie and a girl? Archie and Isaac were the same age. They could even become friends. Tilly clutched at her throat. What if Sebastian turned up on the doorstep all smiles and “Remember me?” Her breathing eased. No, that was one scenario she didn’t need to prepare for. Sebastian was a successful personal banker for a reason. He never dabbled in spontaneity, never took risks, not even for her. When Tilly told him she was engaged, Sebastian had said, “I’ll catch you the second time around,” and walked away.
Would she recognize him after ten years? Would he recognize her? Since they last met she’d hacked off her hair and donated every piece of clothing that didn’t fit the jeans and T-shirt category to the thrift store. And now Sebastian was turning forty. He’d probably sprouted a beer gut and tufty, falling-out hair. Yes, a balding banker grown slack on the high life. That was the image to work with, especially the balding part. Sebastian had always obsessed over his receding hairline, unlike David, who’d had enough hair for two. But as her eyelids fluttered, and her head drooped against the plastic wings of the headrest, it wasn’t David who visited her dreams. She was cornered in sleep by the sixteen-year-old with the puckish grin, the boy she had once craved as if he were a drug.
Chapter 8
Tilly spotted him the moment the electronic doors jolted open. At least she thought she did. It could also be a mirage, brought on by lack of sleep and cheap gin—the airline had cut the Bombay Sapphire. It couldn’t be Sebastian—one foot resting on the pillar behind him, head rolled back, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his white jeans, suede jacket slung through one arm. Not at 8:00 a.m. in the arrivals area of Heathrow. Except that the redhead jumping up and down next to him screeching, “Haddy! Over here, you twit!” was Rowena.
With a dang and a thud, Tilly’s luggage cart rear-ended a chrome bollard. How did that happen? One moment she was gripping the metal bar so tightly she thought she might cut off circulation to her fingers, the next all she could think about was escape. She turned, but the door to the customs hall had closed behind her.
“Haddy!” Rowena waved and the bangles and beads on her wrists chinked against each other like gypsy bells. “Haddy!”
Isaac ducked under the barricade and hurtled toward Rowena. “Hey, Rosy-Posy,” he giggled, then launched himself into her arms.
Sebastian lowered his head, but appeared to have no interest in locating his ex-lover. He looked more dazed than intrigued, his expression that of a person who had just woken from a nightmare and was struggling to cobble together his surroundings.
Tilly experienced a sudden plummeting in her gut. Still beautiful, then. Maybe more so. But she hadn’t really expected him to be fat, bald and ruddy. She had always known he would gain substance with age.
“My little man,” Rowena squealed as she twirled Isaac. “I’ve missed you so much! I forbid you from leaving me ever again.”
Isaac disappeared into a kaleidoscope of laughter and color, wrapped in Rowena’s ankle-length skirt and clasped to the turquoise sweater that nipped in at her tiny waist and stretched over her perfect breasts. The sleeves were forced above her elbows in an effort, no doubt, to hide the holes. Secondhand cashmere sweaters—they’re recycled, Haddy!—were Ro’s standard uniform and she was loyal to the last thread. Even on toasty summer days she complained of being fucking freezing. But then Rowena, a landowner infamous for serving marijuana with her shooting lunches, had always lived outside the lines. Being with Rowena was like jettisoning yourself through a bubble wand and not knowing when you would burst back into reality.
Being with Sebastian, however, was to stay firmly on the ground, to do one’s duty. Tilly’s stomach lurched as if she were still on the plane and riding out a patch of turbulence. He certainly had the air of someone who crafted his appearance with care. The cuffs of his pale blue shirt—linen, had to be, since it crumpled in all the right places—were folded back to reveal a heavy metal watch worn, as the battered Timex had been, with the face on the inside of his wrist so that he alone could read it.
“Haddy!” The familiarity of Rowena engulfed Tilly: the smell of satsuma soap, the softness of cashmere, the thick curtain of coarse hair. “It seems like only yesterday I was waving you off at Christmas and crying buckets.” Rowena drew back. “But you look horribly pale. Are you eating properly? Sleeping? And why don’t you answer my emails, you lazy old cow? I’ve been worried sick.”
“Missed you, too,” Tilly said. “Now tell me what he’s doing here.” She nodded backward.
“Be nice,” Rowena whispered. “Sebastian’s had a rough week.”
“But—”
“Poppet! How you’ve grown since Christmas.” Rowena ran a hand from the top of Isaac’s head to below her collarbone. “You’re only a head shorter than me now.”
Tilly inhaled sharply and spun around, glaring at Sebastian. You first.
Gradually, his face transformed into his lopsided smile. He pushed off the pillar and sauntered over, hands still buried in his pockets.
An announcement drifted through the Tannoy system. Rowena teased Isaac as she foraged in her carpetbag, and Isaac spoke in his knock-knock joke voice. But Tilly couldn’t decipher words. All she heard was noise, distorted by the thumping of her heart. Thump. Sebastian took another step—thump—and another step. Thump.
Finally, he stopped in front of her. Was his heart running a marathon, too? He hesitated—oh crap, was he thinking about a kiss?—and his grin spread. Bugger, he knows what I look like naked. A plastic bag rustled and Isaac shrieked with glee, but Tilly didn’t turn. If hell were tailored to fit, she was roasting in it, cooked to a mush before the man she had never wanted to see again.
“Hello,” Sebastian said.
“Hey,” Tilly replied with a deep breath.
He smelled of privilege, of dinner parties with port, cognac and cigars. Did he used to wear aftershave? She couldn’t remember. In ten years Sebastian had navigated a life she knew nothing of and returned a stranger. Did he like a cocktail before dinner? She had no clue. Could he still lose a Saturday to watching cricket on the television, curtains drawn against the sun? How would she know? A decade of silence lay between them, and in an instant he became blank.
“Awesome! The new Dr. X! Look, Mom. Look what Ro gave me!” Isaac tugged on her cardigan. “You can turn him upside down and all the green stuff in his tummy sloshes around. Thanks, Ro! You’re the best! Now I can have a huge battle with Action Man and—” Isaac dropped his voice “—the evil Dr. X. We did pack Action Man, right, Mom?”
“Right.” Tilly swallowed. “Isaac, I’d like you to meet
