Autumn

"That looks... heavy..."

"I packed supplies," he said.

"Oh, did you? What kind of supplies?"

"Oh, the usual. Salmon, avocado, various crackers, cheese, grapes, some jam of my sister's, a bottle of Tattinger and a picnic blanket or two. I've probably forgotten other things."

"Is this your standard picnic pack that you leave pre-assembled, bar the perishables, on the off chance you'll be able to badger some helpless woman into a lunch?"

"Damn, you're on to me."

He grinned like a cheeky schoolboy.

I moved closer to him and linked my arm with his. And then I surprised even myself by leaning my head briefly against his shoulder; I heard the little noise he made, felt the slight lurch in his step, and smiled. It was nice to know I wasn't the only nervous one.

"So how have you been?" he asked me.

"Busy," I said. "You?"

"Likewise," he sighed. "Got a big new client and I'm helping get to the bottom of the utter nonsense that is their accounts. By about two on Friday afternoon I was ready to hit the rum."

"That bad, huh?"

"I cannot believe how people can grow to adulthood, start massively successful businesses, and yet be incapable of doing their accounts or hiring someone competent to do it."

"They haven't had to learn the hard way, I suppose."

He glanced at me. "You're right, I guess. It's not their money; it's the Bank's or a partner's or an investor's... they don't feel the pain if they lose a grand here or ten grand there. It..."

"Vexes you, perhaps?"

"I'm very transparent, aren't I," he sighed.

"Rather call yourself... passionate," I corrected him. "You're a... craftsman, I guess would be the term. Shoddy work... irritates you, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Rather."

"I'm the same. If you can't do something, say so. Nothing's worse than having to clean up a mess that could have been prevented if you'd just asked for help."

We made our way through the Park gates. The park was busy but not crowded; cyclists, families with children, groups of young men and women sitting around the Diana Fountain.

We ambled past them and soon found ourselves in the dappled shade of the gardens proper; above us the first flush of red and gold was coming to the leaves of the canopy that spread above us. I could hear muted shouts of children, the distant barking of a large dog, and, somewhere nearby, some ducks loudly disputing something or other.

We found a section of greensward near a large, sunlit pond, and I watched him as he spread out two picnic blankets for us.

"Sit," he said with a smile, and I obeyed, tucking my legs up against myself.

"I feel ridiculously inadequate," I confessed. "All I brought was some cheese and some crackers. I... I'm not an experienced participant, clearly."

"I am well-trained. I used to do this a lot with Grant and Anne in my youth."

"Anne?" I said, curious.

"My ex-wife. The sun-chaser."

"Oh... I'm sorry..."

"No, don't be! It's not a sad or taboo topic; we had a lovely life and a lovely boy out of it. People change, and what people want changes. How could I ever be angry or upset with her for being honest and true to herself?"

"You're... a complex man, Caleb," I said, after a moment.

"I really am not," he snorted. He began to unpack the supplies for our lunch, and I paused, staring in disbelief as gem after gem was carefully set down onto the pristine fabric beneath us.

"My God. Are you expecting the Queen to drop by?"

"Hah. No. But I wanted to make a good impression."

"You don't need to bankrupt yourself to do that... Caleb! Good grief! You could have probably bought a small southern European country for what you must have spent on this!"

"A lot of it was a gift from a grateful customer. I'd been looking for a good excuse to open it."

"Do you swear on your life that you're being honest, and that you haven't just spent a small fortune on... on today?"

He paused; hearing something in my voice, he glanced up to meet and hold my gaze.

"I never lie," he said softly. "I'm... loud and boisterous and opinionated, and sometimes I cause unintentional offence or hurt people's feelings through not properly thinking my words through. But I never lie. I bought the champagne and some of the crackers; the rest I raided from a hamper."

I relaxed, and sighed in relief. "Good. OK. Thanks. Now I don't feel so bad."

He smiled. "Bubbles?" he said.

"Thank you. That would be lovely."

.:.

We talked for hours. We laid waste to the spread he'd brought. We lamented the lack of a second bottle of bubbles, and made up a ridiculous, impromptu musical about us and the intensely suspicious ducks who watched us from the water's edge, clearly plotting their annexation of the various scraps we'd left unfinished.

He had a manner unlike any man I'd ever met, with a gentle, teasing playfulness that ran completely contrary to the lines on his face.

I found myself hanging on his slow, deep, dramatic words, smiling like a girl, nervous, strung out, enjoying myself far too much to want it to ever end.

I could not remember ever having laughed as much as I laughed there with him, as the afternoon turned golden and the slow chill of evening crept in.

He refused to even hear of letting me "slum it" in a train or cab, and declared that he would chauffeur me home.

I gratefully accepted; I was not ready to say goodbye to him.

He drove us home in chatty levity, came upstairs with me when I hinted, and drank an all-too-brief, companionable cup of coffee with me at my kitchen counter.

I was disappointed and almost moody when he had to leave to prepare for the week ahead, even though the same unpleasant labour awaited me.

It had been... nice... to have another breath in the flat once more.

I found myself missing the expansive way he filled the space around us, and the way he made me laugh.

But both best and worst of all had been the way the gentle, lingering, farewell hug he'd given me had filled my heart almost to breaking and left me perilously close to crying.

I almost hated myself for the fact that I was growing to like him so very, very much.

I knew that I would have to tell him everything.

And I was terribly afraid of what that would mean for him.

And for me.

And... for the... almost-but-not-quite us that part of me so desperately hoped could, somehow, come to be.

I was sad and down and I needed my sunshine child.

.:.

"Mum?"

"Hello, Helen. Am... am I interrupting?"

"God, no, of course not! What... mum, are you OK?"

"Not really," I managed.

"Hang on. Let me turn down the telly. Mum? What's wrong?"

"Just... I'm... it... it's just that... he's so nice."

"Mum... why... why do you sound so... sad... when you say that?"

"Because... oh, there's so much that's happened to me. And... and I feel like it would be unfair to expect..."

"Oh, mum. That's nonsense. Don't make me come there and kick your bum."

"I can't help how I feel."

I heard her sigh.

"So from the slant of this conversation... you really like him, don't you?"

"A lot. Actually, make that very much more than a lot."

I slunk over to the window and stared out at the nightscape beyond it. "You know how sometimes you just meet a person and... well. Stupid question, isn't it, given you and James and how that all happened..."

She laughed softly. "Yes. Kind of. But... I get it. But... mum... I know things were hard for you when I was little. I see the scars on you, you know. You can hide them from everyone... except me. All... all I'm saying is... he's a really level-headed man. I... I really don't think anything you could tell him would... scare him off."

I snorted.

"I wish I had your optimism," I said, after a while.

"He really likes you. I can see that much."

"Mm."

"Mum..."

"Mm?"

"I can come over if you like. James won't mind."

"No. No, don't be silly, Helen. I'm just wrapped up in my thoughts and being daft."

"OK. Well... if you change your mind, just yell, OK? I love you, Mum. Try get some sleep tonight, okay?"

"I will. I love you too, big girl. Chat tomorrow."

"Mwa, mwa," she said, and I broke our connection.

I sighed. It had been unfair to burden her.

But I'd needed to hear her voice.

.:.

I ran myself a bath, and stood, staring at myself in my bathroom mirror as the tub slowly filled.

I noted the lines that were forming at the corners of my eyes, the mouth that didn't curve upwards quite as much as it had when I was a girl. The faint blemishes of middle age that were starting to show on my skin.

Amusing, that - I sometimes felt like I'd lived a thousand years already - a soul that had outrun its body long, long ago.

And just like that, my thoughts strayed back to the blackest parts of my past, when out of desperation and need I'd sold the only thing I had of any useful value - my body. Sold it for enough to feed Helen, and mostly me, and to keep us off the street.

Two years. Two years of awful, grimy, foul-smelling men pawing at my breasts and crotch, fumbling at me and into me, grunting and squirming inside me as I stared at the ceiling or muffled my pain in the pillow as I gave them what they could pay me for - two years when I counted the cracks, or, more often, closed my eyes against the bitter, searing ache in my chest for the few aeon-long minutes of squalour I had to endure for my daughter's next meal...

Two years that I'd numbed with the cheapest alcohol I could find; the only glimmer in the darkness the light that came from the precious face of my child...

I doubled over, retched, spat watery bile into the sink, panted briefly as I fought down the familiar, searing shame.

Then I clenched my jaw and forced myself to stand straight, to meet my accusatory gaze, to acknowledge the price I'd paid.

I'd done it for us.

For us.

It had got us through, it had kept us going until the idea had suddenly come to me in the perfectly-remembered pain of an early morning hangover.

I'd sat, bruised and wretched, miserably trying to sew a button back onto my daughter's sole fancy dress for Book Day, blinking back the tears, wishing for nothing but the money to for once be able to give her something, to be able to give her anything...

Just for once.

I could remember turning the button over and over between my fingers and thinking of all the things I would do for her if only I could.

I could remember the moment when I'd realised that I perhaps could do it.

I could remember the choking, claustrophobic panic I'd felt as I'd spent nearly all of the tiny hoard of savings we had on resin and glitter and materials for a basic mould.

And I could remember how my first, pitiful attempts had still been good enough to drive my daughter into fits of squealing, heart-breaking ecstasy and make her friends nag their mothers for "magic sparkle buttons" of their own...

That tiny fountainhead had, somehow, started the trickle that became the brook that became the mighty river that had carried us both down through the long years... to now.

I wiped my eyes dry and rolled my shoulders to ease the burning ache from them.

The young, scared girl who'd numbly spread her legs and gritted her teeth was long gone.

Maybe some day I'd be able to lay her to rest.

I stripped, dropped my clothes into the laundry basket, and slid down into the bath to soak the aches and cares and tears away.

I prayed for peace - for just for a moment's respite.

But in my heart I knew that I had to tell him.

.:.

My fingers shook as I dialled his number, and I felt a brief flush of relief as I reached his voicemail rather than him.

"Caleb?" I asked his mailbox. "Hi. It's me. Rachel. Rachel Fielding. If you have time, I'd like to... to see you. I... there's... there are things that I think you need to know. About me. So... um. Call me, please, so we can...meet? Thanks. Um. Bye."

I hung up the phone with a sigh. I picked up my third cup of coffee for the morning and sipped it, then recoiled, gagging - my roiling stomach now found it far too bitter do deal with.

I poured it down the kitchen sink with regret, rinsed the porcelain clean, then pulled on my jacket and picked up my handbag.

I made my way to the train station. Unlike so many Londoners my commute was outwards, to a cheap business park in Woking where I kept my small team chained to their desks...

I snorted. As if I'd ever, ever treat anyone like that...

I found a window seat, then slumped against the glass, watching the grey of buildings and the green of allotments and small gardens as they flashed by - little, ephemeral slices of other people's lives whizzing past one after the other.

I wondered how many of the owners were happy. And then I found myself wondering how many had scars, skeletons... bitter pasts they struggled with or drank to forget...

Many, I supposed. Most, perhaps.

I'd just reached the business park when his first call came in. I let it go to go voicemail. He tried again immediately, and, bowing to Fate, I took a breath to steady myself before I answered.

"Caleb?"

"Rachel Fielding. Hello. Thank you for the voicemail in which you so clearly let me know who it was - as if I wouldn't know it was you by that lovely silky voice of yours."

I flushed pink, warmed by the warmth in his tone.

"Thank you for calling me back so soon," I said, trying to reign in my automatic desire to flirt with him.

"You got me out of a horribly dull financial planning call, so thank you right back with spades. Well now... is everything okay, Rachel?"

"No... I mean... yes... oh hell, I mean..."

"It sounds complicated. And you sound stressed. Why is that, Rachel Fielding?"

"Because I'm becoming terribly scared that I might really like you," I heard myself saying. Then I realised what I'd let slip.

"Oh. God damn it. Shit. I mean... oh God..."

His loud, rolling laughter made me shake my head in annoyance at both of us.

"Stop it. Stop it," I begged him. "I'm all at sea here. You render me absolutely incapable of thinking coherently and it's not fair. I just blurt things out to you. It's not fair," I repeated, fighting down the urge to stamp my foot.

"Alright," he chuckled. "I'll stop. Just this once."

I could hear the wide, white grin in his words. He sounded insufferably pleased with himself.

"So... oh, God, this got awkward really quickly," I muttered. "So I'm just going to... be direct with you. Caleb?"

"Yes, Rachel?"

"What is this... this thing, between us? Is there... something? Do you... do you even want there to be something? Between us?"

"Yes. I do," he said, all trace of playfulness suddenly gone.

I shivered.

"Why?" I breathed, not quite willing to trust my ears.

"Because."

"Don't tease me, Caleb, I don't have the patience. Not for things this serious. Not with you, and not today. Tell me. Why?"

"Because of the way you smile. Because of the way you speak. Because of the way that glorious voice of yours goes right down inside of me. Because of the fun we have together. And... because of the way you make my chest feel tight whenever I'm anywhere even remotely near you."

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut against the sudden pain in my heart.

"Tell me what's wrong?" he said, softly, after my silence had stretched out. "What's got you so shaken that you can't even leave a coherent `Please call me`?"

I took a painful breath, and another.

"Rachel?"

"There's... stuff from my past you need to know about. I... I owe it to both of us to tell you everything. But not like this, not over the phone like this. I need to... to see you. I need to see your eyes when I tell you these... things."

"Okay. Are you busy tonight?"

"Tonight?" I whispered. "You're awfully eager to learn the worst of me..."

"I've always found it best to yank the plaster off all in one go," he replied. "I'll text you my address... or I can come pick you up if you prefer that."

"Text me. Please. I want... I need to do this on my terms."

"OK. I will. Rachel?"

"Yes?" I breathed.

"Whatever it is, no matter what it is... I'm glad you want to talk to me."

"Can I get that in writing?" I sighed.

Then I closed my eyes again, somewhat comforted by his gentle laughter.

"I need to go," I said, after we'd shared another almost pleasant moment of silence.

"Take care. I'll see you later. Try not to worry about it - whatever it is, it's better out than in. I'm a natural listener. And I doubt there's anything you could tell me that would bug me unduly."

"I'll see you later, Caleb."

I broke the connection and leaned back against the wall as I tried to find my calm. After a minute's struggle I managed to paste my disguise back on. I pushed open the door to our office, and greeted our office manager with a friendly hello and a warm if faked smile.

One of my junior designers had left a child's magic wand on my desk; I took it as a sign, picked it up, and roamed through the office with it in hand, bestowing blessings of chocolates from my stash and glitter from our stores left and right on my amused and long-suffering staff. I parked the fear of what was to come in a corner of my mind and walled it off there until I left for the evening, letting it out only as I was playing my nightly role as "Winderella", the helpful but unappreciated Pixie of closing the windows and locking the doors and killing the lights for the night.

Sometimes I wondered what kind of wondrous upbeat creature I might have been had Fate not got to me first.

I boarded a near-empty train, and undid my morning commute into the gathering dusk, lost in my thoughts until the train eased up to the platform at the bustling Waterloo terminal. Operating in some sort of near-numb autopilot, I made my way to the taxi rank and clambered into a cab, gave the driver my destination, and sat there as he whisked me along like a modern-day fairytale coachman driving his black metal pumpkin on towards my destined fate...

I snorted at myself and arrested my descent into drama. I'd brought this on myself by letting my guard down, by letting Caleb in past the moats, siege works, barricades and fortifications behind which I'd so long ago walled off my heart. Now I'd have to pay the price. And the inevitable bitter pain I would suffer would serve as a good warning to me to accept with grace that which I had and to not expect any more...

I sighed.

St James' became Mayfair and Mayfair became Marylebone. The cab pulled up outside the address that Caleb had given me - a typical three-storey cream Georgian building with a line of bright red doors. I paid my fare, closed the cab door behind me, and then stood there, staring up at the short flight of stone steps that lay between me and my destination.

A few measured breaths for courage.

I squared my shoulders and climbed the stairs.

Then I rang the doorbell and awaited my impending doom.

.:.

"Your wine," he said, as he passed me the brimming glass.

"Thank you."

I stared around the cluttered living area, still unbalanced and almost intimidated by the riot of colour, the framed posters of famous movies and musicals and the beautiful antique lamps that lit everything with a golden glow. "I can't get over this place. It's like a cross between the British Museum and a robber's cave. Piles of gold and silver would not be out of place. Is... Caleb, is that umbrella stand actually full of swords?"

"They're all prop swords," he said, amused. "I'd get a good bollocking from the police if I carried them in public, but here they're fine. I could probably beat someone to death with them, but I'd have more luck stabbing them with spaghetti."

"You're actually a robber baron. It's official."

"I'd have preferred pirate king, but I'll accept robber baron from you. I like the clutter, it makes the place feel lived in and less lonely over the weekends. God knows I spend little enough time here, though."