Phaedra Patrick - Wishes Under The Willow Tree

‘He misses you.’

‘Me too. Send my .’

Benedict couldn’t think of anything worse than whispering gooey sweet nothings to the fluffy beast. ‘I will do. Now rest up. All is great here.’

‘ ,’ said Cecil.

While Benedict waited for Gemma, no customers came into the shop. He thought that he’d relish the quietness away from her, but when he picked up a length of gold wire to make more links, he squashed each one.

As he slid another batch of rejected links from his palm into the teacup, the electronic beep-bop in the showroom sounded. Gemma returning early, he pressed his lips tight.

‘Hello,’ he called out and walked into the showroom. And then his heart and time seemed to come to a standstill.

His wife stood in the middle of the shop.

‘ Estelle? ’ His word sounded raspy.

‘Hello, Benedict,’ she said.

He used to greet her with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and he wanted to do that now. They’d shared twelve years of love and laughter, but they stood facing each other as if there was a thick pane of glass between them.

His wife used her arms and hands to express herself – a reassuring pat to his shoulder, a hug hello, a rub to his forearm as she spoke. This woman looked like Estelle and sounded like her, but she didn’t move like his wife. It was like a clone had taken over Estelle’s body but hadn’t downloaded her personality.

He felt as if his limbs were held together by glue that was becoming unstuck. If he moved, then he might fall apart. ‘Estelle,’ he repeated. Words wafted around in his head and he couldn’t pin them down to say them to her. If she came home, he would do whatever he needed to, to make things right. He didn’t want to beg, but if that’s what it took then he would do it.

Estelle touched her neck and he saw that she was wearing a bright resin necklace that looked like a firework exploding from beneath her collar. She followed his eyes. ‘Oh, this? Friends bought it for me, to celebrate my exhibition at Purple Heather.’

‘It’s very bold.’

‘It’s nice to have a change sometimes.’

Benedict cleared his throat. ‘Your exhibition looks very exciting. Congratulations. I found a leaflet on my doormat.’

Her brow furrowed in the middle. ‘Sorry. I thought that you knew about it.’

‘No.’ He tried to say it without emotion but felt a tremble in his voice.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Things have been so crazy recently. I hope that you’ll come along.’

Benedict wanted to attend, but what part would he play? He wasn’t sure if Estelle was inching him out of her life. He thought of Cecil’s words about getting on his proverbial medieval horse to joust for her. But what could he do?

He felt like he was sitting on the beach when a huge wave crashed, filling his nose and mouth with salt water. He might try to flail around and scramble away, but he was drowning. How had they come to this? It had happened so gradually – the niggles, the arguments, the silences had all reached a crescendo of awfulness, until his wife had felt the only option was to move away from him.

Estelle was coping with things much better than he was. She had a shiny new apartment to live in, friends to support her and a dazzling new career as an artist. And Benedict felt bereft, like a small child watching a circus driving away from town and not knowing if it would return.

Estelle looked around the shop. ‘You don’t have your lights on in here.’

‘I just called in to feed Lord Puss.’

‘Not much work on then?’

He couldn’t tell if she said it with concern, or if there was a slight barb to her comment. ‘Oh yes. No problem there,’ he said, thinking about his empty appointment book. ‘Busy, busy.’

Over his wife’s shoulder, through the large front window, he saw Gemma lollop past on the opposite side of the road. She carried armfuls of coloured shopping bags and she stopped to wave at him.

Benedict looked away quickly, pretending not to see her. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing her to notice that he was talking to someone and to move on. He didn’t want Estelle and Gemma to meet, until he’d had the chance to talk to Charlie, to find out what the hell was going on. However, Gemma waved again. She edged towards the kerb.

‘I have other things to sort out today, with Cecil being in hospital.’ He swallowed.

‘How is he?’ Estelle asked. ‘Did his op go okay?’

‘Yes, he’s fine.’ The stress of seeing Gemma made his words come out too quickly. ‘I’m going to visit him tomorrow.’

‘Good. Send my love.’

As Gemma crossed over the road, heading towards the shop, Benedict automatically shook his head.

‘What is it?’ Estelle asked sharply.

‘I’ll tell Cecil that you asked after him.’

‘You’re shaking your head.’

‘Sorry.’

Gemma now stood outside the shop, looking at his window display.

‘You seem distracted.’ Estelle pulled her coat around her. ‘I should go.’

‘No.’ Benedict reached out to touch her arm, but felt as if he’d made contact with an invisible force field. He slowly lowered his hand. ‘Please don’t go.’ He opened his mouth to speak again, but the shop door opened.

Gemma heaved her shopping bags inside. ‘Hi there,’ she chirped. ‘I’m Gemma.’

Benedict lost all of the words in his head, at the sight of his niece and wife in the same small space. His eyes flicked between the two of them as if he was watching a game of table tennis.

Gemma strolled around the shop, peering into each of the cabinets.

Estelle didn’t look at her. ‘I stopped by to ask if I can come over to pick up my paintings from the spare bedroom? Canvasses are expensive, so I’m going to paint over my old ones.’

Benedict’s brain started to tick with possibilities. This could be the opportunity he’d hoped for. He could tidy the house, buy some fresh flowers, maybe attempt to make a shepherd’s pie, and then casually invite Estelle to stay for tea. He’d open a bottle of expensive red wine to create a nice ambience for the two of them to discuss things.

But Gemma was sleeping in Estelle’s studio.

His eyes darted over towards his niece again. Looking at her russet hair made him feel dizzy. ‘I’ll drop the paintings off at Veronica’s apartment for you,’ he said.

‘Actually, Lawrence has offered to help me pick them up. He’s an expert in landscape art, and I don’t want to paint over any paintings that he thinks are worth saving. He’s been so wonderful, helping me to set up the exhibition.’

Benedict thought of the clumps of bags, and piles of bills, on every conceivable surface in the house. He winced at the mention of Lawrence’s name. ‘It’s not actually a good time…’ he started.

‘Oh. What’s the problem?’

‘Nothing. I’ll drop the canvasses off for you tonight.’

When Estelle spoke again, her voice was cooler and low. She took a step back towards the door. ‘There’s really no rush,’ she said. ‘Don’t go to any trouble.’

This is all going so wrong, Benedict thought. He wanted to stride over and stand in front of the door to stop her from leaving. He couldn’t bear to see her walking away from him, again.

As he furiously thought what else to say, little by little, Benedict became aware that Gemma had turned away from the cabinets and was clearly listening into their conversation. She stood with her arms folded, gawking at Estelle.