Page 95 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“Let’s not talk about Will,” I say, picking up my pace.
“Did you fill in the form from the council?”
“Let’s not talk about the hedge or the bins either, please, Noah,” I ask, clapping my hands together in prayer, then raising my eyes to the heavens.
“Fine, we’ll bin the bin talk,” Noah says, putting a bounce in his step.
The bus is late, so we needn’t have rushed. We’ve only been in each other’s company for twenty minutes, and already I’m finding Noah intensely annoying. He is slow and deliberate in everything he does. As we board the bus, he pulls out his wallet, takes out his card to pay, then slowly and methodically puts the card away before walking on to sit down. Why wouldn’t he just put the card awaywhilehe’s walking, like a normal person? I can’t help thinking how much I’d rather be on this bus with Will, watching him put a smile on the face of every stranger he interacts with.
Jonathan suggested I take my dates to some of the tourist attractions in Bath, “a great way to promote everything this cityhas to offer.” So, we’re going to a late opening at the Roman Baths. I’ve been to the baths several times before, and given how uptight Noah is, now I’m wishing I’d chosen somewhere that serves alcohol.
“Fascinating to think the Romans built all this two thousand years ago, isn’t it?” Noah says as we swipe our tickets through the turnstiles.
“The Celts were using the natural spring long before the Romans arrived,” I tell him.
“Sure. But the Roman baths, the engineering,” Noah says. “The network of channels and sluices harnessing heat from the underground spring. Remarkably sophisticated, even by today’s standards.”
We walk through to the first room of the museum, where there’s a model of what the baths looked like when they were first built, along with some of the original walls, pillars, and engravings paying tribute to the goddess of the thermal springs, Sulis. Noah stops to read every information board silently, then scans every QR code with his phone to download “extra information.”
“It’s nearly impossible to read everything in one visit,” I say tactfully. “Have you been before?”
“Yes. You always learn something new, though, don’t you?”
The museum is quiet, and my mind starts to wander.What did Lottie think about Will delivering that enormous bunch of flowers? She’s going to read into it, she reads into everything. Did Will remember that peonies are my favorite flowers, or was that a coincidence?
“Come and look at this,” Noah says, pointing to a glass display cabinet. “People would scratch curses and wishes onto bits of pewter, then throw them into the springs, asking the goddess for help in punishing those who had wronged them.”
“ ‘Docimedis has lost two gloves and asks that the thief responsible should lose their mind and eyes in the goddess’stemple,’ ” I read from one of the translated inscriptions. “That feels harsh. Losing your mindandyour eyes over a stolen pair of gloves.” I look across at Noah, who is still busy reading.
“Look at this one. ‘Please protect my hedge from unsanctioned pruning,’ ” he says, not cracking a smile or turning his head. “What would you write?”
“I would ask the goddess to remove the giant stick from my neighbor’s arse,” I say, and Noah lets out a hard, sharp laugh. “And to stop him from reading every sign in the museum, or we’ll be here until three in the morning.”
“Fine,” he says, shaking his head, but he’s smiling, and I notice how warm his eyes look. We walk out onto a walkway in the open air, where a series of stone pillars surrounds a green pool of water.
“Funny to think how different their lives were but how similar some of their day-to-day concerns,” I muse. “Meeting at the baths to curse those who’ve wronged them. It’s like ancient Rome’s version of online trolling.” Noah laughs. “It’s sad, isn’t it? All that’s left in the world of this Docimedis guy is his complaint about a lost glove.”
“Two lost gloves,” Noah corrects me.
“Right.”
“Gemma used to think about this, when she was sick,” Noah says, his expression pensive. “Because we didn’t have children, she wondered who would remember her when she was gone. She was working on a PhD in plant biology, but she never got to finish it. It bothered her, that lack of a legacy.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t know her,” I say softly. “What was she like?”
Noah’s face lights up. “She loved nature. She was constantly foraging, bringing bits and bobs into the house—plants and twigs, abandoned bird nests, unique shells and stones. She wasalways befriending animals in our garden, had endless bird feeders and squirrel feeders. She planted lavender for the bees.”
“She sounds magical,” I say, enchanted by how animated he has become.
“When we moved in, the hedge was scrawny and diseased,” Noah tells me. “She made it her project to revive it. She pulled out bits that were dead, replanted, treated the leaves, nurtured it back to life.”
“Oh, Noah, I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm. “You should have said.”
Noah drops his head. “I know she’s not the hedge,” he says, quietly now, “but when I see how big it’s grown, I feel like there’s a part of her inside it. I look out of the kitchen window and it’s like she’s telling me, ‘I’m still here.’ ” His voice cracks, and he swipes at his eye with a palm.
“I’m so sorry you lost her. She sounds like an incredible woman.”
Noah tells me how they met at a wildlife preserve, how they’d planned to move to Scotland and set up a bird sanctuary, but he didn’t want to do it alone, didn’t want to leave the house they’d shared.
