Wishes Under The Willow Tree: The feel-good book of 2018. Phaedra Patrick

      ‘It’s more golden than beige. Tea has its own unique hue.’

      She shuffled along on her bottom, out from under the gem tree, and took it from him. Sitting cross-legged, she cocked her head on one side and took a sip. ‘Yuck. I’m not sure about it.’

      ‘You’ll get to really like it.’

      ‘Was Cecil okay?’ she asked.

      ‘He’s fine but looks a bit pale. I gave him the piece of Turquoise.’

      ‘Cool.’

      ‘Who are the flowers for?’ he asked. ‘And, is that…a sword?’

      Gemma nodded. ‘The flowers are for Estelle, and the costume is for you.’

      Benedict’s fingers tightened around his cup and he took a nervous sip. ‘Costume?’

      ‘Uh-huh. It’s for your Romeo.’

      Benedict spluttered into his tea. ‘What?’

      ‘Uncle Ben,’ Gemma said, ‘we discussed this. While you were visiting Cecil, I bought a hat and sewed a feather on it. There’s a black mask for your eyes, and I got you a sword. It’s amazing what you can get at the charity shop. I wanted to buy you a velvet tunic, but there was nothing in your size. Then there’s flowers for you to give to her.’

      Benedict rubbed at his neck. He stared at the items. ‘A sword?’

      ‘Sure. I think Leonardo DiCaprio has one in the film.’ She looked him over. ‘I know you’re not Leo, but…’ She jumped up and plonked the hat onto his head, then handed him the mask. ‘All you have to do, when you take Estelle’s paintings back, is to try to make it romantic.’

      Benedict picked up the sword. This was a teenage girl’s view of romance, not his. He looked at Gemma and her eyes were eager, like a friendly dog waiting to be patted. It was kinder to humour her and pretend to go along with her plan. Rejecting her efforts seemed a bit harsh, especially when she’d made quite an effort.

      ‘Thanks,’ he said and tested the tip of the sword with his finger. Thinking of what else he could add, he said, ‘Ouch, that’s sharp.’

      ‘Be careful with it.’

      Benedict nodded. He folded the eye mask and put it in his pocket, and tucked the plastic sword under his arm. ‘Now, don’t wait up for me. If Estelle invites me in for a talk, then I may be a while. You’ll be okay on your own?’

      ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Gemma sighed.

      ‘No reason,’ Benedict said. ‘No reason at all.’ Benedict panted as he pushed the painting-laden trolley along the high street and past the crumbling community centre. It was a struggle to negotiate the kerbstones and he could only travel slowly. The sky was darkening quickly and an owl hooted. The waning moon reflected in the canal like a misshapen pearl. He focused on reaching the apartment block, intent on returning Estelle’s paintings and sparking a conversation with her.

      The mask, hat and sword sat in a shopping bag, balanced on top of the paintings. The flowers in the bouquet shook as he trundled along.

      Veronica’s apartment was the second one along, on the second floor. It had the largest balcony of the block, on which sat a wrought iron table and two chairs, and a metal sculpture of a heron.

      Benedict pushed the trolley to the back of the apartment block, on the canal towpath. He positioned it next to a large bush and glanced inside the bag. The orange glow of a street lamp illuminated its contents and, as Benedict touched the feather on the hat, he tried to think of what to do next.

      His biggest temptation was to about-face and go back home. He could lie to Gemma and say that Estelle wasn’t in, even elaborating a little to say that he’d waited for a long time outside the apartment. Or, maybe he could tell his niece that he’d donned the outfit and that Estelle was impressed by his effort. Gemma would be pleased that he’d followed her idea, and they wouldn’t have an altercation when he got home. She’d be none the wiser.

      But Benedict also knew that if he didn’t do anything, then it would be his own fault if Estelle stayed away for longer, or didn’t come back at all. How long could he carry on just waiting and seeing?

      A small bolt of anger flared in his chest at his own uselessness, that he couldn’t give his wife what she wanted, what they both wanted. As if a bloody feathered hat and mask would solve their relationship issues. It was ridiculous. How could waving a sword suddenly make being childless feel okay? He slid the sword out of the bag and plunged it into the ground. It was surprisingly sturdy and it shook as he let go of it.

      He heard a swishing noise and lifted his head to see the patio doors to Veronica’s apartment open up. He recognised Estelle’s silhouette as she stepped out onto the balcony.

      Not having prepared or rehearsed what he was going to say to her, Benedict automatically sidestepped behind a bush. It wasn’t tall enough to conceal his height, so he bent his knees and squatted the best he could. Peeping through the leaves, he watched his wife move to the front of the balcony. She held a wine glass in one hand.

      Adrenaline whooshed through his veins and he tugged the sword out of the earth, not wanting to use it, but to hold on to something. ‘Go on, Benedict,’ he said to himself, through his teeth. Step out there and say something. Shout up and offer her the flowers. Show her that you love her.

      He steadied himself to pluck up courage to step out of the bush. He lifted his right foot, but then he halted as another figure joined Estelle on the balcony. It was tall and angular and, in the faint yellow light that shone from the apartment, Benedict could make out a striped T-shirt. Lawrence Donnington.