Perfect Day

be the one to go first.
    She can’t.

    They cross the road into a formal garden that’s laid out like a pen and ink illustration from an old book. There are fountains and low clipped holly hedges and stone urns bursting with spring flowers. The air smells of hyacinths and orange blossom. In the flowerbed beside her, the faces of blue pansies and nodding white and orange narcissus seem to be smiling at her.
    A box hedge at the end of the path separates the idyllic peace of the garden from traffic and buildings and reality. This is her chance, she must say what she has to say in this magical garden, before they are swallowed again by the city.
    Kate takes a deep breath.
    She wants to tell him the truth, but different words come out of her mouth. ‘I told Tony that there was this chap I was madly in love with, and I had to spend the day with him,’ she offers, into the sweet-smelling air.
    ‘Who’s Tony?’
    ‘My boss.’
    Alexander’s face is smiling, but he says nothing.
    There’s only the splash of babbling water.
    ‘He’s Italian. I thought he’d fall for the romance of it,’ Kate continues, trying to make her voice light. ‘He said I could swap shifts. He must be only half-Italian!’
    ‘I see.’
    She’s flattened, angry with herself that she was crazy enough to tell him that she loves him.
    Now the vivid faces of the flowers are laughing at her.
    ‘Are you still madly in love with this chap?’ Alexander finally asks.
    Her heart’s beating in her mouth.
    They’re almost at the box hedge.
    ‘Yes,’ she says.
    If she was expecting him to pick her up and swing her round, her legs flying out in a deliriously romantic twirl, she’s disappointed.
    Well, that’s that, then, she thinks. Blown it completely, left without a shred of dignity, as if there was any left after the changing-room incident anyway.
    Beyond the hedge is a patch of meadow that’s been left unmown . Pale cream daffodils shine out of the lush green grass and there’s a cherry tree in full bloom at the very edge of the garden, breathtakingly pink, so spectacularly pink it almost looks artificial.
    Alexander grabs Kate’s hand and pulls her through the grass, ducking beneath branches laden with extravagant clusters of blossom.
    He drops to the ground and pulls her down beside him.
    It’s quiet under the branches and if they lie low nobody will see them in the long grass and flowers, under the canopy of blossom. Kate feels as if she’s in a child’s playhouse, all secure and secret. She rests her weight back on her elbows and looks up.
    ‘This is what it must be like to be a bee inside a flower...’ she says.
    The blossom is so abundant she can hardly see the sky above it, just flashes of intense clear blue as the branches sway. It’s really bright inside, as if the flowers themselves are giving out pink light.
    ‘...or in Heaven.’
    ‘A bee in Heaven?’ he teases.
    ‘No!’
    She joshes him with her arm.
    ‘Heaven. You know!’
    ‘Do you believe in Heaven?’ he asks.
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I believe in possibility,’ she tells him. ‘Otherwise, life is too sad.’
    He thinks about that for a while. Props himself back on his elbows next to her.
    ‘We ought to have a feast,’ he says. ‘In Japan , everyone takes a feast and sits under the cherry blossom.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘They take it very seriously. They even have a cherry blossom forecast on television.’
    ‘Go on!’
    ‘No, really. It shows when the cherry blossom’s going to be out in every region. The blossom comes earlier in the south you see, and moves up the country.’
    He gestures with his hands like a weather forecaster. She can’t tell whether he’s still teasing. It’s such a lovely thought.
    ‘So what do they do sitting under their tree?’
    Alexander picks up a twig, and inspects it as if it’s a precious artefact, looks up at the blossom, sighs, throws the twig down.
    ‘Get pissed out of their heads on saki and beer.’
    ‘Because it’s so beautiful?’
    ‘It’s a tradition. Japan many tradition country ,’ he adds in a Japanese accent. ‘I think it’s from the Samurai. The cherry blossom is a symbol of bravery. It blooms and dies on the branch. Something like that.’
    A slight breeze rustles the flowers around them. He lies flat on his back, looking up at her.
    It’s terrifying to have him look at her like that as if he’ll find something deep if he stares long enough. She doesn’t want to say anything