Tea at the Conservatory – Part 2: First Flower

By the fourth Wednesday, the bench had become theirs. A second flask, a folded blanket against the cold of the glasshouse, and a row of sketches Hanna kept tucked into a leather folder that she refused to let Thandi touch until the book was finished.

"What's in there?" asked Thandi, nodding at the folder.

"Things I haven't finished," said Hanna. "Some of them are about you."

Thandi went very still, her cup halfway to her mouth. "About me?"

"About the way you check the orchid's roots before you say hello to me," said Hanna, with a small, nervous smile. "I noticed on the first Wednesday, and I've been drawing it ever since."

"You didn't say anything."

"I'm an illustrator. I say things with pencils."

Thandi laughed, a little unsteadily, and set her cup down on the bench.

"Can I see the drawing?" she asked.

Hanna hesitated, then slowly opened the folder. Inside, among the sketches of other plants and old buildings and the grey Cape Town harbour, was a single drawing of Thandi, bent over the orchid, her hair tied back, her face soft with concentration. Beside it was a small note, in pencil: She is trying to make it bloom. I think she's also trying to make herself bloom.

Thandi's throat went tight. She looked up.

"You think I'm trying to bloom?" she said quietly.

"I think you've been waiting for something to flower for three years," said Hanna, "and you're too kind to say it's you."

"That's very presumptuous of you."

"It's very honest of me," said Hanna. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to walk through the gardens with me this Saturday? Not for the book, and not for the orchid. Just you, and me, and the paths that nobody bothers to visit."

Thandi's breath caught. "Yes," she said. "But I'm choosing the path. And you have to tell me which of your drawings you're still afraid to show me."

"That's the same question," said Hanna, laughing softly.

"It's a very good question."

They walked on Saturday, through the old oaks and the fern garden and a long gravel path along the hill, the mountain rising green and quiet above them. They talked about their childhoods, one in Durban and one in a small town outside Berlin. About the parents who had never quite understood them, and the friends who had. About the first time each of them had realised she was not like the other girls, and the long, careful years of pretending otherwise.

At the top of the hill, a bench looked out over the city and the bay, the water glittering silver in the afternoon light.

"Can I say something?" said Hanna.

"Yes."

"I'm not afraid of the orchid. I'm afraid of you, a little. Because you're the first person in a long time who makes me want to stay still long enough to be seen."

Thandi turned to her, her eyes bright. "Then stay still," she said. "And let me see you."

Hanna's lips parted, and then curved into a slow, shy smile.

"Can I kiss you?" she asked. "Here, on the hill, where nobody else is looking?"

"Yes," said Thandi. "And if I say stop, we'll go back to the glasshouse and sit with the orchid until it forgives us."

Hanna leaned in, slowly, and kissed her, warm and unhurried, the taste of tea and sea air on her lips. Thandi's hand rose to rest against Hanna's cheek, her thumb brushing the faint line of graphite still there. The city hummed far below, the sun sank towards the water, and for a long moment neither of them moved at all.

When they parted, both of them were smiling so widely it hurt.

"Green?" asked Hanna softly.

"Green," said Thandi. "Very green. Now let's go back. I think the orchid just opened a bud."

"Are you serious?"

"Entirely," said Thandi. "I could see it from the door."

They ran back down the hill together, laughing, through the gathering dusk, and when they reached the conservatory the glasshouse was glowing gold in the last of the light, and in the far corner, a single pale flower had opened, delicate and bright, reaching towards them both.