by Jane Linfoot
‘Great.’ I couldn’t be hugging my Frenchie bag any harder to my body if it were a lifebuoy. ‘Good luck with that, then. I hope it all goes swimmingly for you.’ Despite trying to sound light and airy, I end up sounding like my mother. On a bad day. Again. There’s something about his dry desperation that’s making me fight for air too. Let’s face it, as news goes, for Team Daisy Hill, this couldn’t be worse.
His smile has gone now, and his cheekbones are in sharp definition as he swallows hard. ‘This won’t be about luck, Water Lily. This is about guts, and sheer determination. If I have to fight to the death to succeed here, I damned well will.’
This is exactly what I didn’t want to hear. There are some situations in life where you need to get the hell out fast. And this is one of them.
‘Great.’ I try it again, because that was the part that worked before. Only this time it comes out as a squeak. ‘Thanks for that insight, Kip. And thanks for showing me the freebies. I’m sure they’ll be very useful.’ My voice has dwindled to a whisper, and my back’s to the wall as I edge towards the front of the house. ‘But if that’s all your good news for today …’ I’m tiptoeing backwards now, and I can’t remember when I last took a breath. ‘I really should be getting on …’
As I finally make it back to Gucci it takes a few minutes before I recover enough to turn the key. And just before I do, I’m damned sure I can hear the thump of a swing ball again. And although it’s already spring, the end of summer seems a very long way off. How the hell am I going to put up with Kip for all that time? And is he going to make it through to September and mangle the opposition in the process? Or will he crash and burn, and leave my mum without a wedding?
Chapter 15
Tuesday, 7th March
At the Happy Dolphin Garden Centre: Team spirit and hungry fish
‘Marigolds, nasturtiums, cosmos, larkspur …’
In any spare moments while I’ve been sorting out the wedding fair, I’ve been hitting Google myself. I’ve pretty much read everything there is to read about growing your own wedding flowers. What’s more, I’ve been totally seduced by the images. Endless views of tangled blooms. Country meadows in soft focus. Close ups of Queen Anne’s Lace. Somehow they take me right back to the first pack of seeds I ever grew for myself, on the little patch of garden next to my dad’s greenhouse. Seeing the pictures now, it’s all rushing back. The anticipation that had me holding my breath for days before I scattered the seeds. Then the anticlimax when nothing happened, even though I watered them every day with my pint-sized watering can. My dad laughing as I almost had my nose in the mud, as he watched me search for sprouting. Then that whoosh of excitement as I finally spotted the tiny green threads of shoots in the soil. The thrill as weeks later, the mass of poppies and cornflowers and daisies burst into a chaos of red and blue and pink blooms.
I was only six, but that sunny summer was where my love for flowers began. And it’s like I’m falling in love all over again now. Reminding myself why I stood up to my mum and insisted I did floristry at college, not the beautician’s course she was pushing me towards with the force of a motorway-building earth shifter. All the way to the day I tiptoed into Jess’s newly opened flower shop, because the window display was so spectacular. How somehow I dared to ask if she needed any help. And how when she said ‘yes’ I ran all the way back to my friends on the beach, waving my arms and whooping so hard, I only noticed I’d lost a flip flop when I got onto the sand and grazed my foot on a rock.
Right now, I’m a hundred per cent hooked on growing my mum’s bouquet. So enthusiastic, my flower list covers two sheets of A4. Ready to take the plunge, even. This morning when Immie rang the shop at the last minute to call off her trying-on session – no surprise there – I jumped into Gucci, to put the time to good use.
Which is why I’m putting my cringing to one side, pushing a trolley past rows of blue and pink primroses, and miniature daffodils in pots, and heading into The Happy Dolphin Garden Centre. Okay, I admit this is one of the top places I would rather not be seen. It’s just not a good look to be caught hanging out where your mum buys her garden trugs and blue tit supplies. But given there’s no-one here remotely in my age bracket, I reckon I’m safe. And at least inside the conservatories as large as football pitches, it’s warm.
‘Two bags of compost … twenty seed trays …’ As I tick off my shopping list, the tingle in my tummy is half the expectation I remember from being a child, half pure fear that I’m going to fail. However tantalising the anticipation is, I’ll do this at the speed of light, and get out of here. As I push my trolley past bird tables, calendars, pottery badgers and thermometers, the overpowering smell of gravy from the cafe completely wrecks the garden ambience. As I cross the first expansive showroom full of garden furniture, I’m marvelling at the variety, and the size of the place. By the third, I’m losing the will to live. And I’m also getting a bit panicky that I might never find my way out again.
When I finally spot an assistant in a padded jacket, I dash up behind him, tap him on the shoulder and clear my throat. ‘Excuse me, could you possibly point me to the seed packets?’
As soon as he turns, I know I’ve stuffed up. For a start, there’s no sign of a grinning dolphin logo. And second there’s a chest full of cashmere, with horribly familiar rips.
‘Kip? What the hell are you doing in here?’ I have no idea how I missed the trademark jeans from the back.
If he’s surprised to see me, he doesn’t let on. ‘You told me to up my game. So here I am. Doing as I’m told.’ His shrug is so laid back, you’d almost think he hung out at the Happy Dolphin every day. And thankfully yesterday’s desperation has gone overnight too.
‘You’re shopping?’ And upping his game? All on the same day? I’m doing the metaphorical jaw on the floor thing. Although why anyone with a house as big as his should look that pleased with two miniature box balls in pots, I don’t know.
His grin is as euphoric as the name of the place. ‘I’m sorting the planting for either side of the front door. I thought it would be one less thing for you to do.’
I bite my lip as I look at his miniature plants, and work out how to break the news. ‘I was thinking of something bigger. Perhaps. Say standard bays, maybe in lead planters?’ Okay, it’s not very original, but we’re talking fast fixes here. Six foot ones rather than a six-inch version. Bought from a wholesaler so we wouldn’t be paying ‘grey pound’ prices. But now we’re here, I don’t want to be too discouraging.
‘Whatever you say.’ He’s being unnaturally compliant. ‘Tree’s are back this way.’ A flash of orange as he turns, draws my eye to the basket on the trolley handle.
‘You’ve got a gnome?’ Even though I’m stating the obvious, and trying to play down my horror, it comes out as a shriek of disbelief. A dead ringer for the one on the front porch at Heavenly Heights too. ‘What is it with men and gnomes?’
As he leads the way to the outdoor planting, his frown is puzzled. Like he’s having a ‘women are from Venus’ moment. ‘A gnome seemed like a great way to liven up a dreary entrance. He’s ironic, obviously.’
As if that’s any excuse.
‘And he was on offer.’
Worse and worse. If we’re talking about irony, this must be it. ‘And we all know how irresistible fifty per cent off is.’ I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. ‘It’s what makes people sign up for a wedding when they didn’t even know they wanted to get married.’
Just when you think you can’t hear anything more unbelievable, the guy tops it. What’s worse, how can anyone in his position be so out of touch with the up-market wedding aesthetic? I shiver as the automatic doors swish us out into the cold, but on the up side it won’t be for long, given we’re facing a line of tall bays.
‘There you go. Classy and understated, perfect for the job. Ideal for customising with bows.’ Could have been made for the back of his Land Rover.
As he picks up the price ticket he lets out
a long whistle. ‘Forget ribbon. If that’s what they cost, no-one’s going near them.’ But despite the grouching, a couple of seconds later, he’s thrown two on board, along with a couple of planters that luckily look as expensive as their price tag. And he’s off again at speed.
‘You might like to put the gnome back on your way to the tills.’ I’m running to keep up with him. ‘If you’re on a budget.’
Kip wrinkles his nose. ‘He can go by the back door. Or on my private terrace.’ Wherever that is. Then he takes note of my shaking head. ‘What? Every guy needs a friend. It’s damned lonely rattling around in that house on my own.’
Now I’ve heard it all. Talking about it as a ‘him’ not an ‘it’ too. ‘I’ll save the violins for later.’ I’m busy muttering when he stops so suddenly I crash my trolley into the back of his ankles.
‘Seeds – you were asking for seeds?’ We’ve come to a halt next to a row of rotating displays, and he’s staring at my bags of compost. ‘Are you growing veggies?’ The fascination in his voice isn’t healthy.
That’s the trouble with meeting someone out shopping. It should be like when you meet someone in the doctors. There’s an etiquette. The last thing you do is to start quizzing them about why they’re there. It’s actually well rude to look too hard at what’s in someone’s trolley. As for firing questions …
I might as well get this over with. ‘I’m growing a few flowers for my mum’s wedding. That’s all.’ Although that sounds like I’m taking it for granted it’s going to work. Knowing me, I’ll kill the lot.
His brow wrinkles. ‘On the window sill? I thought you lived in a flat?’
Who knows where he got that from, or what’s sparked the interrogation. I think I preferred it when he was acting clueless about weddings.
I clutch my list to my chest so he’ll back off before latching onto that too. ‘Not in the attic, I’ll be looking for a bit of ground outdoors once the seeds have sprouted in Poppy’s orangery.’
His face slides into a grin. ‘Lucky you’ve asked the right guy. You can use the kitchen garden at the Manor. It needs digging over, but there’s plenty of space, and it’s sunny. You’ll be company too, when we’re quiet.’
I shuffle, stick my foot on my trolley, and try to twist my face to look grateful rather than appalled. ‘I’m not sure.’ Except I am. Completely sure. I can’t think of anything worse. And I’m not bloody rent-a-crowd. Quite apart from it meaning I’d have to spend even more time hanging round the Manor, I’d be indebted to a Penryn. That’s one place you shouldn’t ever go. We all know that.
He’s straight back at me. ‘So that’s a deal, then. I get to keep my gnome, you get to use the garden.’
From where I’m standing that’s a ‘no’ on every side. I’m just getting my head around how to break it to him when a familiar squealing laugh leaves me rigid. My mother? Although I shouldn’t be shocked if my mum’s here. It’s one of her favourite hang outs. If anyone should be gobsmacked and astonished, it should be her when she sees me. As I turn, sure as eggs is eggs, two crimson track suits are storming towards us.
‘My mum and David, in matching gym wear?’ It comes out as a low moan. ‘Could it be any worse?’
Kip gives a shrug. ‘For anyone who’s red-green colour blind they probably blend nicely with the foliage.’
Mum covers the last ten metres faster than an Olympic sprinter, and her shriek is a thousand times bigger than the one I let out when I saw the orange-trousered traveller who’d hitched a ride in Kip’s trolley.
‘Lileeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey! Dahling!? Whatever happened to that job of yours?’ She gives the sleeve of my parka a disparaging poke. ‘Please tell me you’re not lunching at the Happy Dolphin in that dreary old anorak.’ Considering the humming discord between her Mighty pink lippy and the tomato-red of her top, she’s in no position to judge.
I skip the bit about working, and my astonishment there’s a dress code at the cafe, because some jibes call for retaliation. ‘At least I’m not trying to colour coordinate with the ketchup.’
David grins, and pulls a face as he flexes his thigh muscles. ‘Or a traffic light. I told your mum if we chose these we’d need to give out sunglasses.’ There he goes again, butting in with a stupid joke.
I sniff. ‘Last time I looked traffic lights were three colours.’ Just saying. Because someone has to. And what’s wrong with calling them sunnies?
For a second my mum’s glare is furious enough to torch me, but then it mellows.
‘Kip, you’re here too!’ The way she’s scrutinising his bay trees, no-one told her about shopping manners either. Her squeal rises an octave. ‘And look, you’ve got our gnome. Have you seen, David?’ Her beam sweeps across each guy in turn. ‘Ours is by the front door. What are the chances of that?’ Excited doesn’t begin to cover it.
Given most of the gnomes scattered randomly amongst the displays are out of the same mould, I’d say it’s no surprise at all. So long as you’re one of the crazy few who’d buy one, that is.
Kip gives David a ‘team-gnome’ nod of acknowledgement. ‘We’re here buying seeds. Lily’s taking over the kitchen garden at the Manor.’
‘Really?’ My mum’s eyes are wide. ‘But what about …?’
I rap out a reply, before my mum gets to splurge about Fred’s offer to use his place. ‘Thanks for mentioning that, Kip.’ Hopefully the withering look I’m firing will shut him up too. There’s no time for denials, because I need to wrap this up, and fast. One visit to the Happy Dolphin is enough for anyone. I won’t be coming again. Marigolds, sweet rocket, aquilegia, delphiniums. I’m scanning my list, whirling round the displays. As I snatch at seed packets I can’t help thinking that Dad and I took the whole winter to buy flower seeds. How we’d buy a couple of packets a week, then sit by the open fire in our cottage, him in his arm chair, me on the little stool he’d made me out of an orange box, fanning out the packs, pouring over the pictures. I learned to read stumbling through the long words on the descriptions. We’d cross check with last year’s successes, consult our wish list, decide what else we needed. If I’d somehow imagined savouring the moment today, lovingly deliberating over every pack, pouring over the descriptions like Dad and I used to, it’s just too bad. Dill, cornflowers, lobelia, phlox …
‘Can anyone see love-in-a-mist, or borage?’ I grab the packets Kip’s holding out, throwing the lot into the trolley. ‘Okay, that’s me done, we mustn’t keep you two gym bunnies from your food.’ I grab the trolley handle and run. If I’m feeling short changed, I’ve only got myself to blame for stuffing this up. As I manoeuvre past the birthday cards, I spot an entire wall of gnome clones. As I hurtle towards the checkout, my main concern is to get Kip out before he tries to buy the whole consignment.
As for the deal, I’ll have to wriggle out of that one later. After ten minutes of Kip in a garden centre, one thing’s clear. I can’t possibly stand being around him for an entire growing season.
Chapter 16
Tuesday, 7th March
In the orangery at Daisy Hill Farm: Chocolate drips and unexpected holes
‘For someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing, you’re very organised.’
It’s Poppy, her pumps tapping on the lovely old black and white tiles of the orangery floor later in the day, bringing tea to help me along with my seed planting.
Even though my head is so full it’s bursting, I’ve nipped away from the shop early today to get the job done. Ideally I’d wait until after the wedding fair, but that’ll be too late. So Poppy’s set up a trestle table, with plastic to protect the floor. And I’m basking in the golden afternoon sun shafts coming through the small paned windows, listening to far-away snatches of music from the builders’ radio upstairs. There’s also the occasional very loud crash, of course. Given Demolition Fred’s up there helping, anything could be happening.
‘If every day is as warm as today, the seeds will come through in no time,’ I say to Poppy, as I look up from my potti
ng compost. ‘How are the drip cakes going?’
Let’s get our priorities right here. Sometimes food comes before gardening, and my mouth is watering in anticipation of what Poppy’s bringing. She’s been working on some practice cakes for the fair. And I’m very happy to help her eat them, even though my mum is telling me if I don’t lose two stones, I’ll be a blot on her wedding pictures. How ridiculous is that? Everyone knows a wider bridesmaid is very flattering for a bride.
Poppy puts down two steaming mugs, and two extra large pieces of cake. ‘I reckon I’ve mastered the drip thing. Once I got the main cake cool enough, the ganache worked a treat. See what you think?’
‘Remind me what ganache is?’ I say, as I hurtle to the cloakroom.
‘A glaze made from chocolate and cream which is perfect for dripping.’ The words drifting from a room away remind me how hungry I am. ‘Last summer everyone went crazy for nude cakes, but ombré and drizzled icing are the next big things.’
It takes approximately two seconds flat to wash my hands. Then I’m back, perched next to Poppy on the low windowsill, and my fork is hovering over crumbly sponge, coated with vanilla buttercream that would be delicious on its own. Add in a cocoa topping, drooling down the sides. And a random pile of chocolate Oreo’s welded together with more sticky icing …
‘Too good to eat,’ I say, then laugh, because from the way saliva is running down my chin, obviously, I’m kidding. There’s enough calories here to put two inches on my hips in one sitting. If she could see me now, cake fork at the ready, my mum would have a heart attack. It’s always the same with Poppy’s cakes. They bring instant bliss. One forkful, and I reach dark chocolate Nirvana.
‘Fabulous.’ It comes out as a little moan. Three forkfuls later, I take a conversation break to make it last. ‘And with the seeds, it’s all coming back. I used to help Dad grow bedding plants when I was little.’ Our cottage in the village had a ramshackle greenhouse at the end of the garden where Dad and I would hide for hours. Needless to say my mum wouldn’t hear of anything as unsightly as a greenhouse spoiling the manicured perfection when we moved up to Heavenly Heights.
