‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think.’ He cast a quick sideways glance at her, slowing their speed slightly. It made an instant difference to the amount of air whizzing past.
‘It’s fine.’ Daisy held onto her hair, laughing into the wind. She’d never ridden in a convertible before, and it was exhilarating. ‘You must love this car at this time of year?’
George kept his eyes on the road ahead, but she could see his expression was amused. ‘I do that, but I have to admit it’s not mine, unfortunately.’
Had he hired a car just for this evening? Daisy took a look at him, sideways.
After a moment, he glanced across at her, a mischievous expression on his face. ‘It’s my brother’s car. I thought you’d be more comfortable in this than in my beaten-up old van.’
Daisy laughed. ‘That’s a relief.’ She settled back in her seat, feeling more at ease. ‘I inherited my dad’s old Vauxhall years ago. It’s usually covered in compost – as am I.’
She adjusted the hem of her linen sundress slightly. The floral patterned fabric had ridden up, showing a slip of pale thigh. Maybe Miranda was right about the benefits of fake tan – she did look a bit ghostly. But George didn’t seem to mind. She saw him sneaking a glance when he thought she wasn’t looking, and ducked her head, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on the blush staining her cheeks as he did so. She took a surreptitious glance at his shoes and smiled to herself. Her sister would approve – she was a stickler for decent footwear on a man, and these were dark brown leather, just worn enough to look comfortable, and most definitely well made. He might not be able to afford a super-posh convertible Audi, but he wasn’t on his uppers like Jamie had been, either.
During their time at college, she’d worked part time to keep some money coming in, but Jamie had claimed he preferred to focus on his studies. In reality, that had meant she shared her income, and he was more than willing to help spend her wages. She hadn’t realized until afterwards just how unbalanced things had been, but the last few months of working on the garden at Orchard Villa had given her time to think. Good old Daisy, Jamie had repeated, over and over. Well, not any more.
The wheels of the car crackled on fine gravel, shaking Daisy from her thoughts, as they pulled into the car park of the pub. The Sentinel, by the looks of it, was an Audi sort of place. She’d been imagining a cosy little local pub serving poshed-up ploughman’s lunches, but this place suggested money: the car park was full of Jaguars, Range Rovers (without a hint of mud, she noticed, thinking again of her own filthy Vauxhall) and, right in the corner, carefully placed to avoid any accidental bumps, an Aston Martin. She looked down at her sundress – she’d found it in the Steeple St John charity shop earlier that week – and felt a clutch of panic in her stomach. It might be an expensive label, but it was still pretty casual. This place looked far dressier than she’d expected.
It was too late to have a clothes crisis now. George hopped out of the car, slamming his door shut. Before she could get her bag from the footwell in front of her, he was opening the passenger door for her.
‘I didn’t say it before, but you look beautiful.’ He flashed a smile, raising an eyebrow in admiration.
You did, actually, thought Daisy. But I’m not going to point that out.
‘I’m sorry – there seems to have been a bit of a mix-up.’
The woman at the front desk of the Sentinel looked down at her grey clipboard. The booking sheet in front of her was filled in neatly, a thin line scored through each name as each table had arrived. From inside Daisy could hear a hum of conversation, just that little bit louder than midweek. There was a definite Friday-night feeling to the place, and it was, like George’s car – not his car, she reminded herself – expensively upholstered. The village pub, all oak-beamed ceilings and thick stone walls, had been given a designer upgrade. The walls were a smooth pale grey, the beams and the ceilings whitewashed. On the floor were dark slate tiles, and in the corner stood a sleek, black log-burning stove.
They were standing looking in on all this from a little greeting area, where the woman was tapping the clipboard with her pen thoughtfully. George leaned across, trying to read the woman’s booking sheet.
‘I booked it myself the other day. O’Hara. There can’t be many of us around here, surely?’ He gave her the smile that had worked wonders on Daisy earlier in the week.
She spun round the clipboard, offering it to him.
George ran a long finger down the list of bookings for Friday night. ‘The only booking you’ve got for eight-thirty is—’
‘Little brother. I can’t get you out of my hair at the moment, can I?’
Daisy did a double take. The accent was identical, and when she looked up, so were the bright blue eyes. George’s brother traced a finger down the booking list with a nod of approval.
‘Eight-thirty p.m. That’s us. Evening, Sarah.’ He winked at the receptionist, who blushed prettily.
George took the clipboard again, looking down at the booking sheet. ‘Stephen.’
‘That’s m’name.’ Stephen winked again, this time at Daisy.
‘I booked a table the other day – I called and booked in the name of O’Hara, for eight-thirty.’ George was frowning in confusion. Daisy, aware that the other diners were beginning to look up from their conversations, sensing something was going on, shuffled backwards slightly.
The receptionist looked at George, and back at his brother. They gave her identical, crinkly-eyed smiles.
‘Twins,’ said George, in case it wasn’t clear. Daisy and the receptionist exchanged a glance which said that yes, it was perfectly clear to anyone. The two men were identical – the only difference, as far as Daisy could see, was that George was slightly taller.
‘You rang the other day.’ The receptionist had the expression of someone who’d just realized her own mistake. ‘I scribbled it down on a Post-It note in the office, and meant to transfer it onto the booking sheet. When I got another call from an O’Hara with an Irish accent, I just assumed you were confirming the booking.’
Stephen threw his arm around George’s shoulders. ‘Sure, that’s no problem. We can just budge up a bit, can’t we, bro?’
George looked at Daisy, eyebrows raised in a silent query. He gave an impression, though, thought Daisy, that he was unruffled by this turn of events. She resolved to do the same, squaring her shoulders.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine, George. Hello, I’m Daisy.’ She held out her hand to Stephen. He shook it vigorously.
‘Grand to meet you, Daisy. Michelle will be glad of the company, I’m sure. She tells me all I do is talk business over dinner when we have a night away from the kids.’
From behind Stephen’s shoulder, George gave Daisy a slightly rueful smile which she returned brightly, having resolved to make the best of things. A lot of women would say that sitting opposite not one but two handsome, blue-eyed Dubliners wasn’t the worst thing that could happen on a Friday night. And it definitely took the first-date pressure off.
‘Stephen?’
Daisy felt eyes burning into the back of her head and turned round slowly, discovering the owner of the sharp voice she’d heard. Standing in the porch, her long blonde hair immaculate, was a woman who had to be Michelle. She was impossibly thin, pipe-cleaner legs clad in skin-tight black trousers despite the June heat. She was taller than Daisy, thanks to a pair of stiletto sandals which wrapped in a criss-cross of tiny strands across perfectly pedicured feet. Daisy gave an involuntary glance down at the cute, summery linen wedges she’d put on an hour before. They suddenly looked clumpy and graceless.
‘What’s going on? George, what are you doing here?’
‘Michelle, darling, this is George’s new girlfriend he’s been keeping hidden.’ Stephen, clearly used to his wife’s peremptory tone, caught her by the waist and pulled her gently forward.
‘Not girlfr –’ began Daisy, awkwardly. George gave a wide smile and said nothing.
‘We’re just out for dinne
r,’ Daisy continued, aware that she was being scanned up and down by Michelle’s all-seeing eye as she spoke. ‘Only there was a bit of a mix-up with the booking, and—’
‘And there’s room for all of us. You’ll be glad of a bit of girl talk, Michelle, I’m sure?’ Stephen, apparently oblivious to the atmosphere, gave a huge smile and propelled his clearly unwilling wife forward just as the waitress beckoned them to a table.
Once they’d settled and been served starters, the woman from the front desk came towards them. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked, her voice discreetly lowered.
‘Grand.’ Stephen, swallowing a mouthful of delicious-looking terrine, nodded, looking around for agreement.
Daisy shot George a quick glance. He raised an eyebrow so quickly she wasn’t sure she’d imagined it.
‘Lovely, thanks,’ said Daisy, politely. She’d already devoured the delicate puff of trout mousse which had rested, looking as beautiful as it tasted, on her bone china plate. The starters were delicious, but tiny. She hoped nobody else had heard the growl her stomach had just made, but she was holding out for the main course being a bit bigger.
So far, they’d managed some typically polite conversation about the weather (surprisingly warm, they all agreed, even for June in the south-east of England) and Stephen had deferred to George on the wine choice, saying he knew more about that sort of thing.
‘So,’ said Michelle, dabbing at her still-perfect lipstick with a napkin. ‘How did you and George meet?’
‘She conned me into buying her a drink after work one night. I’d just got off the train from a meeting in London, and there she was.’
Daisy laughed. ‘I didn’t exactly con you. You just accidentally got in the way of me trying to get another gin and tonic.’
George’s eyes caught hers, sending an unexpected fizz of electricity up her spine. ‘Well, I’m glad I did.’
Michelle gave a tiny snort, breaking the spell. ‘The joys of young love.’ Her cynical tone didn’t match her words. She turned to Daisy. ‘So what is it that you do?’
‘I’m a gardener.’
‘Really?’ Michelle cast a quick look down at Daisy’s fingernails, as if to confirm it. Daisy curled her hand around the glass. She’d scrubbed them clean and filed them into shape, but they were short and stubby compared to Michelle’s perfect talons, brightly painted and filed to sharp points. Everyone in Steeple St John but Daisy seemed to have immaculate nails.
‘Stephen’s a bit of a garden fan, too, aren’t you?’ Michelle’s tone was arch. ‘You two should talk shop.’
Daisy noticed George giving Michelle a quieting frown. Michelle took a sip of wine, hiding a cat-like smile behind her full glass of red. The waitress whipped away the plates from their starters as they spoke.
‘Hush now, Michelle.’ George turned to Daisy, smiling at her reassuringly. ‘I’m sure Daisy’s got no interest in that sort of thing.’
Daisy found herself prickling slightly at the patronizing implication that she wasn’t up to anything more than polite small talk. She took a sip of wine, avoiding George’s eye.
As the main courses started to arrive, conversation turned to Ireland. Daisy noticed that when George and Stephen spoke about their homeland their accents thickened. It took a moment to tune in and understand every word they said.
‘Have you ever been to Ireland, Daisy?’ George reached across, topping up her glass.
‘Not since I was a little girl, no. My dad worked for a while as visiting fellow at Queen’s University, so we went over there a few times when I was small. But I’ve never been to the South.’
‘You’d love it.’ Stephen picked up a piece of bread, breaking it into pieces before eating it in rapid bites. Michelle looked on, lips pursed in an expression of mild distaste. Daisy, who suspected the addition of herself and George to their table hadn’t been as warmly accepted by Michelle as her husband might have thought, felt a wave of discomfort. There was no chance of this evening getting too intimate, after all – the atmosphere was veering between vaguely polite and positively frosty.
‘The sea bass?’ Their waitress returned, her arms stacked with more plates. The service was more in keeping with a posh London restaurant than a little village pub; but this place wasn’t like any pub Daisy had ever visited. She’d noted the prices with a silent gulp of horror, before deciding that she’d just have to put her half on the credit card. The Grey Mare seemed ridiculously cheap in comparison. The waitress quietly and efficiently served the food and backed off, invisible once again.
‘So have you been in the village long, Daisy? I haven’t seen you around.’ Michelle speared a slender stem of asparagus, cutting it into tiny, precise pieces before popping one into her mouth. Daisy felt a pang of empathy with the asparagus. Michelle was reminiscent of the women who’d turned up at Elaine’s house that first night – brittle, unsmiling, and without an ounce of warmth. She shuddered at the memory.
‘I’ve been here a few months. I’m just staying in my parents’ house while they’re off travelling.’
‘Another thing you’ve got in common with George, then.’ Stephen gave her a smile. He, at least, was trying to make her feel at ease. ‘He’s staying with our Aunty Char.’
Daisy remembered Charlotte’s basket full of plants, and her eyes bright with laughter as she explained how she’d cleared the shelves at the plant stalls. Somehow, Daisy hadn’t thought to mention to Thomas that she was going out with George. Thinking back, she couldn’t put her finger on why.
She fiddled with her fish, trying to make sure she didn’t accidentally take a mouthful of bones. She’d no idea what had possessed her to choose the most awkward food possible. It had been a panicked decision made at the last moment – fish, that’ll do, she’d thought, as the waitress and the other three looked at her expectantly.
Michelle leaned forward, her long fake-tanned arm stretching gracefully across the table to steal an olive from Stephen’s salad.
‘We’ve been over here a couple of years now. There’s a lovely school for our little ones – Brockville Prep – have you heard of it?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Daisy was grateful to latch onto something, anything that was familiar. ‘My friend Elaine’s husb— er, I know someone who works there.’
‘You know Leo Thornton-Green?’ Michelle turned, sharply. She sat forward, her pointed chin balanced on a slender, bright-tipped finger.
‘Not really.’
Michelle’s eyes were on her, her gaze intent. This must be how it feels to be trapped by a cobra, thought Daisy. Michelle sat back slightly, her chin angling upwards almost imperceptibly.
‘It’s his wife I’m friends with. Leo’s not –’ She stopped herself for a moment. Not my cup of tea, she thought. Not the sort of man I’d want my friend to be married to, if I had the choice? ‘Not really around much. I tend to pop round to do the garden while he’s out at work.’
‘Oh, so you’re their gardener,’ said Michelle, dismissively. She settled fully back in her chair, disinterested again, picked up her slender phone with its sparkling case and started scrolling down the screen.
Daisy looked at George, who was also sitting back against his chair, fingers steepled in interest. She took a too-big gulp of wine, stalling for time, feeling it hit the back of her throat with a wallop. She leaned forward, taking a sudden interest in her complicated fish once again.
Another awkward half-hour passed before the plates were cleared away. Stephen was perusing the pudding menu, Michelle still glued to her phone. George seemed oblivious to Daisy’s discomfort.
‘D’you fancy a coffee, Daisy?’
Thank goodness the end was in sight. George might be handsome, with twinkly blue eyes and an accent that could make anything sound appealing, but the meal had been torturous.
‘That would be – lovely.’ She tried to keep the relief out of her voice. Thank goodness it was almost over. ‘I’ll just – excuse me for a moment.’
Escaping to the loos, sh
e closed the door and pulled out her phone.
Okay, you win: text report. NOT, I should add, from the bedroom.
She hit send on a group text to Jo and Elaine, watching as the message status flicked to ‘delivered’. She couldn’t be ages, or the other three would wonder where she’d gone. She tapped another message onto the screen.
Cornered into dinner with his brother and super-frosty wife. I’m STILL bloody starving. Think I’m definitely destined for single life.
Jo’s response flashed back.
Interesting choice for a first date. You surviving, though?
Daisy texted quickly in reply.
Definitely not. But better run, they’ll think I’ve got stuck in the loo.
‘So.’ Stephen’s voice was casual as he leaned forward, passing Daisy the sugar. ‘You’re living in the big villa on the lane? Orchard Villa, you said, George?’
‘Yes – well, temporarily. My parents have gone travelling. To be honest, though, I’m far keener on the place than they seem to be.’
‘Really?’ He cocked his head slightly, eyes bright.
‘Stephen.’ She looked up, catching George flashing his brother what looked like a warning look.
‘I was telling Stephen the other day how much work you’ve been doing on the garden,’ said George, smoothly. ‘That’ll be why he’s asking all the questions. You’ve got it looking grand out front now,’ he waved a hand, describing an arc, ‘with the rose thing and the flowers and all that.’
‘Thanks.’ She was flattered someone had noticed the work she and Thomas had put in. With the summer establishing itself, the garden was beginning to take shape beautifully, and their work was revealing the structure of the planting. It was kind of George, who definitely wasn’t a gardener, to notice. She caught his eye and gave him a genuine smile of gratitude.
Coming Up Roses Page 13
