Coming Up Roses

by Rachael Lucas

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ Jo’s face twisted anxiously. She fiddled again with her hair.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s Tom.’ She mouthed his name, as if someone might overhear.

  Daisy and Elaine exchanged glances and pulled their chairs closer to the table simultaneously, leaning in towards their friend.

  ‘He’s won a major poetry prize. I read about it in the books section of the Sunday paper.’

  ‘And?’ Elaine had leaned forward, chin in her hand, eager for more information.

  ‘He’s coming over from Amsterdam to collect it in person. To Southbeach. There’s a big literary festival, and a prize-giving. It’s a big deal.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Daisy, feeling a wave of apprehension on her friend’s behalf. ‘Are you going to go?’

  Jo pulled a face. ‘I’ve been mulling it over since the weekend. All I’ve got to lose is sixty quid in petrol, my self-respect, possibly my child . . . oh, and the contents of my house. If I leave Martha unattended she’ll have half of year ten round for one of those Facebook parties you hear about, and I’ll be run out of Steeple St John.’

  ‘She could stay with me.’ Daisy realized as she opened her mouth that she’d have no chance of keeping Jo’s strong-willed teenager under control if she decided to rebel. She had enough trouble looking after an aged golden retriever.

  ‘Cope with Martha for a weekend? She’s bloody hard work.’ Jo closed her eyes, remembering. ‘Last weekend she sneaked off to the Red Lion with a ton of eyeliner on and came home plastered on cider. I managed to sober her up with pints of water and black coffee, but then she insisted on staying up watching her favourite bands on the Kerrang! channel until four in the morning. She’s so bloody obstinate.’

  Elaine raised the bottle of wine in Jo’s direction, a questioning look on her face. Jo shook her head, and Elaine tipped the last of the drink into Daisy’s glass.

  ‘It’s fine. Martha is very welcome to spend the weekend with us,’ said Elaine, firmly. ‘These things happen for a reason, Jo. Tom turning up a few hours from here not long after you decided you need to get in touch is a sign. Leave her with me – I mean, Leo’s a headmaster, for goodness’ sake. I promise she’ll be safe.’

  Daisy darted a look at Jo, remembering her friend’s panic that night they’d talked in the cottage. Accepting the theory of facing up to Tom was one thing – but the reality must be terrifying.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Jo, politely. ‘There’s a lot to discuss before then. I need to think.’ She ran her hands through her hair, her pale face pinched with concern.

  Daisy looked at her, an idea forming. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Jo put down the spoon she’d been tapping anxiously on the edge of the table. ‘Would you really do that for me?’ A degree of colour returned to Jo’s cheeks at the thought of not facing it alone.

  ‘Course I would.’ Daisy desperately needed an escape, and Jo needed moral support. A weekend away in Southbeach, where she could concentrate on something other than gardening and the life she was about to lose in Steeple St John, was just what she needed. She reached out a hand to Jo with a warm and genuine smile. It would be good to give something back, even if it was just a bit of moral support in gorgeous seaside surroundings.

  ‘That’s what friends are for, remember?’

  Daisy collapsed through the door, her head throbbing slightly from drinking in the afternoon. Her plans for the rest of the day consisted of coffee, a corner of the sofa, a heap of magazines and something trashy on television. Grabbing a bottle of full-fat Coke, a six-pack of Penguin biscuits and the remote control, she flopped down on the sofa. Everything else – the house, which she supposed would need to be tidied up if it was now for sale, and the garden, which she couldn’t think about right now without feeling a twist of sadness welling up in her stomach – it could all wait until tomorrow. She flicked on the television, finding an episode of Friends and snuggling down. She had enough chocolate on hand to obliterate any feelings, and a tub of ice cream in the freezer. That’d do for now.

  She stood up an hour or so later, realizing she’d better let Polly out into the garden for a quick leg-stretch. She whistled, opening the front door. Polly meandered past, stiff-legged from her afternoon snooze. Daisy stood in the doorway, looking out at the huge For Sale sign, cursing its existence.

  It was only habit that made Daisy pick up the phone when it rang beside her on the dresser. If she’d only been thinking straight, she’d have ignored it and headed back to the sofa.

  ‘Miss Price?’

  ‘Daisy, please.’

  ‘Matthew Goodwin, Mistlethrush and Goodwin. Can I just say it’s an absolute honour to be taking responsibility for Orchard Villa.’

  Daisy rolled her eyes at her reflection in the mirror of the dresser. She noticed as she did so that she had chocolate smudges all over her chin. She rubbed them away thoughtfully. She realized he was still talking, but she’d no idea what he’d said.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, vaguely, hoping it would fill in the gaps.

  ‘It’s a real treat to have the opportunity to market a property like this. These big Victorian villas don’t come up for sale very often. I’m sure it’ll be off your hands in no time.’

  A bit more salt for your wound, there, Miss Price, thought Daisy. It might be a jewel in your agency’s crown, but I happen to be quite attached to that garden, never mind the house. She could imagine this Matthew Goodwin with pound signs in his eyes. No doubt her parents would make a fortune from the place, which was lovely for them but was going to leave her distinctly lacking in somewhere to live. If only they’d given her some indication . . .

  ‘So we’ll be round ASAP to take the measurements, just as soon as your parents have got the contracts back to us. There’s always going to be a bit of a delay with the time difference, but it shouldn’t take too long.’

  There’s no rush, Daisy mouthed silently. In fact, she thought, wondering if the old sewing-prawns-in-the-curtains trick actually worked, the longer the house takes to sell, the better.

  ‘Well, in that case, I’ll wait to hear from you – thanks for calling.’ Daisy hung up, realizing as she did so that he was still talking. Never mind, she decided. He’ll ring back if it’s important.

  Retreating to her hideaway on the sofa, she heard the bleep of her phone. Oh God, had her parents given the estate agents her mobile number, too? She groaned, picking it up from the table.

  Sorry last night was a bit of a disaster. Fancy dinner tomorrow to make up for it? G x

  She curled her feet up beneath her on the sofa, smiling to herself. Now in theory, according to Miranda’s incredibly complicated Rules of Dating, she was supposed to ignore this text for at least three hours before casually replying with the suggestion that she was out somewhere doing Something Very Interesting.

  I’d love that.

  Sod it, thought Daisy, who was tired of playing by the rules.

  Great. How about I swing by and pick you up at 8?

  Clearly George hadn’t read the rules either.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was almost eight in the evening, and Daisy’s hair looked like she’d stuck her finger into a plug socket. Having decided to have a pampering day and ignore the million things she could be doing in the garden (somehow there didn’t seem much point at the moment, with the house up for sale and everything up in the air), she’d followed a recipe she’d seen on Elaine’s website for a natural hair conditioner. It had looked, and smelt, seriously dodgy when she put it on, wondering as she smeared the paste of olive oil and avocado onto her long hair whether she’d misread the instructions. An hour and seven washes later, she’d managed to stop smelling like a salad, but her hair was now rebelling.

  Bugger, bugger, she thought, trying to find a hairband or some grips to pin it back. There had to be some in – ah, thank goodness, there they were. With a prayer of thanks to the hair gods, she twisted the front section into loose plaits, w
eaving them together at the crown of her head.

  ‘Look at you.’

  Daisy was taken by surprise by George, who leaned down, kissing her gently on the cheek.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, his mouth still close to her skin. The combination of the deep Irish accent and his breath on her skin made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She inhaled sharply, looking up into his eyes. They were really quite dizzying in their intensity. She took a step back, surprised at her reaction.

  ‘Hi.’ She chewed on her lip, looking at him standing in the doorway. He was in a faded pair of jeans and a white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned arms. A thick leather belt with a heavy, battered silver buckle sat on his hips.

  ‘Do I pass?’ He grinned at her, raising two bags in his hands, indicating their weight. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I had an idea.’

  She looked at the bags, realizing they were full of shopping, the clinking suggesting wine.

  ‘I don’t get a chance to get in the kitchen much at the moment – Aunt Charlotte’s not much of a fan of my cooking, and we didn’t have that much luck with dinner the other night. So I thought maybe I could cook for you here?’

  Her first thought was – thank God I cleaned up the kitchen earlier. Her second, which followed the briefest moment later, she pushed to one side. There was something in that slightly cocky, I’m-not-even-going-to-run-this-by-you attitude that made her slightly uncomfortable. Was she being a bit control-freaky? It was, after all, a nice idea. She stepped back to allow him in, narrowly missing Polly, who’d clambered out of her spot in the evening sunshine of the kitchen to investigate what all the fuss was about.

  ‘Hello, my darlin’.’ George put down a bag and rubbed the dog’s ears affectionately. She gave a gruff little noise of approval and turned back to her bed.

  He’s nice to dogs, Daisy reminded herself. That’s a good sign.

  ‘Come through.’ She motioned him into the kitchen, where he put the bags down on the long, scrubbed pine table. ‘I’ve never had a real live chef cook for me before. I’m a bit worried I don’t have the right equipment.’

  George, a bottle of wine in hand, looked up from the bag he was unpacking with a laugh. ‘Sure, you look like you’ve got the right equipment from where I’m standing.’

  Daisy burst out laughing. ‘I thought you Irish boys were supposed to have a way with words.’

  He pulled a mock-dismayed face. ‘I’ll have to try a bit harder. That was a bit corny, wasn’t it?’

  She hitched herself up onto the kitchen table, legs swinging. ‘I don’t think we’ve got a corkscrew. Is this the wrong time to admit I always cheat and buy screw-tops?’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself. I’ve come prepared.’ George reached into the bag that had been slung over his shoulder, pulling out a fabric bundle. He untied the fastening, revealing a couple of chefs’ knives and a professional-looking stainless-steel corkscrew.

  ‘I can’t cook without my own knives.’ He passed her the wine bottle. ‘Now if you open this, it can breathe while I prepare the starter.’

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ Daisy peeled off the foil, watching as George laid out the ingredients on the table in front of her. Slipping down from the table, she fetched couple of wine glasses from the cupboard and placed them beside him. He looked across his shoulder at her, not pausing from his work.

  ‘Do you like scallops?’

  ‘God, yes.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I love a girl who likes her food.’

  ‘I’m always starving at the end of the day – gardening leaves me ravenous.’

  ‘Then,’ said George, reaching across and opening a second bottle of wine – this one white, the condensation trickling down the sides of the glass, ‘you and I are going to get on just fine, Daisy.’ With an irresistible smile he poured her a glass, and another for himself.

  ‘I always like to have a glass while I cook. Sláinte.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  He clinked her glass gently, looking directly at her with those mesmerizing blue eyes. There was no escaping the fact that he was ridiculously handsome, and the attention was extremely flattering.

  She perched on the table again as George slid the sizzling scallops onto a bed of jade-green leaves. In the past, Daisy had lost her appetite when she’d met someone she liked, but there was no chance of that happening tonight. She reached across, pinching a dark red disk of chorizo which had fallen from the frying pan onto the table.

  ‘Oi, you,’ said George, catching her eye with a smile. Defying him, she popped it into her mouth, laughing. ‘Take the wine outside, I’ll be there in a second.’

  Daisy placed the glasses on the table in the garden. She’d already set a little jug of flowers there, gathered that evening from the borders, which were now vibrant with colour. Night-scented stocks perfumed the air, and in the evening light the starry flowers of the nicotiana glowed bright white in the pots behind her, laced with an underplanting of lacy green ferns. It was lovely to relax in the last of the sunshine, a glass of wine in hand, listening to the sounds of George clattering around in the kitchen, humming to himself as he cooked her dinner. She sat back, head against the back of the chair, and closed her eyes. This all seemed very civilized. After Jamie, she’d been pretty convinced that she wasn’t going to get involved with anyone in a hurry, but George was charming, and easy company. It didn’t do any harm that he was gorgeous. And – her stomach growled again, anticipating the feast – he could cook.

  ‘Here we are.’ She looked up at him. He was balancing two plates on his arm, and had a bowl of bread in his other hand.

  Daisy was presented with a warm salad of scallops, chorizo and watercress. She leaned across, pouring some wine into his glass. They sat chatting about nothing much – the weather, life in the village, the upcoming fundraising barbecue for the church roof which his aunt was helping with – for a good half an hour. She could feel the wine going to her head a little, but the sensation of being fed, and admired, was intoxicating in itself.

  ‘I’m a bit surprised by the size of this place.’ Sitting back, his wine glass almost empty, George motioned vaguely to the gardens that stretched beyond them. Out of the shade of the house, the apple trees of the orchard were lit up by a last blaze of evening sunlight, their leaves glowing. The garden looked beautiful at this time of night, when the light was low enough that the borders Daisy hadn’t quite tidied up blurred into an impressionistic haze of washed-out pastel shades.

  He stood up, peering towards the back of the garden. ‘What is it, half an acre? Three quarters?’

  ‘I don’t know. Half, maybe?’ Daisy, who was trying to avoid thinking about the garden, was vague.

  ‘Would you show me around before I cook the main course? I’d love to see it.’

  She couldn’t resist an opportunity to show off what she and Thomas had achieved. Slipping out of her seat, she stretched across the table and hooked the wine bottle with one hand, pulling it towards her.

  ‘Shall we have another glass?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ George took the bottle from her gently, filling each glass with the floral-scented white wine, which suited the fragrant evening garden so well.

  ‘So what’re your plans, with this place on the market? Are your parents looking for a quick sale?’

  They’d made their way to the far end of the garden, beyond the apple trees with their tiny young fruit bunched on the branches. The last of the sunlight warmed the earth of the vegetable garden, long shadows of the fruit cages cast across the grass.

  ‘I haven’t a clue. My sister’s got a place in North London – I can stay with her for a while, I suppose . . .’ Daisy trailed off, looking down the garden towards the back of Orchard Villa. She loved her days pottering here with Thomas, and the time she’d spent working on Elaine’s garden had made her feel she was really getting somewhere, honing her skills. Just the other day, Elaine had commented that a neighbour had been asking quite a few
questions about her new gardener. If she’d been staying, there was definitely the potential here in the village to create a good life and put down roots.

  All that was going to come to nothing, though, with the house on the market. She gave a sigh. She’d arrived in Steeple St John determined to keep her head down and avoid taking any part in village life, but somehow she’d found herself being woven into the regular meetings of the Parish Council – and Ned’s company made the allotment committee, which had started out as a polite obligation, into one of her favourite parts of the week. She smiled to herself, thinking of their last escapade at the Parish Council. Ned had insisted they play a game incorporating lines from Star Wars into their conversation with Flora and the other members of the committee. By the end of the night Daisy had been bent double, helpless with laughter, her sleeve stuffed in her mouth to keep herself quiet. Ned, who’d been the one making her laugh until she cried, had sat, innocent and injured, when Flora looked across at him disapprovingly.

  She rubbed her hands on her arms, absently. A light wind was ruffling her hair and she shivered unexpectedly, realizing as she did that she’d been daydreaming for ages.

  ‘Shall we go back down? You look like you’re getting chilly.’ George’s words broke through her thoughts. This was why she’d wanted to avoid getting into a conversation about the garden, and the house being sold. Her previously buoyant mood had deflated, despite George’s attentive and charming company. She shook herself, trying to put it out of mind.

  ‘Shall I clear these away?’ They reached the terrace, which was still warm, sheltered as it was by the stone walls of the house. Daisy made to pick up the plates they’d used for their starter.

  ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll do it. Honestly, it’s no trouble.’ George stood up, looking down at Daisy’s empty plate with a smile. ‘I love cooking for people who appreciate it.’