Coming Up Roses

by Rachael Lucas

  Jo rushed over, folding her into a hug which she accepted, pulling a surprised face over her mother’s shoulder, which made both Elaine and Daisy giggle.

  The worktops were spread with baking ingredients, a dusting of flour covering the shiny marble surface. Cookies lay cooling on a metal rack.

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Elaine, heading for the fridge. She pulled out a couple of bottles of beer, popping open the lids and handing them to Daisy and Jo.

  ‘I’m just going to nip next door and see if that Nirvana thing’s on yet. You’re still going to watch it with me, though?’ Martha hopped down, turning to Elaine, her face suddenly vulnerable.

  ‘Course I am.’ Elaine turned to Jo. ‘You don’t mind if Martha’s up late, do you?’

  Jo, eyes widening, shook her head. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Two seconds,’ said Elaine, as she followed Martha out of the room.

  ‘Have we entered the Twilight Zone?’

  ‘It’s the only conclusion I can reach. Either that,’ said Jo, biting into another cookie with a groan of satisfaction, ‘or Martha’s spiked the cookies with something from one of her grungey mates from town.’

  Elaine padded back into the room. She was dressed not in her usual crisply ironed, perfectly matching attire, but a pair of soft cotton pyjamas, a strappy vest top – and flip-flops. Flip-flops. Daisy, who’d never seen Elaine in any footwear that didn’t cost well into three figures from Russell & Bromley, emitted a tiny gasp.

  ‘Sorry, girls.’ Elaine untied her ponytail (Daisy, taking it in for the first time, felt her eyes widening further), letting her hair fall down over her shoulders. She shook it out loosely so it fell in waves, still damp. ‘Martha’s happily installed in front of the TV. So . . .’

  ‘So.’ Jo bit into a third cookie, taking a swig of beer. ‘That wasn’t exactly my finest hour.’ She sighed.

  ‘Well, we live and learn,’ said Elaine, with the wise expression of one who’d recently discovered the meaning of the phrase. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘What I probably should have done in the first place.’ Jo inspected the cookie, twirling it around in her hand before nibbling at a chocolate chunk. ‘I’m going to get in touch the way normal people these days do it. Facebook, or I’ll join Twitter, or I’ll email him through his agent or something. The more I think about it, the more I realize I’d have looked like a stalker if I’d just appeared out of the blue.’

  ‘Well,’ Daisy cocked her head, her lips pursed, thinking, ‘it was a literary festival. You could’ve just been there anyway.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jo laughed. ‘I’d forgotten that bit.’

  ‘Anyone for another?’ Elaine pulled three more beers out of the fridge.

  In the end, they all stayed the night. By two in the morning, Jo, exhausted from the drive and tipped over the edge by Elaine’s rum-spiked hot chocolate, had clambered up to the welcoming comfort of one of the beautifully appointed spare bedrooms, Daisy following behind carrying her overnight bag.

  ‘What a night.’ Daisy flopped back down on the sofa, where a determined Martha was trying her hardest to stay awake.

  ‘How come you and Mum came back?’ Martha, hours after their return, had finally twigged something was up.

  ‘Oh, just—’

  ‘Daisy had to get back,’ Elaine cut in, smoothly. ‘She’s got an unexpected viewing on the house in the morning.’

  Martha nodded vaguely. ‘Right.’

  Daisy headed back to Orchard Villa early the next morning, leaving a scribbled note for the others on the kitchen table. Even after a late night, she always found it hard to sleep in on a strange bed, and everything was turning over and over in her head.

  She was in the front garden weaving loose strands of clematis into the trellis when she heard the familiar squeak of the gate opening.

  ‘Daisy Price?’

  Standing on the path was a shiny-faced young man in a very pinstriped suit. He tucked the tablet he was holding under one arm, holding out his hand for Daisy to shake. She brushed her hand on her shorts, aware she was probably covered in greenfly and dust. It was a Sunday morning, and he looked like he was selling something. Her first thought was how best to get rid of him.

  He pulled out a business card.

  ‘Mike Redforth.’ He really was excessively chirpy for this time of the morning. He nodded at the card, which Daisy, still not quite awake, was holding in mid-air.

  ‘Redforth and Lewis?’

  She looked more closely at his business card, realizing they were an estate agency.

  ‘Oh. Um, we’ve already got an estate agent.’ Daisy stepped forward to indicate the sign which stood amongst the flowers in the front garden.

  ‘Yes, of course, yes.’ Mike Redforth inched slightly further towards the house. Daisy, feeling very much out-suited, clenched her fist around the secateurs she was holding. She could always chop pieces off him if he started making her uncomfortable.

  ‘You’re house-sitting for Mr and Mrs Price, that’s right, yes?’ He looked at the house sign in an exaggerated manner, as if to make the point that yes, he was in the right place.

  ‘Yes, they’re my parents.’

  ‘Great. Great.’ He stepped another few inches forward, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet in his eagerness to get inside. ‘Right then. Well, they’ve instructed me – well, us – Redforth and Lewis – that’s us. I don’t normally work on a Sunday, but I had an inspection on a site on the other side of the village. Thought I’d just pop by on the off chance – your parents said you’d more than likely be home.’

  Did they indeed, thought Daisy, gritting her teeth.

  ‘May I?’

  And with that, she found herself letting him into the house, where he took a cursory look around downstairs before asking if he could step outside into the garden.

  ‘That’s some great development opportunity you’ve got out there.’

  Daisy stepped back, frowning. What the hell was he on about?

  ‘Look, I’m terribly sorry’ (lie, thought Daisy, who was channelling her inner Elaine, her voice several tones sharper and posher than normal), ‘but there seems to be a bit of a mix-up. The house is for sale. And the garden and the orchard come along with it as part of the package.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, yes,’ he said, not making himself any clearer. ‘Now if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to take a few measurements of the property?’

  ‘As I say, not my thing, these old places.’

  They were standing in the bathroom. Outside, visible from the little window which peeped through the eaves, rainclouds were gathering. The room, which in the right light was atmospheric and beautiful – the claw-footed bath sitting magisterially in the middle, the exposed wooden beams highlighted by the whitewashed walls – now looked dark and depressing.

  ‘Oh?’ She wasn’t quite sure what the appropriate response was, but she could feel herself becoming sharper and pricklier with every room they visited. He’d rhapsodized all the way round Orchard Villa about his love of easy-maintenance, smart new builds.

  ‘Nope. Still, you never know. You may well get some romantic with more money than sense come in from London and fall for it.’

  Daisy had by now balled her hands so tightly that she could feel her nails cutting into her palms.

  ‘I think it’s beautiful.’

  ‘Like I say,’ said Mike Redforth, with an ingratiating wink. ‘Takes all sorts.’

  ‘Tosser.’ Closing the door behind him, possibly just a fraction too late, Daisy spat the word with feeling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘They’ve changed estate agents, then?’

  Letting himself in through the back gate of the garden, Thomas was, as had become their weekly routine, armed with cherry buns from the bakery. He nodded to the second sign which now stood on the opposite side of the rose arch.

  Daisy, who had been on her knees cutting back the geraniums to encourage a second late summer flush of flowers, sto
od up with a groan.

  ‘Don’t ask. I’ve given up trying to understand my parents.’ She stood up, stretching. ‘My back! I’ve been at it all this morning. Ooh, buns – lovely.’

  Thomas pulled out one of the wooden chairs, motioning for Daisy to sit down. She flopped into it gratefully. She’d been working hard on the garden all morning, taking notes and photographs as she went along. Elaine, delighted to discover Daisy’s writing was bringing in a new crop of gardening-related followers, had encouraged her to write some more articles about summer in an English cottage garden. After that, still furious about yesterday’s oily estate agent visit, she’d worked harder than usual, determined to distract herself. He’d called again that morning, saying he’d had some interest already and asking if she’d be in later that afternoon if they wanted to ‘swing by’. Remembering his smarmy tones on the answerphone, she grimaced. Orchard Villa might be destined to have new owners, but Daisy – and Thomas – were hopeful that they’d be gardeners, people who’d really appreciate the history and the beauty of the place. Yesterday afternoon she’d made herself scarce while three different sets of people tramped around, investigating.

  She sat back for a moment. The weather was unsettled again – the morning had started off beautifully clear, the low sunlight stretching across the garden, casting a golden glow on the flowers and foliage. As she’d set to work, the sky had begun to fill with ominous violet clouds that clung to the hills beyond, biding their time. Just now, though, the sun was shining, the heat warming her face. She closed her eyes, listening to the bees hovering around the thyme which grew between the cracks of the stones.

  ‘So what’s happening, my dear?’ Thomas looked at Daisy, keen for an explanation.

  She sighed. ‘I don’t even want to think about it. Apparently this lot are commercial property specialists.’

  Thomas looked out across the garden to the orchard. His eyes closed briefly, and he too gave a sigh. ‘I’m getting too old for this, Daisy. I don’t think I can sit by and watch them take this place apart.’

  She felt a wrench of guilt in her stomach. Logic told her she couldn’t be responsible for her parents, who weren’t gardeners and who had no ties in Steeple St John; but she’d fallen in love with the village, the characters she’d got to know on the allotments, the Parish Council meetings where Ned would whisper asides which left her crying with laughter . . .

  ‘What will you do when this place sells?’ Thomas turned away from the garden.

  ‘I spoke to Miranda again the other day. She’s offered me the sofa-bed in her place for as long as I’d like. There’s a gardening project in North London, and they’re hiring right now. With the work I’ve done on Elaine’s website, I’ve probably got a good chance of getting an interview.’ The prospect made her feel sick with sadness. She’d promised Miranda she’d meet her in town sometime soon, but getting on that Marylebone train felt like an admission of defeat. She wasn’t ready to do it just yet.

  ‘Things might work out yet, my love.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Daisy didn’t sound any more convincing than Thomas did.

  They were just preparing to get to work on the vegetables when Daisy felt the buzz of her phone in her pocket. She pulled it out.

  Still okay for that drink tonight? G x

  *

  ‘Daisy!’ Jo’s voice was yelling through the letterbox at the same time as the bell was ringing.

  ‘Hang on, I’m coming,’ she called, turning off the taps. She’d only just made it upstairs to get ready for her night out, and Jo’s visit wasn’t expected – but she wasn’t given to yelling through doors, either, so something must be up.

  Filthy and covered in scratches from an afternoon balanced on a ladder, thinning out the early apples to ensure a good crop, she and Thomas had retreated as the rain had started. Thomas had headed off in the direction of the Grey Mare, declaring that he’d rather see the evening in over a pint and a game of dominoes with his Legion friends than end up ‘sat at home staring at a television quiz for old folks’. Daisy had laughed at the idea, watching him as he headed up the hill towards the pub at a surprising pace. He was a lovely friend, despite their age difference. She’d headed upstairs then, planning a good long soak for an hour, ready for an evening in the pub with George.

  She opened the door. Jo, apparently oblivious to the now torrential rain, was standing there in a pale blue checked shirt and a pair of leggings. Her hair hung around her face in limp strands, each one with a little river of water pouring from it.

  ‘My God, Jo.’ Daisy stepped back, making space for her friend. ‘Come in before you freeze to death.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Jo, eyes wide.

  ‘It’s pissing down with rain. You’re soaking wet. It’s not fine.’ Daisy pulled her by the arm into the hall and closed the door. Jo stood there, her eyes still saucer-shaped.

  Daisy leaned back against the dresser, assessing her normally calm friend’s demeanour.

  ‘Okay. You’re freaking me out a bit now.’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s going to be in London.’

  Daisy cocked her head, looking at Jo, confused. Polly, who’d decided to investigate the commotion in the hall, sat herself down on the stone floor with a heaving sigh.

  ‘Yes. Before he heads back to Amsterdam.’

  ‘Have you taken up Twitter-stalking, Jo?’ Daisy couldn’t imagine it.

  ‘God, no. I got a call this lunchtime. “Hi, Jo.”’ She did a passable impression of a Manchester accent. ‘“How’s tricks? Fancy a coffee in town?”’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Daisy. ‘How? Why? D’you want a drink?’

  ‘No time.’ Jo looked at her watch. ‘He’s catching the 5.48 to Marylebone. He’ll be there in an hour and a half.’

  ‘Why are you here, soaking wet, telling me this?’ Jo had clearly lost her mind.

  ‘I tried texting, but you didn’t reply. I’ve left Martha running a bath and she’s staying with Elaine again –’ She paused for breath.

  ‘This is insane.’ Daisy reached forward and gave Jo a hug. ‘But how did he . . . ?’

  ‘Find me? You won’t believe this.’ She shook her head. ‘You know I thought he’d seen me at the reading? Well, turns out he’d seen us in the bar. When I disappeared in the interval, he headed out to look for me before he went back for the prize-giving.’

  ‘And I saw him in the B&B,’ said Daisy, frowning.

  ‘Yep, and when you shot out the door (his words, not mine), he was about to ask you if you had my number.’

  Daisy winced. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Don’t be. I wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind.’

  ‘So he thought he’d get your number from the B&B owner, get in touch and see if he could trace me. When he was handed a printout with my details, he decided it was a sign.’

  Daisy shook her head again. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘He wondered if, after fifteen years of not speaking, maybe it’d be nice to be friends.’

  ‘Wow.’

  Jo’s face darkened. She pushed her wet hair back from her face, a shower of drops splashing across the wall. ‘But it’s not as straightforward as a coffee with an old friend, is it?’

  She exhaled slowly. There was a rumble of thunder and the rain pelted down, even harder, battering the windows.

  ‘What would you tell someone else if they were in this position?’ Daisy, who didn’t have a clue how to counsel a counsellor, took a stab in the dark.

  Jo twisted her mouth sideways in thought. ‘I s’pose . . . I’d say it’s one step at a time.’

  ‘Sounds like pretty good advice to me.’

  Daisy looked up at the big clock above the dresser. It was half past five already. Jo had better get a move on, or she’d be heading into London with soaking hair and wet clothes.

  ‘Your bath’s going to be overflow
ing. Martha’s probably got distracted sending photos of her cat to school friends.’

  ‘Right. You’re right.’ Leaning across, Jo gave Daisy a kiss.

  Armed with the dregs of a bottle of white which she decided she most definitely deserved after an entire day in the garden, Daisy was climbing the stairs when the doorbell buzzed once again. It had to be Jo. She’d probably left her phone on the sofa, or something. Heavy-legged, desperate for the bath, she turned on the stairs.

  ‘Another two minutes and I’d have been underwater,’ she said, laughing, brandishing the glass as she opened the door.

  ‘Evening, Miss Price.’ Mike Redforth looked up from the screen of his phone, his long waxed jacket glistening in the rain. He looked like a damp ferret, his little eyes peering at her from under pale brows. ‘Not too late, am I?’

  Daisy felt her shoulders sagging with dismay. She remembered his comment about ‘swinging by’. Was he never off-duty? She looked pointedly at the clock.

  ‘Well, it’s not – I’m not quite –’ She held onto the side of the door for reinforcement, trying to formulate an excuse.

  ‘Only take two ticks. Got to take a couple of measurements I missed yesterday, if you don’t –’ and with that, the estate agent had somehow made his way into the house, and was heading for the back garden.

  ‘I need to take a couple of details about the garden for a client. They’re very interested – in fact, he was planning on popping by this afternoon, as I said – couldn’t make it, though, think he got caught up on the golf course.’

  Wish I could have a relaxing sporting afternoon – or even a blooming bath – without gits like you turning up and waving your measuring sticks around. Chance would be a fine thing, thought Daisy, resenting every bath-stealing second of polite conversation she was making.

  ‘Can I just pop out?’ Without waiting to be asked, he opened the kitchen door and headed out onto the patio. Daisy, coatless, wasn’t leaving him out there in her beloved garden alone. He’d probably trample on the lettuce, or murder the redcurrants.