Love in an English Garden

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘It’s so complicated.’

  ‘Only if you make it complicated.’

  ‘No, it really is complicated,’ she said.

  ‘Then just take it one step at a time. Go to London. Talk to Morton. Maybe even make some music. You don’t have to sign anything or make any big decisions. He’s a friend, isn’t he?’

  Tilda nodded.

  ‘So go and see your friend and just talk.’

  She gave a weak smile. ‘You should be an agony uncle or something.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re really good with advice.’

  He smiled, although part of him was dying inside at her use of the word ‘uncle’. Is that how she saw him?

  ‘But what if I . . .’ She paused.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What if it all goes wrong? What if I get sucked into it all again and—’

  ‘You can’t think like that. You’ve got to go into this positively. You can’t worry about all the ifs, buts and maybes. If everybody did that all the time, nobody would ever leave home or do anything, and think how dull the world would be then.’

  She looked out of the window again.

  ‘Let me take you to London, Tilda. Then, if it all goes wrong—’

  She turned back to face him.

  ‘Which I’m sure it won’t!’ he quickly added, his hands up in the air. ‘Well, you can blame me.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘I’ll come to London with you. I’ll see Morton and hear what he has to say.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘And then I’ll blame you, right?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  It was always best to act quickly when momentous decisions were made, Laurence had found, and so he persuaded Tilda to go up to London the very next day, leaving after breakfast.

  Laurence went in search of his father to let him know where he was going. When he couldn’t find him in his rooms, he went out to the oast house.

  A blast of rock music greeted him as he opened the door after knocking several times and not being heard. What did rock mean? he wondered, harkening back to something his father had mentioned. Abstract painting, was it?

  ‘Laurie?’ his father said, obviously surprised to see him there.

  ‘You’re at it bright and early,’ Laurence said.

  ‘Lots to do,’ his father said.

  ‘Hello, Jasmine.’

  ‘There’s a whole world to paint,’ Jasmine explained. ‘Isn’t there, Marcus?’

  ‘There certainly is.’

  Laurence looked from one to the other, but their eyes remained firmly on the canvases in front of them.

  ‘Right, I’m off, Dad.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Can I get you anything whilst I’m in town?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Sure?’ Laurence said.

  ‘There’s nothing I want from London.’

  He watched a moment longer as his father stood behind his easel looking every inch the artist.

  ‘Okay then,’ he said, half expecting his father to look up but he didn’t.

  ‘Bye, Laurie,’ Jassy said. ‘Shut the door on your way out, please.’

  Well, that put him in his place, he thought, closing the door as he left.

  Laurence and Tilda left Orley just after nine in the morning. A summer mist was lingering in the valley, its magical skeins enveloping the sheep and promising a hot day ahead. If it hadn’t been for Tilda, Laurence would have been more than happy to stay at home, opening his office window and letting the summer air and all its scents pour into the room. But there was no place he’d rather be than with Tilda. He had to admit it – he was becoming extremely fond of her. Not just because she was incredibly pretty with her English-rose looks and her astonishing talent that left him breathless – there was a sweetness about her that drew him in, and a vulnerability that made him want to protect her.

  He knew he was taking a risk pushing her in her career, but he could also see that she was burning to pursue it herself and perhaps this Morton guy was a good option. As a friend of Tilda’s, he’d be less likely to betray her trust, wouldn’t he?

  ‘You okay?’ he asked her as they left the rural villages of the Weald behind and headed towards the motorway.

  She nodded.

  ‘You’re just normally pale, quiet and pensive?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, it’s a long drive if you’re not talking.’

  ‘You want to talk?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Your plans for today.’

  ‘My plans for today. Let me see. To get through it and make it back home without having a nervous breakdown and without having sold my soul?’

  ‘Good plan.’

  ‘Yeah, I think it is.’

  ‘Always have a plan,’ Laurence said.

  She turned to face him. ‘You plan things, don’t you? I mean, you strike me as the sort.’

  ‘The sort?’

  ‘You’re a numbers guy. You’re logical, organised.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I wish I was more like that,’ she said.

  ‘Why would you wish that?’ he asked. ‘You shouldn’t ever want to be something you’re not. Take it from me. I once had this crazy notion of being a footballer. I joined a team whilst I was at university and promptly broke my arm in a fall. I’ll never forget the pain and humiliation. Put me firmly in my place. I had a lot of time to think with my arm all bandaged up. I should never have been out on the pitch – it wasn’t the right place for me.’

  ‘But didn’t you enjoy it whilst you were there?’

  Laurence cast his mind back. ‘Not really because it didn’t feel right. I think I was just rebelling a bit and trying to impress people.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘So don’t ever try and be somebody you’re not, Tilda. You’ll break your arm if you do.’

  ‘I’ll make a note of that,’ she said. ‘But what if it’s somebody else who’s trying to change you?’

  ‘What do you mean? Like the music industry?’

  She nodded. ‘I was just thinking about the time I got a makeover. They dyed my hair blonde.’

  Laurence did a double take. ‘What do you mean? You are blonde!’

  ‘Apparently, I wasn’t blonde enough. They wanted me blonder.’

  ‘Blonder than what?’

  She laughed. ‘The sun? I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘They also asked if I’d ever consider having a nose job.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘I wish I was. It’s pretty standard, I’ve heard.’

  ‘But there’s nothing wrong with your nose.’

  Her hand automatically flew to her face as if to check and Laurence couldn’t help wondering how many times she’d felt anxious about her appearance. The music industry certainly sounded as if it could breed insecurity.

  ‘They also wanted me to wear contact lenses to make my eyes even bluer and fake eyelashes that were so ridiculous, I could hardly see out of them.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t be able to sing to an audience I couldn’t see.’

  Laurence laughed. ‘Did you?’

  She nodded. ‘And I told them what I wanted to wear too, which they didn’t listen to, but at least I won the battle of the eyelashes.’

  Laurence cast a look at her now. She was wearing blue jeans and a pretty white lacy blouse. Her hair was loose and natural and he couldn’t imagine why anybody in their right mind would want to change her, but that was show business for you, he supposed.

  ‘It wasn’t the physical changes that bothered me, though. It was the changes they wanted to make to my sound. They’d taken me on the strength of one of my own songs, so that’s what I thought they liked about me, b
ut they didn’t want that. They chucked it away.’

  ‘Makes you wonder why they sign artists up if they just want to change them.’

  ‘I think they always have to feel in control. They find the raw talent and mould it into something that they hope will sell. They don’t listen to what the actual artist has to say.’

  ‘But that’s not going to happen again, right?’ Laurence asked.

  ‘Right. Morton knows how I feel about it all. I don’t think he’s going to mess with me.’

  ‘So I’ll recognise you when I pick you up later today? You won’t have dyed your hair or had a nose job?’

  She laughed. ‘No way!’

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘because you’re perfect just the way you are.’

  She looked at him, her eyes bright in that beautiful face of hers, and then she turned away and took her phone out of her handbag and started doing a little dance with her thumbs. It was what Laurence thought of as the ‘I don’t want to talk to you’ thumb dance. She probably wasn’t doing anything really; it was her way of sending him a very clear message: You’ve overstepped the mark and I think it best we don’t talk anymore.

  They didn’t speak for the rest of the journey and Laurence was quite relieved when they finally reached their destination.

  ‘Is this it?’ Laurence said, peering up at a large building which looked like a warehouse.

  Tilda checked the address again. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Want me to come in with you?’

  ‘No,’ she said hastily. ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I don’t need luck – just a good business head.’

  Laurence smiled at that. He was tempted to join her to keep an eye on the proceedings, but he didn’t want to totally freak her out. Anyway, he really did have a few errands to run whilst he was in the city.

  ‘Call me when you’re ready to leave, or sooner if you need me – if Morton upsets you.’

  She sighed. ‘I won’t let him upset me, Laurence.’

  ‘Here’s my number, okay?’ He handed her one of his new business cards, which she put in her handbag. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘It’ll probably be late,’ she warned.

  ‘I don’t mind. Whenever you’re ready.’

  She flashed him a brief, anxious smile and he watched as she got out of the car and crossed the pavement, pausing outside the large metal door before pressing the buzzer and disappearing inside.

  Laurence did his best to fill his day without worrying too much about Tilda. He met with two of his clients, stocked up on some stationery from a favourite store of his, bought a tin of biscuits from Fortnum & Mason for his dad and had a walk by the river. Every half an hour, he’d check his phone to make sure he hadn’t missed a call, but she didn’t get in touch until after six.

  ‘Hey!’ she said. ‘You still in town?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Haven’t got bored and left without me?’

  ‘No, of course not. You ready to go?’

  ‘As soon as you can get me. We’re just going to grab a coffee from round the corner, but I’ll be back at the studio in ten minutes, okay?’

  ‘I’ll see you there. Probably take me half an hour to get to you.’

  ‘Perfect! Just buzz on the door.’

  But Laurence didn’t need to buzz because she was waiting for him outside the studio when he arrived. She didn’t spot him at first and he watched her as she stood on the pavement, her hair blowing around her face as she did the thumb dance on her phone. Then he sounded the horn, quickly and lightly, and she looked up, beaming him a smile and waving.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked as she got into the car.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘It’s a good start.’

  She chewed her lip.

  ‘You’ve got to give me more than “good”,’ he told her.

  ‘What do you want to hear?’

  ‘That you’ve just cut a new single and have a brand-new album planned.’

  ‘Ha ha!’

  ‘So?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘He wants to record with me.’

  ‘Well, of course he does. He’d be a fool not to want that.’ He looked at her, trying to gauge how she felt about it. ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘That I’d think about it.’

  ‘Okay.’ He pulled out into the road and set the satnav for home.

  ‘Today was just about listening to what he had to say and looking around the studio.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, not wanting to pressurise her. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She stared out of the window at the smart terraces of West London.

  They’d just hit the motorway when Tilda started to hum something. Laurence listened for a few moments, scared that if he interrupted her, she’d clam up.

  ‘Is that a new song?’ he asked as soon as she stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That tune you were humming.’

  ‘I wasn’t humming.’

  ‘You most certainly were.’

  ‘Was I?’ She looked genuinely surprised and then her forehead crinkled and she nodded. ‘I suppose I was.’

  ‘What’s it called? I mean, does it have a name?’

  ‘ “Blue-sky Girl”.’

  ‘Good title.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s really nice, you know? Happy, summery.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about summery songs.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, remembering that her big hit single that had caused her so many problems had been called ‘Summer Song’.

  ‘This is a new one.’

  ‘One you wrote?’

  ‘Co-wrote.’

  ‘With Morton?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Just now – in London?’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t look so surprised.’

  ‘You really wrote a whole song today?’

  ‘Well, it probably needs a bit of tidying up, but it’s mostly there.’

  ‘Wow! All I did was meet a couple of clients and buy some stationery. I thought you said you were just talking things through today.’

  ‘Well, we were, but then – you know . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘I think it was after the third cup of coffee.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s the trick! I obviously don’t drink enough coffee to be creative.’

  ‘Coffee does help.’

  ‘So, what’s that like – to have words and emotions pouring out of you like that?’

  She didn’t answer for a moment. ‘I don’t know how to explain it. It’s always been a part of me. It’s just something I do, like breathing.’

  ‘You breathe out songs?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I breathe out spreadsheets.’

  She laughed again. He loved making her laugh.

  ‘Sing it to me,’ he said.

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Oh, go on. I’d love to hear it.’

  It took a further three miles of unrelenting persuasion before Tilda sang ‘Blue-sky Girl’ for Laurence.

  ‘You really wrote that today? Sing it again, will you?’

  ‘Oh, Laurence!’

  He started humming.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’

  ‘And I’ll continue to get it wrong if you don’t sing it again. Go on!’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Just once, okay?’

  By the time they reached Elhurst, they’d sung the song together at least half a dozen times and Laurence was word perfect. They were both laughing and singing in equal measure as they pulled into Orley Court.

  ‘I think you’ve got a hit on your hands there,’ he told her.

  She fell silent for a moment. ‘I don’t want to think about that. I just want to enjoy this song for what it is. I don’t want to share it yet.’<
br />
  ‘You shared it with me.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re different.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You’re my friend.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. So, she saw him as an agony uncle and a friend, he thought with a little sigh.

  ‘My very good friend,’ she added, seeming to sense his disappointment.

  They got out of the car and walked to the house through the garden. It was just beginning to get dark and a few swallows were screeching overhead, eating insects on the wing.

  ‘Thank you for today,’ she said as they entered the porch together, stopping before she opened the door. ‘I’m so glad I went.’ And then she did something that surprised him so much he nearly fell over backwards: she went up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Oh!’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘You look so funny.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘And cute.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘You’re sweet, Laurence.’

  He smiled and looked into the sky-blue eyes of this blue-sky girl. Her face looked so soft and rosy and inviting. Was she inviting him to kiss her? There was only one way to find out and so he slowly lowered his face to hers and brushed her lips with his. She didn’t pull away.

  ‘Tilda?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Was that all right? I mean, was it okay I just did that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered before turning away from him to open the front door.

  He swallowed hard, trying to gather his thoughts as they entered the hallway together and she turned back towards him.

  ‘Today’s been nice,’ she said.

  ‘Nice?’ He couldn’t disguise his disappointment at her choice of words.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said, a tiny smile tickling the corners of her lips. ‘Laurence – Laurie—’

  ‘I like that.’

  ‘I’ve got a lot to think about just now and my head’s spinning with it all.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Goodnight, then.’

  He watched her turn to go. Part of him was frustrated at losing her so soon after they’d shared the most intimate of moments, but he didn’t want to put any more pressure on her, so he stood there in the cool silence of the hallway while he tried to calm down, and then he walked into the north wing alone.