Vanessa took in the smug smile on his face. ‘Fine,’ she said, with just a hint of humour, ‘go flirt with Dolly!’
‘I’d rather flirt with you,’ he said, taking her hand and giving her the kind of look that heated her up from the inside out. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel that kind of adoration. It seemed like such a long time since Oliver had been able to give her attention like that. But she wasn’t going to dwell on Oliver today. Not when she was holding hands with a handsome man.
‘I love this time of year,’ Jonathan said. ‘All fear of frost is over and the plants are really going for it. The borders are filling out, the trees have hit perfection and fruit is forming in the orchards.’
‘And there’s so much to do in the garden!’
‘Ah, but you must never forget to take time to sit down and just enjoy it all,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘I like to come out first thing in the morning when the grass is cool and dewy. I try not to fiddle and fidget with my trowel or run inside for my secateurs. It’s just a time for looking, for taking it all in.’
They sat for a while longer, listening to the birdsong and the breeze in the trees, and Vanessa couldn’t help feeling intensely grateful for that moment. Life was such a rush and tumble sometimes that it was important to be able to recognise the special moments when one was given them, even if it was just something as simple as sitting on a bench overlooking a garden. But, being with Jonathan, she couldn’t be content with just that and she turned to look at him.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure,’ he said.
Vanessa paused, hoping she wasn’t about to go and spoil things. ‘I was thinking – you know all about Oliver, but I don’t know anything about your past relationships.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I know everything about Oliver. Just that you were married to him for a good long while.’
‘So you know that I’ve been off the market for most of my adult life . . .’
‘And?’ He frowned at her. ‘Where’s this going?’
‘I’d like to know more about you and your relationships.’ There was an awful pause, during which Jonathan looked out across the garden and then up to the sky. ‘You don’t mind me asking, do you?’
‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘There’s just not that much to tell you.’
‘Tell me anyway.’ Was it her imagination or did he look decidedly uncomfortable? He was shifting his feet about, scraping the soles of his big boots on the path.
‘What can I say?’ he said at last. ‘I’ve been involved with a few women in my time but, for one reason or another, it’s just never worked out.’
‘Why not?’
‘Different reasons,’ he said evasively.
She left it a moment, hoping that he would elaborate. Finally, he cleared his throat.
‘There was Cate. We were together about three years, but she moved away.’
‘You didn’t want to go with her?’
‘We were kind of drifting apart by that stage and I’m ashamed to say that I used my home here as an excuse not to leave.’
‘You loved your garden more than her?’
‘I think I did,’ he said. ‘Is that terrible?’
‘I don’t think so. Gardens can often last much longer than relationships.’
‘Mine’s outseen quite a few,’ he admitted and Vanessa smiled.
‘Anyone else special?’
‘There was Julia. I thought we’d be together longer than we were. She was a teacher. A bit bossy if I’m honest and she loved to timetable everything. Drove me nuts! She used to sit in the front room marking books and then she’d tell me that she would be finished in exactly forty-five minutes so I should have a shower and shave and she’d meet me in bed.’
‘Really?’
‘Really!’
Vanessa laughed. ‘How funny!’
‘I don’t envy the poor sod who’s ended up with her.’
They watched as a robin landed on the corner of the raised bed, observing them with his sideways glance.
‘Rachelle,’ Jonathan suddenly said.
‘Who’s that?’ Vanessa asked.
‘My last girlfriend.’
‘That’s a pretty name. Is she the girl in the photo?’ Vanessa asked, thinking of the woman who’d looked to be in her late thirties.
‘What photo?’
‘On the bookcase in your living room.’
His eyebrows raised. ‘Oh, so you saw that?’
‘I’m a woman. It’s my job to notice these things.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy, but I noticed her pretty face.’
He nodded and a sad expression passed over his face like a cloud hiding the sun. ‘She certainly was pretty.’
‘So, what happened?’
Again, he shuffled his boots together and stared out over the garden. ‘It ended.’
Vanessa waited, wondering if he’d say any more, but he didn’t.
‘So there was Cate, Julia and Rachelle,’ she said quietly.
‘And a few – you know – others.’
‘Okay.’
‘And now Vanessa,’ he said, stroking her hand with his work-roughened ones.
She leaned her head on his shoulder and breathed deeply. As much as she wanted to ask him more, she didn’t want to push him away with her questions. She had the feeling that he wasn’t telling her everything, but did that really matter?
Right then, sitting on the garden bench together, she didn’t think that it did.
Chapter 19
There comes a moment in a summer garden when, after the long cold days of winter and interminably wet days of spring, everything just seems to speed up, when it reaches absolute perfection and the gardener wants to shout, ‘Stop! Slow down! Let me enjoy this moment.’
So June rushed into July at Orley. Vanessa had lifted the tulip and hyacinth bulbs, Jonathan and his team had been sowing spring cabbages and pruning the wisteria on the south-east corner of the house, and Tilda had been back and forth to London writing, singing and recording. Marcus was still taking lessons with Jassy in the oast house and Dolly was showing an interest in the work being done in the walled garden and had occasionally been seen out there, although Reynolds had taken a dislike to Andy and had attacked his ankles on more than one occasion.
Everything and everyone seemed to have found a place and a rhythm. Except Laurence. He’d found a routine, he supposed, but he didn’t feel settled.
Gazing outside at the blue summer sky, he couldn’t help but feel isolated. Alone in paradise, he thought. When he’d known he and his father would be moving to Orley together, he’d sincerely believed that it would be a new start for them. Well, it was of course. He’d got his business up and running and his father had found an outlet in his painting and friendship with Jasmine and Skinny the cat. But Laurence felt that he and his father were no nearer to becoming closer. Laurence’s dreams of starting a garden together had gone nowhere, they hadn’t taken any long, ambling walks in the countryside and mealtimes were rushed affairs with his father anxious to flit back to the oast house. They hadn’t really talked about anything but the most mundane of subjects even though Laurence had pushed and pushed.
He was just about to make a call to one of his clients to arrange a meeting when he heard a light knock on his study door.
‘Laurence?’ a voice came.
‘Vanessa?’ He got up from his chair and opened the door, shocked by the pale face which greeted him.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes. I’m okay,’ she said, ‘but I’m worried about Tilda.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s that song of hers – the new one. It’s online and—’
‘And what?’
‘It seems to have got a lot of attention.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘And that’s not good?’
‘Well, it is. There are lots of really great comments, but there are some stinkers too and I think Tild
a’s focusing on those in that way she has in the past. I’m afraid she’s going into meltdown like she did after she came home from that tour.’
‘Where’s this website?’ He motioned to his desk and Vanessa sat on his chair, quickly going online.
‘This is the latest site for indie artists,’ she told him. ‘It’s all the rage, apparently. It’s been in the press a lot and there’s a lot of really good material on here.’
Laurence watched as Vanessa found the page created by her daughter, and Morton too, no doubt.
Blue-sky Girl.
Vanessa played a bit of the track and then scrolled down to the comments before getting up from the chair.
‘You’d better read them,’ she said ominously.
Laurence sat down and read the comments and then cursed. Some were pure vitriol, as if the people writing them had nothing but bile in their brains.
Isn’t this Tilly? someone had written. She should stick to what she’s good at – singing her silly teen girl songs.
That was one of the tamer comments. Some were full of profanities, insults and obscenities. It was truly horrible.
‘Oh, God!’ Laurence said. ‘Has Tilda read all these?’
‘I think she’s making a study of them.’
He shook his head. ‘That’s not healthy.’
‘It’s like the press she got as Tilly. She became obsessed with it and seemed to internalise all the negative comments.’
Laurence was out of his chair and up onto his feet in an instant.
‘I’ll go and talk to her.’
‘I hope it’s okay to come to you with this. You two are close, aren’t you?’
‘Well, I’m not sure about that to be absolutely honest.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘But I’ll help if I can.’
‘Will you?’
‘Of course I will. Where is she?’
‘In the living room with that laptop of hers.’
Laurence nodded and then placed a reassuring hand on Vanessa’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be okay.’
Sure enough, Tilda was sitting pale-faced at her laptop when Laurence found her.
‘Hey,’ he said as he walked in and sat on the sofa beside her.
‘Did Mum tell you?’ Tilda asked, looking at him.
‘She’s worried about you.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘You don’t look okay.’
She closed her laptop and folded her hands over it as if trapping all the bad things inside.
‘I shouldn’t have listened to Morton.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he encouraged me to do this.’
‘And you didn’t want to do it yourself?’
She bit her lower lip as if knowing Laurence had caught her out. ‘I guess I did.’
‘I think you did the right thing.’
‘How can you say that? Have you seen the comments?’
‘I had a quick look.’
‘And they’re terrible!’
‘Sure. Some of them are. Bound to be. You put your work on a public forum, Tilda. A public forum which idiots can access anytime, day or night, whether they’ve got a brain in their heads or a belly full of beer.’
‘It’s fine for you to say that. They’re not saying those things about you,’ Tilda said.
‘And they’re not really saying them about you either.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re trolls, searching the Internet for places to leave their malicious mark. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve put out into the world, they’re going to hate it.’
She shook her head. ‘They’ve made comments about music. The lyrics. The way I sing.’
‘You’re seriously going to take notice of these imbeciles who have nothing better to do than pour poison on somebody’s art because they’re not talented enough to create their own?’
He took hold of the laptop and opened it, quickly finding what he wanted.
‘Who is this’ – he squinted, reading the name of the person who’d left a particularly nasty comment – ‘this PJBottoms anyway? The name probably sums them up – a lazy good-for-nothing couch potato. Probably three stone overweight without a creative bone in their body!’
Tilda gave a little laugh.
‘You know you can sing and this is a great song, Tilda! These people – these naysayers – would leave a nasty comment on anything good and pure out there. It says a lot more about them than it does you. They’re hiding behind a computer and a moniker whereas you’ve had the courage to put your soul out there. You’ve dared to step out onto the world stage whereas they’re sitting at home in their pyjamas. Anyway, there are plenty of great comments too. You have read those, haven’t you?’
She nodded. ‘I’m afraid it’s the nasty ones that stick in the mind.’
‘Well, you’ve got to focus on the good ones. Here – read this one: “This is such a pretty song. I hope she’s got an album coming out soon.” And this: “Her voice is so pure. I love it!” ’
‘Yeah, that’s really nice.’
‘And there are others – loads of others – just like that. Read those, Tilda. Write them down. Copy them into a document and print them out. And forget the PJBottoms of the world. They’re not worth the space in that incredible imagination of yours.’
She smiled. ‘You say all the right things, don’t you?’
‘Do I?’
She nodded and, for a moment, he thought about reaching out to hold her hand, but that was when he heard the front door open.
‘She’s in the living room,’ Vanessa was telling somebody and, before he knew what was happening, Morton Singer had entered.
‘Morton?’ Tilda said, obviously as surprised as Laurence was.
‘I had to come,’ he said, crossing the room. Tilda stood up and was instantly in his embrace.
‘Are you okay?’ Morton asked her, stroking her hair in a gesture that, to Laurence, looked way too intimate for a work colleague.
‘I got myself all upset, but Laurence has been really kind.’
Morton cast a glance in his direction and he stood up.
‘Oh,’ Tilda said, ‘you’ve not met, have you?’
‘No,’ Morton said, flicking his too-long hair out of his eyes. He was wearing a leather jacket and a ripped T-shirt, which Laurence suspected had been ripped at the time of manufacture. Ridiculous. ‘Morton Singer.’ He extended a hand sporting a silver skull ring. Laurence shook it with his own ring-free hand.
‘Laurence Sturridge.’ He saw Tilda glance from him to Morton and back again and, as much as he didn’t want to back down and leave the room, he realised that Morton wasn’t likely to, having just come from London, and so he did the decent thing.
‘I’ll leave you guys to it,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Morton said, throwing a scowl his way.
‘Oh, you don’t need to go, Laurie,’ Tilda said. ‘Stay with us.’
‘No, no,’ he said, knowing his place. ‘I’ll – er – I’ll see you later, Tilda.’ He gave her a brief smile and then left the room.
Vanessa had borrowed Jenna from the team and the two of them were staking flowers in the herbaceous border in the south garden. She’d really noticed a change in the girl of late. She’d arrived as a shy, gawky young woman who had to get somebody to ask where the toilet was on her behalf, but now she was taking the initiative, suggesting jobs for both herself and the others and always asking questions. It was quite remarkable. Only the other day, she’d asked if she could stay behind because she wanted to finish a task she’d started and couldn’t bear to leave it dangling until the next week. Jonathan had been surprised but delighted, coming back to pick her up later so he could take her home. Vanessa had worked with her into the evening and the two of them had chatted amiably. Vanessa smiled as she remembered how she’d sneaked into the house to secure the last two slices of a ginger cake that Dolly had bought from a WI function. She’d deal with the wrath of Dolly later,
she’d thought. There’d been nobody more deserving of that cake than Jenna.
There had been a time when her daughters had joined her in the garden, working alongside her and Oliver to create something beautiful together, but then Tilda had found her music and Jasmine her art, and every hour of their free time was given to their own passions. She’d expect no less really, but she had to admit that it was nice to have a new companion in Jenna.
Jenna was the first person Vanessa had thought of to help her in the south garden. She liked working there and she was hoping Jenna would enjoy it too. Staking flowers was a peaceful job which Vanessa always enjoyed, especially when the sun was on your back as it was today. Jenna, however, didn’t look as happy as usual. Her face contorted in concentration as she seemed to struggle with the brown string.
‘Are you all right?’ Vanessa asked her.
‘I’m fine,’ Jenna said through gritted teeth.
‘Do you need a hand with that?’
‘I’m okay.’
Vanessa watched her, noticing that the girl’s hands were shaking.
‘How about we get a cup of tea?’
Jenna looked up and Vanessa saw that there were tears swimming in her eyes.
‘Come on – come with me.’ Vanessa placed her hand on her shoulder.
A few minutes later and the two of them were in the kitchen of the main house. Jenna’s eyes had flittered around the rooms as she’d walked through them, but she’d been uncharacteristically quiet.
‘Chocolate biscuit?’ Vanessa asked as the kettle boiled.
Jenna nodded. She was never one to turn down a chocolate biscuit, Vanessa noted, handing her the tin.
‘Help yourself and have a seat.’
Jenna took two biscuits and went to sit at the kitchen table. It was a room that wasn’t used much for eating in, which was a shame because it was very pretty with its quarry-tiled floor and view over the garden and the gentle hills to the west of Orley. The family usually ate in the morning room in the mornings and evenings and then grabbed lunch on the go, rarely seeing each other in the middle of the day.
Vanessa made the tea and sat down opposite Jenna, waiting for her to say something because she didn’t want to push her. If Jenna was anything like her daughters then the gentlest of prods would make her clam up for good.
Love in an English Garden Page 24
