I was used to designing the inside of a house. I had made colours and fabrics work even when Ian had pulled that face and voiced his doubts. Now I began to wonder if gardens could work the same way. Perhaps if that hedge was removed, if those trees were cut back?
Crocuses were beginning to sparkle in the grass at the end of the garden; white and golden yellow and purple – heralds of a new spring that only a few weeks ago I didn’t think I had the courage to bear.
I kept darting looks at Ivy Cottage, half hoping Bryn would come out, see how incompetent I was and take over, but the kitchen curtains remained shut; the top half of the stable door closed. Perhaps he was away? Maybe he was ill?
I carried on messing about at the end of the garden for the rest of the afternoon. There was a fair amount of debris to remove from the neglected borders. Apart from the bath there was a collection of foil takeaway trays, a rusted child’s bike, the remains of several very large nylon dog bones (that explained the damp dog smell) and a broken basketball hoop buried in the nettles at the end of the patch. There was also a rotting wooden construction, not so much a compost bin as an additional rubbish dump. I toiled away for a couple of days while the weather was good, and then realised I had only succeeded in moving the debris from the garden where it had been well hidden, to my driveway where it wasn’t. Perhaps I needed a skip? I couldn’t afford a skip.
I didn’t know what to do with all the stuff I had accumulated. Should I put it into the car and take it somewhere? If so, when and where? Bryn would know. And with all those muscles and also the use of his useful pickup truck, he would make short work of it. Perhaps I could take him up on that offer of a beer too. I hadn’t really spoken to anyone for nearly a week, apart from the boy in the mobile phone shop who had sorted out a new contract for me, and a friendly cashier called Maureen in Superfine who always seemed to be there in the afternoons. I’d tried going to the village shop in a sort of ingratiating desire to support local industry but they seemed to open and close when they felt like it.
I decided to give up for the day; I needed bread as I seemed to be living on sandwiches and my endless tea and coffee consumption meant I was always in danger of running out of milk.
As I drove into Superfine’s car park I wondered why I wasn’t cooking any more. I loved cooking; I even enjoyed watching other people cooking on television programmes yet now I was living on tins of soup and cheese toasties. Perhaps I should make more of an effort? Maybe then I would ask Bryn over for a meal by way of a thank you. He would like that. I didn’t suppose he had much company either. He seemed to live on his own. I wondered if his arm had healed up OK? Probably; after all it was three weeks ago and I hadn’t seen any ambulances pulling up outside.
‘Back again, my duck?’ Maureen said as she scanned my shopping, weighing my fruit and vegetables and frowning at the scale.
By then I knew all about Kyle, her son in the Navy, and Himself’s (her husband’s) bad back, and more than I wanted to know about her ‘various veins’.
‘I’m always running out of milk,’ I said.
Her face brightened. ‘Got a cat, have you?’
‘Well no—’
‘My cat gets through pints of the stuff, although Himself says it’s not good for ’em. I says to him, well if you’m so clever you tell Fluffy, ’cos I’m not.’
She scanned a packet of chocolate cookies and looked at them admiringly.
‘They looks nice. I couldn’t have them though. I’m supposed to be losing weight and if I had them in the cupboard I wouldn’t get no peace until I’d eaten ’em all. That’s fourteen pounds twenty. Having a busy day, are you?’
I handed over a twenty-pound note. ‘Well I’ve not lived here long. I’m doing some decorating. For a friend.’
Maureen rolled her eyes. ‘You can come and do mine when you’re finished! I’ve been waiting for Himself to paint the front room for years but it’s still not done. The paint will be solid in the tin by the time he gets the lid off. And there’s your change, me duck.’
I hesitated. There was no one behind me waiting to be served.
‘Are there any jobs going here, do you know? It’s just…well you know.’
Maureen sucked her cheeks in. ‘No, I don’t think so. You’d have to ask at the so-called Help Desk. Not that they will be much help if they can avoid it. Too busy gossiping and complaining and messing about with rotas. But you could ask.’
‘Thanks.’
I wandered past the Help Desk where two women in purple suits were busy tapping in barcodes and sighing as they tried to organise a refund for a harassed-looking woman with two toddlers who were rolling on the floor kicking each other. Perhaps another day.
Three days later I noticed the stable door into the kitchen was open again and my heart gave a little leap. Bryn was back from wherever he had disappeared to.
I went upstairs to change into a clean T-shirt, slick on some red lip-gloss and run a comb through my hair. After fiddling about for a few moments I tied my hair back and wiped off the lip-gloss. Then I changed into another shirt and faffed about wondering how many buttons to do up or undo. Then I added some blusher and a smudge of grey eye shadow. And a pink lip-gloss.
I took a look at myself in the bathroom mirror and rolled my eyes. For heaven’s sake, my brown hair needed cutting, my blue eyes under the badly smeared eye shadow looked tired. More than that, I looked like a right clown. What on earth was I playing at? I just needed the man next door to come and help me move a bath, it didn’t matter what colour my mouth was.
On my way to Bryn’s front door I noticed a car parked around the side of his house. A red, soft top sports something and I wondered how he would fit his long legs into that. I went and knocked on the door.
After a moment I heard someone moving about inside. I hesitated, my hand raised, wondering if I should knock again and then the door opened. Not Bryn at all but a glorious redhead in tight jeans and a baggy boyfriend jumper that was in danger of slipping off her tanned shoulder.
‘Hi,’ she said.
She looked down at me from atop her long legs and gave a dazzling smile that spoke of several thousand pounds and many hours at the orthodontist.
‘I’m Bonnie, you must be the caterer.’
Bonnie? She certainly was. But caterer? As if. And who was she? Sister? Girlfriend? Wife?
‘Bonnie?’ I said.
She laughed and tossed her because-I’m-worth-it hair about.
‘Short for Bonita. Which is a ghastly name isn’t it? Do come in,’ she said.
Mesmerised, I followed her pert bottom down the hallway and into the kitchen. I had assumed this house was a mirror image of mine but it was bigger. There was a conservatory tacked onto the side and some sort of extension or office in the garden beyond, half hidden by some bushes. I suppose I should have told Bonnie I wasn’t the caterer but at this stage I was far too busy being nosey.
I caught a glimpse of a sitting room painted in dark red with floor to ceiling bookcases, a beautiful grandfather clock in the hall and then she took me into the kitchen. It was rather old fashioned with a huge built-in dresser and under the window a Belfast sink with a red gingham curtain underneath it.
‘So it’s going to be a surprise party,’ Bonnie said, leaning back against a newish and familiar-looking granite worktop (probably Sahara Sparkle), ‘for about twenty. OK?’
‘Well I’m not actually…’
She flicked her hair back. ‘Maybe twenty-five.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Do you like vegetarians?’
‘I couldn’t eat a whole one,’ I said.
Bonnie frowned rather attractively. ‘Sorry?’
‘Look I think there has been some misunderstanding.’
She blinked a couple of times and looked at me, waiting for me to explain.
‘I was hoping to see Bryn. Is he around?’
‘Well no, not until tonight, who are you then?’ Her tone was suddenly rather frosty.
/> ‘I’m Charlotte – Lottie from next door.’ I pointed in the direction of my cottage.
And who are you? And why are you throwing a surprise party?
She suddenly looked very annoyed. It was as though someone had flicked a switch. ‘You’re not the caterer? Not from Delicioso?’
‘No.’
Bonnie gave an extravagant sigh and rolled her large, hazel eyes.
‘Next door? Oh I see. Jeez. Why didn’t you say? I didn’t realise…I knew…oh never mind. She was supposed to be here half an hour ago.’
Bonnie did what anyone would have done when they found themselves in this situation and checked her phone.
‘Hmm I’ve missed a call. Bloody crap reception here.’
She listened to a message and sighed.
‘Not coming?’
‘No.’ Her pretty mouth tightened in annoyance. ‘Are you sure you’re not a caterer?’
‘Positive.’
She gnawed at a manicured thumbnail. ‘It’s Bryn’s birthday soon; I thought I’d throw him a surprise party.’
‘Does he like surprise parties?’
I’d bet a month’s non-existent salary he didn’t.
‘No, he hates them, but I think they’re fun.’ Bonnie waved her phone again. ‘They can’t get here until after the weekend, and that’s no good.’
I thought hard about what I could say to get her to tell me what her relationship was to Bryn but I couldn’t think of anything that didn’t make me sound like a stalker.
‘You don’t know anyone I could ring do you?’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry, I’ve haven’t lived here long.’
Bonnie pouted. ‘Delicioso were my last hope. It’s frigging impossible round here; it’s like the bloody dark ages. I keep telling him to move.’
‘Have you tried the Internet?’
Bonnie shot me a withering look. ‘Or extra-super-slow-narrow-band as we prefer to call it? You must be joking.’
‘Well you could try ringing around.’ I made a move to the door. ‘I just called to see if Bryn’s arm was OK. He had a nasty cut…’ I hesitated as I saw her eyes glaze over.
‘I’ve no idea, he has a silly thing with blood, I never take much notice. It just encourages him.’
‘Ah, well it was some time ago. OK. I just…well perhaps I’ll catch up with Bryn later.’
‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you. He doesn’t like visitors. As a rule. He’s a very private person. We both are.’
I had the feeling she was delivering some subliminal message but I didn’t quite get it.
Bonnie picked up a battered copy of the Yellow Pages with the tips of her fingers and looked at the cover as though it was written in Swahili.
‘Not after all the trouble with Mrs Webster next door,’ she continued, her voice casually silky. She fired me a sharp look filled with meaning and I shrugged.
‘Mrs Webster had a…thing for Bryn, I’m afraid. She seemed to think there was something between them. Obviously not, but a lot of women…well let’s just say she was punching way above her not inconsiderable weight.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you understand.’
Open brackets he’s mine so keep your paws off close brackets.
There didn’t seem much to say after that so I made my way back to Holly Cottage, noticing again with a twinge of envy how beautifully kept Ivy Cottage’s gardens were in comparison to my own.
There were drifts of new colour along the borders as the first of the spring flowers began to bloom; I could glimpse regimented rows of bamboo canes and a trellis laden with burgeoning something. I wished for a moment that I could sneak in and take a proper look. Perhaps if Bonnie hadn’t been there I might have risked it.
I went to the end of the garden and leaned over the fence and was startled when my mobile rang. It was Jess. I had received some texts and a couple of emails but this was the first phone call I’d had for a while.
‘At last! How’s it going, Lottie? Are you OK?’ She sounded just as scatty as ever. I could almost imagine her twirling her hair around her fingers and looking in the mirror for non-existent wrinkles as she spoke to me.
‘I’ve been trying to ring you for days. The signal down there is pants.’
‘Yes, fine, I’ve just been cleaning. I was wondering what to do with the junk in the garden?’
‘Greg will take it away. He’s on his way over in the van. That’s why I’m ringing. He’ll drop off your stuff and load up.’
Her voice sounded odd, as though she was putting on mascara as she was talking.
‘I don’t even know where the tip is. And there’s a stinking wet carpet…’
‘Oh, Lottie! Stop panicking. Greg will sort it out. He’s got that paint for you too. The chalky stuff you wanted. Mouse’s Bum and Coco something. Greg says they are grey and beige and I’m round the bend; thirty pounds for a tin when he can get big tubs of trade white for a fiver. His idea of cutting-edge design is woodchip and magnolia. I told him to beak out of it. I know you’re going to make the place look fab. I hope you’re still up for it?’
‘Yes, of course I am. Bring it on. I’m having a great time. ’
‘Greg might measure up for the new carpets when he gets there. He knows a bloke who will do him a deal. For God’s sake don’t let him buy brown, he doesn’t think there’s any other colour. What did you have in your old hallway? With the stripy wallpaper? Do you remember?’
‘Can’t remember, it was called Pumice, I think.’
I thought back. But all I could remember was that New Year’s Eve party.
Greg and Jess Palmer had been the last to arrive that night, bringing with them their own style and dress code. Their arrival almost caused Ian to trample on his other guests, he was so eager to get to them. Greg stood out in a smooth and expensive-looking dark suit and Jess looked like a high-end stripper in red sequins and studded stilettos. Ian wasn’t actually drooling but it was a pretty close thing.
‘I love this house,’ she purred as she slipped off her (at least I think it was fake) fur, revealing gleaming bronzed shoulders and most of her bosom. ‘Greg and I viewed a place just up the road when we was looking to move here. We always hoped this one would come on the market, if I’m honest. How long did you say you’d lived here?’
‘Nearly eight years, although Ian has been here about ten,’ I said.
We were becoming good friends by this point and now Ian had managed to get his hooks into Greg I had the feeling we might progress from just seeing the Palmers occasionally in the paper shop, the gym and the golf club to seeing a lot of them over the next few months as Ian and Greg blue-sky-thought together as to how best to invest Greg’s money.
‘I love this,’ she said, running a tiny hand over my striped grey wallpaper, ‘and the lighting too. And I really love the colour of that carpet. It’s really classy, ain’t it, Gregsy?’
‘I have a thing about lighting,’ I said. ‘I hate seeing the light bulbs.’
‘You got a great eye for design. You could give me some tips once the en suites are finished. Greg wants to put seagull wallpaper in one and ducks in the other. No, don’t laugh, he’s perfectly serious. Even I can see that’s naff. I only ever do white and cream with lots of gold accents. It doesn’t look the same over here though. Not like it did in Spain. More duller. Must be the lack of sunshine,’ Jess said.
‘Well, the Met Office says we are in for a BBQ summer,’ I said.
‘Really?’ Jess looked hopeful. Her blue eyes gazed at me, lash extensions fluttering.
‘They’re usually wrong so don’t get your hopes up just yet.’ I held out a platter of vol-au-vents and Jess reeled away as though I was offering her strychnine.
‘Oh dear, no thanks, I mustn’t. I get a bit funny about carbs after seven o’clock,’ she said, patting her non-existent tummy. She fished about on the plate for a celery baton and nibbled it, shoulders hunched. Her expression of robust enjoyment was one I usually reserved for
cake but I suppose we can’t all be the same.
‘So when are you planning to rent out Holly Cottage again?’ I said.
Jess spoke through stretched lips this time, as though she was putting on lipstick. ‘Oh I don’t know. I’m still not sure what I want to do. I did think of selling it. Anyway. See how we go. A couple of months, maybe?’
‘You mustn’t let me get in the way of that,’ I said.
‘Lottie, I’m just grateful you’ve taken this off my hands. It’s no good asking Greg’s men to do it, they would just slap up some lining paper, paint it with whatever was left over from another job, shove in some off cuts of carpet and it would look rubbish in no time and I’d be back to square one. Look, I’d better go. I’ve got heaps to do here. Greg should be arriving with you soon anyway and – um – Bryn’s not about, is he?’
‘No, I haven’t seen him for a while. I don’t know where he is. There’s someone called Bonnie here though.’
‘Bonnie? Why the…Oh, of course, I remember – Bryn’s gone to Chelsea. Just as well.’
I frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Oh nothing. Look, I’ll shoot off now, there’s someone at the door. And whatever you do, don’t give Greg any cake!’
Jess ended the call, leaving me more than a bit confused. Bryn and Greg were brothers, weren’t they? So why should it be good that Bryn wasn’t there? And he’d gone to Chelsea? What was he doing in Chelsea? He didn’t look like a footballer. Did he?
Twenty minutes later I heard the unfamiliar sound of a vehicle driving up the lane and stopping. I peered through the sitting-room window, holding my breath. The view down towards the village was glorious; especially now the local farmer had cut back the hedges. I could see all the way to the church and the sunlight was glinting off the gold-painted weather vane on the top. But even after all this time I still felt the same plunge of dread when the phone rang or people came to the house unexpectedly. Today there was nothing to worry about; it was just Greg in his white van. I sighed with relief and went to open the front door.
The Summer of Second Chances Page 5
