A Good Year for the Roses: A Novel
Page 33
“What?”
“They sold for seventy-two thousand pounds.”
“Fucking hell.”
“She set it up perfectly, got two of her top Russians bidding against each other.”
“Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“That’s amazing. I’m definitely getting that new boiler now.”
“I give up.”
“That’s incredible Lola, and I can borrow less money from the bank now, which is brilliant. Oh, I wish you were here, so we could celebrate properly. Have you decided yet, about coming down next weekend?”
“Yes please. And I’d like to bring Jimmy down at some point too—not yet, too much pressure, but we’ll see. I’ve told him all about your garden and he’s dying to see it. I’ve got high hopes for him.”
“He’s the one you met at that party, isn’t he?”
“Yes. We had dinner last night. He’s got great shoulders—it must be all that manual labour—and he’s very into modern design, sculptural stuff.”
“Like those giant Perspex balls you put in the middle of your garden to sit in, so you end up looking like a hamster?”
“No, much better than that. He’s won loads of awards.”
“Well as long as he doesn’t try to persuade Dennis we need to flatten the kitchen garden and go sculptural, he’s welcome anytime.”
“They’ll be off soon, won’t they?”
“Yes, straight after Christmas. Ivy’s nearly finished her packing already. She’s so excited, and May’s agreed to come in and help, so Ivy’s writing her lists of instructions. God, I’ve just thought, I can get a new vacuum cleaner now—the old one weighs a ton.”
“I’m putting the phone down now, I really can’t bear it.”
“Thanks Lola, really, and thank Pippa too. It will make such a difference.”
“Puzhalsta, darling—that’s Russian for ‘you’re welcome,’ at least I think it is. It might be a brand of vodka. Actually, that’s a thought, let’s have a vodka cocktail party when I’m down, celebrate in style. Tell Bertie, would you.”
“I’ll do it right now. He can make us some of his White Russians. They’re lovely. Lethal, but lovely.”
“I can’t wait.”
It’s Christmas Eve, and everyone’s finally in bed. I’m putting the finishing touches to the Christmas stockings, sitting by the fire and trying to stop eating satsumas. I’m even doing a stocking for Betty against my better judgement after concerted lobbying by Alfie and Ben. We had drinks at the hotel, which went well. Dad was being very jovial, and Ivy, Dennis and Bertie seemed to enjoy themselves. Even Roger was less annoying than usual. I’m wearing Lola’s dark-green skirt with black woolly tights and my new black boots and a black jersey top so I look like I’m starring as Robin Hood in the local pantomime. But I really don’t care.
I finished wrapping presents for the boys last night, and they helped me wrap the last few things for everyone else this afternoon. I’ve gone overboard this year, to thank everyone for all their help. The boys had a great time helping me choose things at the Christmas markets, and we’ve made up baskets with jars of jam and homemade chocolate truffles, and lots of little treats, bath things, and sweets, and mini clockwork toys which flip over, as well as books and DVDs. I’ve made lavender bags too, Vicky’s is in the shape of a rabbit in honour of the leaping-hare wallpaper, and Sally’s got a piglet shape. And we found some terrier-shaped soaps for Celia and a key ring which barks when you press it. We got one for Betty too, so she has something to dismantle on Christmas morning. I’m just getting the last batch of mince pies out of the oven, when I hear a car arriving. This better not be someone wanting B&B, or they’re going to find there’s definitely no room at the inn.
Bloody hell. It’s Eddie.
“Hello Molly. I was hoping I could make a last-minute booking for the gatehouse. Obviously in an ideal world I’d whisk you off somewhere glamorous, but I’m not sure the boys would like that, and anyway, I haven’t got a whisk.”
“Right.”
“So I thought if I rented the gatehouse, that would be perfect. I won’t intrude or anything, I can go over to see Celia tomorrow—she’s bound to invite me for Christmas lunch and—”
“I doubt it, she’s coming here.”
“Oh. Right. I hadn’t thought of that. Actually, can I come in? It’s bloody freezing out here and this bag weighs a ton.”
“Oh God, yes, sorry, of course. Go into the drawing room, the fire’s still on.”
“I’ve got you a present. Damn, I didn’t mean to say that, I wanted to wait until tomorrow. I’ve got presents for everyone, but here, this one is for you.”
He opens his bag and hands me a small parcel wrapped with what feels like quite a lot of wrapping paper.
“I wrapped it myself.”
“Right.”
“The paper kept tearing, so there’s quite a bit of sticky tape.”
“It’s lovely paper. Oh, Eddie, crikey, they’re beautiful, thank you so much. Really beautiful. I love silver earrings, and these are gorgeous.”
“Every girl should have her own emeralds. Particularly when she had to flog her last lot.”
“Oh my God, are they real?”
He tuts.
“Yes they bloody are. Platinum and emeralds. I’d hardly drive all this way just to deliver cheap rubbish, would I? What do you take me for, some sort of bounder?”
“Thank you, they’re beautiful, but I can’t…”
“Yes you can. The record label signed me up, with an advance and everything, and I’ll be on tour, in the spring, Only as a support act, but the money they’ve paid me is extraordinary. So please keep them, and then if I crash and burn, which I surely will, I can come back and retrieve them.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Be quiet, and put them on. They match your outfit.”
“I know I look like Robin Hood but—”
“I like Robin Hood.”
“That’s good news.”
“Will you be dressed as Maid Marion tomorrow?”
“Possibly.”
He smiles.
“Is there anything to eat? I’m absolutely starving.”
“You’re in luck, if you like mince pies. And, well, let’s just say if you can wrap it in pastry, we’ve got it. Follow me, and take your pick.”
“Sure. But first…”
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
By the time Eddie walks down to the gatehouse it’s half past four on Christmas morning and I’m no longer dressed as Robin Hood. The kids will be up soon to see what Father Christmas has brought, and I’m wide awake. So I think I might spend a calming half hour with a pot of tea, looking at the latest batch of catalogues from Dennis and Celia and filling in the order forms for all the plants they want me to buy. Last year was definitely a good year for the roses, but I’ve got a feeling next year might turn out to be even better.
About the Author
© Jerry Bauer
GIL MCNEIL is the author of The Beach Street Knitting Society and Yarn Club, Needles and Pearls, and Knit One Pearl One. She lives in Kent, England, with her son.
ALSO BY GIL MCNEIL
The Beach Street Knitting Society
and Yarn Club
Needles and Pearls:
A Novel
Knit One Pearl One:
A Beach Street Knitting Society Novel
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
>
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
In the Bleak Midwinter: October
CHAPTER TWO
Jingle Bells: December
CHAPTER THREE
If I Had a Hammer: January to March
CHAPTER FOUR
Bringing Home the Bacon: March to April
CHAPTER FIVE
Tea for Two Hundred: April to June
CHAPTER SIX
Sex, Drugs, and Bacon Rolls: July
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Long Hot Summer (on Crutches): August
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Good Year for the Roses: September to December
About the Author
Also By Gil McNeil
If you loved A Good Year for the Roses…
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Copyright
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Gil McNeil
Cover art credits: Roses, Getty images; Garden, Charlotte Weychan.
Cover copyright © 2014 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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ISBN 978-1-4013-3070-5
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