“Six foot?”
“Six one.”
Men and their inches. Unexpectedly amused, she hid her smile by concentrating on closing the elevator doors. The cage rattled upwards, taking its own leisurely time.
The man beside her fidgeted as he looked around the small space with its single bulb lighting. The elevator didn’t inspire a lot of confidence when you first used it, but it had passed its safety check before Lanie moved into the flat.
When they reached the roof, Nick helped the doors open with a firm push. He let her exit first, but he was close on her heels. He stretched his shoulders in the open freedom of the roof, even as his head turned and he took in the constraints and possibilities of the space.
Lanie tried to see the roof through his eyes. The southern front half of the roof, facing the road was empty. The flat had been set back against the rear of the house, possibly to avoid destroying the house’s street appeal, possibly because the plumbing was at the rear of the house, and so, easier to extend upward. In the post-war period when the flat had been added, building materials had only just been released from rationing.
The flat hugged the eastern side of the house with a narrow walkway around it. To the north and back of the house was the outside staircase Nick had climbed up last night.
The western side of the roof had been left empty. And the flat, which had windows on the other three sides, was windowless to the west. Lanie suspected that the original builder had arranged things so that the evening view, opened up by the converted and livable roof space, was available for his enjoyment, undisturbed by whoever inhabited the flat.
“It has a good aspect to the street.” Nick prowled the open half that faced the road. “South is best for light and air. The house is bigger than I expected. Even with your flat—when was it built? It’s plug ugly.”
It was ugly, a gray box of a thing that she’d tried to brighten with new curtains at the windows. Red check gingham. Retro perfect. She liked the flat’s uncompromising squareness.
“The flat was built in the 1950s. According to Marshall, the man who keeps pigeons on the roof next door.” A wave of her hand indicated the rooftop of the house to the west that had been converted into office space and currently housed a financial consulting firm. How Marshall had gotten permission to keep pigeons there she didn’t know, and would never ask. “The flat was built by a baronet in the 1950s to provide a home-base for his archaeologist nephew. The location, so close to the British Museum and Library, was convenient for the nephew, and the baronet made sure his own household wasn’t interrupted by sporadic visits. At the time, building materials were rationed or just coming out of rationing—because of the war—hence practicality and not aesthetics were the guiding principle.”
She stopped, jarringly aware that she’d been using her museum guide voice. She stayed silent on the rest of the history: that the nephew seemed to have used the flat rarely and it had been locked up and forgotten. Certainly, Mrs. Smith’s late husband, Horry, hadn’t had any interest in it. The Edwardian collection in the main house had been his obsession.
“We could paint it, I guess,” Nick said.
“Pebbledash,” she responded ironically, and watched him wince. She was right, though, even if he considered her naff. Edwardian builders had used pebbledash cladding and fake beams, all sorts of tricks, to add interest to their homes. Speculative buildings wasn’t a new thing.
“I’ll think of something.” He roamed to the very edge of the roof, examining the low concrete wall that enclosed it. The wall ended just above his knees. Far too low for safety, although at the front of the house it was chest high, built to appear from the street below like part of the original Georgian house. “This’ll have to be heightened.”
“A modern version of wrought iron.” This was something Lanie had thought about. She avoided the edge of the roof, apart from the street side, scared of vertigo and falling. “Something in black. The Edwardians used black iron a lot because it didn’t need polishing.”
He nodded and walked back to her. “The roof will work.”
She folded her arms, aware that it was a defensive gesture, but also defiantly uncaring of what it revealed of her feelings. She’d known he would go ahead with the roof garden from the moment he’d prowled the open southern half. He’d been too engrossed.
For her, the unoccupied space was a heaven-sent blankness. Around them, other roofs showed the same unconsidered use. Smokers found them one of the few places willing to shelter their socially unacceptable habit.
But Nick Tawes evidently saw the roof as a challenge; not blank, but a blank canvas.
The sun struck unexpected copper colors in his black hair as he studied her and the flat behind her. He thrust his hands in his pockets, and rocked back on his heels. “The roof garden won’t be as disruptive as you think. And you can control who comes up here.”
Ironic, that, since he wasn’t letting her resistance stop him. She raised an eyebrow in silent commentary.
“If you have any ideas for it, I’d be happy to consider them.”
“Right.” She noted that he made no promises to include her ideas. But then, she wasn’t the client. It was an important point that she wouldn’t overlook: the museum’s owner, Mrs. Smith, had the final say.
Taking him up to the roof, Lanie’d had some notion of convincing him to forget the museum and move on to a different project. She didn’t think he was an unkind man. His regret for scaring her last night had been genuine. But she’d discarded her notion of dislodging him. Nick Tawes was a man who focused on his own goals. She’d bet a thousand pounds that if he had a girlfriend, it was a casual arrangement—even if the woman thought otherwise. His needs, his demons, were what drove him.
She could list the challenges of the roof, starting with access, but he’d just take her objections as skittles to be knocked over. She’d save her energy and arguments for a more amenable target. “I’ll leave you to take measurements or whatever. I need to re-open the museum.”
“No more objections?” A wry twist to his good-looking mouth.
She paused, one hand on the elevator panel. “Would you listen?”
“Filming for our TV program is on a tight schedule. We want to be done and edited for a Christmas special.”
“Good luck.” It was already early April. He’d be pushing it.
“We’ll make it.” The certainty in his quiet voice spoke of his power. He’d achieved the impossible before. “But you can see why I don’t have time for problems or to scout for a different project.”
“I see, all right.” She could see that if she raised a big enough, time-consuming enough problem, he’d be forced to move on.
It seemed he read her mind. “I don’t play games, Ms. Briers. It’s clear that you like your work here and your very convenient accommodation. You don’t want to jeopardize that.”
He hadn’t moved, he hadn’t shifted an inch. His posture was still relaxed. But the threat was naked.
“Mr. Tawes, a word of advice.” She pressed the elevator button and waited for the doors to open. “Before you threaten a woman, look into her history.” She met his dark eyes and held them. “If you leave via the outside staircase, please, lock it behind you.” She stepped into the elevator, swiveled and faced him, again. “Good-bye.”
A cold shiver slid down Nick’s spine, strong enough to physically shake him. He stared at the closed doors of the elevator. He had threatened Lanie. He hadn’t meant it to sound quite as stark as it had in the cool spring air. But the roar of London traffic wasn’t as loud as the roar of her response.
He was shocked.
Not only had she met his threat with a clash of steel in her own voice, but her uncompromising response had hinted at a past far removed from the quirky, forgotten backwaters of a small Bloomsbury museum.
He stared thoughtfully at the box-like flat. There were red-check curtains at the windows, but no other attempt at softening its ugly lines. No welcome mat at the d
oor, no pot plants or bench seat.
The flat was as self-contained, as private, as its inhabitant.
It represented a challenge. Somehow he’d have to make it part of his design, wrap it into the living story of the garden even as he respected Lanie’s privacy. It would be unfair to her to have the museum’s visitors trying its door handle and looking in the windows.
He winced. He’d hate such an intrusion into his own life.
Aware that he’d acted like a jerk in threatening Lanie for doing exactly what he’d have done in her shoes—defend her private life—he started to measure and draw up the roof space he had to work with.
He took photos, too, of the roofs around him, and the skyline. Vistas were important in all gardens. The trees in the square to the west were coming into leaf and would provide a green backdrop in summer. He thought of the TV program’s filming schedule and determined to include them.
The cold wind invigorated him. Roofs were one of a city’s last wildernesses. Insects, rats, birds and cats all roamed them. Plants found sneaky ways to seed and grow. Lichen and moss covered old tiles. Silted up gutters could support plants. He’d seen trees growing out of them, warped and spindly.
Roof gardens had to respect that precious freedom and the energy of living things, but they also had to meet human needs. Gardens ought to enhance their inhabitants’ lives.
He glanced at the flat and the elevator Lanie Briers had vanished into. He prided himself on improving people’s lives, not creating stress. Her resistance had caught him by surprise, but there was no excuse for him pushing back so hard. He owed her an apology.
Lanie spent the morning on edge. She couldn’t be sure when or if Nick Tawes had left, since the outside staircase gave him independent access to the roof. There were only a handful of visitors, something typical of a Tuesday morning, and they failed to distract her. Two strayed by themselves for twenty minutes before joining five others for her ten o’clock tour. The hour-long tour unrolled effortlessly from memory before she released them all to wander by themselves or, as she advised a pair of Canadian tourists in response to their question, to seek out the café on the corner for elevenses.
She wouldn’t mind a break herself. A strong coffee and a bar of chocolate appealed.
Some museums had rooftop cafes and bars.
Lanie shoved the thought away. Even if she wanted to undertake such a major project, access and regulations wouldn’t allow it. The Horry Museum couldn’t run a café. Certainly not on the roof. She looked upwards. A rooftop garden made no sense. It was a vanity project, the sort of thing that might help Nick with his television program, but despite his selling of the issue, would cause the museum and her more trouble than assistance. He could afford to blithely dismiss television viewers who visited the museum and wanted to see the roof. She’d be the one denying them the opportunity because of access issues. The elevator was meant for home use, not rated for commercial service.
A point she’d make to Mrs. Smith.
Forget Tawes, who’d made his position plain. Arguing with him would be a waste of breath. She needed to convince the owner of the museum and its benevolent dictator to reverse her decision and veto the roof garden.
The trick would be to get hold of Mrs. Smith in the first place. The woman was constantly busy and refused to listen to telephone messages left for her. As for texting…not going to happen.
Lanie sank down, appropriately enough, on the bentwood chair at the telephone table in the hall where she could listen for any problems with the museum visitors. The telephone table, complete with its antique machine, was a compromise. In a genuine wealthy Edwardian house, the new-fangled telephone had had its own room off the hall, constructed for privacy.
Ignoring the brass telephone in front of her, with its patina of age, she called up Mrs. Smith’s number on her modern phone. Occasionally, the different sameness of life separated by a century disconcerted her. Just so would the lady of the Edwardian house have telephoned a friend—or would her butler have done so for her?
Lacking a butler, Lanie tapped Mrs. Smith’s number herself. Simultaneously, the front door’s entrance alert chimed. Lanie sighed and disconnected the call. Visitors first. She slipped the phone into a pocket and rose.
But the new arrival wasn’t a visitor. It was the afternoon’s scheduled volunteer. “Rupa?”
“Good morning, Lanie. I am sorry I am early.” Rupa dithered a step inside the door. She resembled a plump London sparrow, poised for flight. Except the sparrows were confident.
“You’re very welcome at any time.” Only Rupa would apologize for arriving early at a volunteer job. “Do you need to leave early, today?”
“Oh no.” Rupa seemed surprised at the idea. She paused in shedding her coat. It was a serviceable gray wool coat that had no discernible cut or style. It matched her brown jacket worn over a muted blue blouse and black trousers. Her black shoes were sensible low-heeled oxfords. She hung the coat over her arm. “I remembered that you were here alone this morning, and I thought that if I arrived early, you could have a proper lunch; not abandoning it to run after visitors.”
Lanie gave her a quick hug, that Rupa made no effort to return. But Rupa’s stiff body relaxed a fraction. The woman always needed a lot of reassurance. Something Lanie was happy to provide. Honored to. One survivor to another, Lanie respected Rupa’s courage in re-inventing herself. “You are kind.”
“I will put my coat and bag away, and join you.” Rupa headed for the housekeeper’s room beside the kitchen where the museum’s volunteers stored their belongings safely. It was typical of her unassuming personality that although she was the only volunteer to have both a key to the museum and the security codes, she’d never dream of entering by the back door.
A group of four older people walked in, exclaiming at the hall’s appearance and instantly asking each other if it didn’t remind them of “Aunt Cecilia’s old house”.
Lanie smiled and waited for them to acknowledge her. For a lot of the museum’s older visitors, the house brought back memories. She’d grown accustomed to having her tours interrupted by someone recognizing an object as just like one they’d seen somewhere else. Often the memory evoked a story that was shared with the tour group. Stories bound a community together and she encouraged such natural storytellers to write up their memories and share them on the museum’s website.
Rupa returned as Lanie set the new group of four free to explore on their own. They were clearly a family group and well able to amuse themselves. Nonetheless, she stayed in the hallway where they could call on her if needed.
“Lanie.” Rupa sounded very serious. “I have been thinking. There is something missing from the museum.”
“Stolen?” While she was responsible? Oh God, no.
“No, no!” Rupa patted her arm. “No. I am sorry. I expressed myself badly. I meant that the house shows many aspects of the Edwardian era, but not the British Raj, not the Empire.”
Lanie frowned. There were textiles from India, used in the furnishings and costumes, but there were few objects that spoke of the British Empire. She’d already noticed that conspicuously absent from the collection were any military objects; despite the military actions, small and otherwise, with which Britain had defended its colossal reach around the globe. “Do you think we should display some objects in the drawing room? What would we include?”
“I thought.” Rupa inhaled deeply, resolutely. “There are empty bedrooms, rooms that less well-regarded members of the family would have used.”
Lanie nodded.
“Family members like an aged aunt who had spent her adult life out in India, but now, widowed, without children, and trying to survive on an army pension, she has turned to her family in London for assistance, and they have taken her in.” Rupa had evidently given this serious consideration. It was no fleeting idea. “She has brought the treasures of her life in India back with her. Mementos of life there and the people she loved.”
“H
ow clever!” It continued the museum’s practice of arranging collections around a fictional character: the sea captain in the library, the lady of the house in the drawing room, the cook in the kitchen. “So you would set up a bedroom as a mini display of the British Raj?”
“Yes.” Rupa gripped her hands together, her well-kept fingernails losing color as the pressure she exerted cut blood flow to them. “If you think Mrs. Smith would approve?”
“I’m sure she will. I’m hoping to see her, tonight, actually.” Lanie’s stomach dipped as she realized that while she’d enthusiastically push for Rupa’s project, she wanted to stop Nick’s. Squashing people’s dreams—even commercial television dreams—was not her style.
“That would be good.” Rupa smiled tightly, nervous but happy. Enthusiastic. She actually clapped her hands once. “And please tell Mrs. Smith who is so generous that the room will be my pleasure to furnish. I will buy the exhibit items.”
“Rupa!”
“Yes, yes. I am not planning to display anything expensive. Small things such as turn up at auctions and on street stalls. I will buy wisely and it will be fun.” Her eyebrows rose, almost as if in shock at her own words. Then her smile relaxed into something both rueful and fond. Her brown eyes glowed with quiet happiness. “My husband and children are all pleased at the idea. They think it is a good hobby and…” in a sudden rush of words. “They are relieved that I am so happy now. My husband blesses the museum that I have found something to do, somewhere to belong, after the strangeness of moving to London. Ali has given me two thousand pounds to spend on the Raj Room.”
Lanie blinked. Two thousand pounds! But she was wise enough to appreciate that the money meant less than what it represented. Rupa’s was reaching out to life, and her family couldn’t be happier. She clasped the older woman’s hand and squeezed. “I’ll get Mrs. Smith’s approval.”
“For what?”
Lanie spun around.
Sky Garden Page 3
