Sky Garden

by Jenny Schwartz

  Yes. Her mouth was dry. Speeding down a motorway was a weird place and time to have an epiphany and to commit one hundred percent once more to embracing life. But she did. She answered obliquely. “I wouldn’t want to lose the roof garden.”

  “You won’t.” A promise. The car accelerated.

  Lanie settled back in the passenger seat, emotionally spent. Fine tremors coursed through her.

  It wasn’t freeing to re-tell her story. The counselling wisdom that said speaking of your demons lessened their power didn’t work for her. But she was conscious of having cut down a monster of her subconscious. Even when she’d assumed Nick knew her story, she’d known they’d have to talk about it one day.

  Now, that day was done. Her tremors lessened. Her mind went heavenly blank, abandoning the churning thoughts and worries that so often occupied it. She was content to simply sit beside Nick, to be with him.

  She wasn’t even aware of her silence until they entered London. Then the changing landscape pulled her out of her thoughts, and she realized that Nick, too, had been silent.

  Abruptly, she shivered and rubbed at her bare arms, cold despite the warmth of the luxury car.

  Then she went colder still that Nick didn’t notice her shiver or that she was mentally present again, her attention on him.

  He’d withdrawn.

  It is busy traffic. She tried to marshal reason and logic. The traffic was sufficient to require his attention. She wouldn’t want to drive in it. But he was a good driver. His enjoyment of the car had been obvious on the journey down. He didn’t need to give all his attention to the road.

  If he’d been giving her space after her confession, and silently waiting for her to make the next move, wouldn’t he notice her now? She should say something.

  What?

  She could drive herself crazy, over-thinking things.

  She couldn’t stop thinking.

  In her lap, her fingers twisted and pulled at one another.

  A dispassionate, tiny section of her brain dryly offered a smidgeon of rationality, asking if this was the confessor’s remorse that so many of the people who’d confided in her often went on to display. Had they suffered this powerless sense of suspense, waiting awkwardly to be judged and found wanting as they regretted their confidences? Were those feelings why they’d avoided her?

  But she didn’t regret telling Nick, nor was she avoiding him. She was right here, beside him.

  She brooded. What if her story had been too much for Nick? He was a man without a home, who’d rejected the ties of family and Waterhill, why would he get involved with a woman with as much baggage as she carried?

  And his family was wealthy, so wealthy, mind-bogglingly wealthy. He could do so much better than her.

  She picked up the pretty, white handbag that leaned against her feet and clutched it on her lap.

  Finally, Nick noticed her. “Lanie?”

  Too late.

  She didn’t want to hear his excuses or his lame attempts to extricate himself from her and her improbable, notorious past. Panic was so much more than physical symptoms. Hysteria wound her thoughts into a desperate crescendo of despair. She’d lost Nick. Her history was too much for any normal man.

  “Lanie, do you think—”

  She was past thinking. Bloomsbury closed around her, offering escape as traffic stalled. She was more familiar with walking its streets than driving through them, and that would work for her. “I’ll get out, here.” She unbuckled her seatbelt. “No point you trying to find a parking spot.”

  “What? Why? The museum’s two streets over.”

  “Closer by foot than car, and parking’s murder.” She cracked open the door, “murder” echoing in her head. She scrambled out.

  “Lanie.” Frustration roughened his voice. He glanced from her to the road. The demands of London traffic meant he had to go on.

  She’d calculated on that. She saw him glance in the rear view mirror as he pulled away; knew that he watched her.

  Good-bye.

  A cool wind shivered the leaves of the plane trees in the square. Clouds scudded across the sky. She hitched her handbag higher on her shoulder and started walking. She didn’t have a destination in mind; only, not the flat.

  She ended up at the British Library, standing in its vastness, alone among the tourists and scholars. The anonymity of it had reassured her through the last year, but today, the magic failed. She sat on a chair and stared blankly at her feet.

  Tiredness ran through her veins. Her panic died away for lack of energy. Too much emotion had exhausted her: her story and Nick’s; Chloe’s aching worry for him; and, Richard’s quiet, desperate devotion to his wife. So much heartache had hollowed her out.

  Chapter 11

  The Horry Museum’s door stood open. It would close soon, but for now it still welcomed weekend visitors. A few stood on the steps, obviously planning their next activity.

  Lanie slipped past them, experiencing the strangeness of appearing just another visitor. She entered the hall and confronted a butler. Despite her weary despair, she giggled. Most Edwardian houses had not included butlers with spiky rainbow hair. “Hi, Colin.”

  “Good afternoon, madam.” He stayed in character. He was an accountant and a frustrated actor. He’d been rostered on to help in the afternoon, and had clearly been giving it his all.

  “How many tourists have taken your photo?”

  He grinned. “All of them.”

  Rupa hurried in from the library. “Lanie! You’re back.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Not on Rupa’s watch.” Colin gave the older woman a one-armed hug.

  She looked a little shocked at the hug, but smiled. “All the volunteers have stepped up. Did you enjoy your day with Nick?”

  “Oooh,” was Colin’s wicked addition.

  Lanie would usually have relaxed into the teasing, but today, that was impossible. Her hands tightened on her handbag.

  Colin’s smile vanished. “Never mind, Lanie. You go and have a drink or something, we’ve got the museum covered. I’ll help Rupa with closing up.”

  “We’ll manage.” Rupa patted Lanie’s arm.

  All of which confirmed for Lanie that the cracks were showing. “Thanks.” She’d be brave, tomorrow.

  On the roof, stepping out of the elevator, she shivered as the wind caught her skirt and hair and whipped both around her. Then she froze.

  Because Nick was there, uncoiling from a seat on the bench. He closed the distance between them. “You can’t tell me your story and run.”

  She put a hand on his chest, felt the warmth of him through the cotton shirt. He was here. Every barrier she’d put up out of panic, fear and loss, shattered. She stretched up.

  His mouth came down on hers as his arms locked her to him.

  It wasn’t foreplay. This wasn’t teasing towards sex. Nor was it passion, at least, not of the sexual kind. Their kiss was fierce and demanding, both of them claiming something they’d thought lost. Or thought they’d never have.

  She broke the kiss and leaned against him, breathing in his scent as she struggled to control her body’s frantic response. She hadn’t dreamed that he’d be here, and now that he was, she could judge just how much she’d lost hope. “I used to be an optimist.”

  “Pardon?”

  His hand, running up and down her back, stilled.

  She’d mumbled into his throat. Which meant she had a chance to rethink her words and to recall them if she lacked courage. She pulled back enough to look him in the eye, and repeated. “I used to be an optimist.”

  “And now?”

  “You’re the first time since…that I’ve let myself want something deeply. I thought that you couldn’t handle my past. I just leapt to the worst conclusion without giving you time to respond.” She stepped back, taking her own weight. “I don’t want to be that person, frightened, pessimistic.” She shivered, again.

  “You need to go in, out of the cold.”

&nb
sp; She nodded. “You, too?”

  He crouched, picking up the keys she’d dropped. “Yes.” He unlocked the door of the flat and pushed it wide, letting her enter first.

  The first thing she saw was her bed. Since no one ever visited, she never drew the enclosing curtain that gave it privacy. She never even noticed the bed was there. It was narrow and practical and had come with the flat. She’d brightened it with a sunset-pink satin quilt.

  Nick stopped right behind her, his body touching hers all down her back. “Not tonight, Josephine,” he said in her ear.

  She laughed and the world re-started.

  He’d gotten it exactly right: the promise that she was wanted, but no pressure. The passion was there, warming her, but the day had already held too many firsts for them. When they discovered each other in bed, it shouldn’t be burdened with the heavy emotions of their pasts; pasts that were too alive.

  Nick felt the tension drain out of Lanie.

  She spun in his arms, drawing him into her laughter at his old joke. She might speak of losing her optimism, but it was there, so close to the surface. She was so ready to see the good in a situation and in people.

  He smiled down at her, pleased that he’d said what she needed to hear. But he had to force himself not to look at the bed. It wasn’t a hedonist’s bed, but he could imagine Lanie against the bright pink satin, and the smooth tease of it as they made love.

  The kiss outside the door had sparked a primitive desire to take even more. When she’d gotten out of the car, just slipped away, he’d burned with frustration, and at the same time, felt a cold twist of dread.

  He and Lanie were complicated, but sometimes complicated worked.

  “So, if we’re not going to have sex,” she teased. “And I’m sick of talking, what should we do?”

  “There’s a rooftop bar I want you to see.”

  Her eyes widened. Obviously, she hadn’t expected him to have an answer.

  “You’ll need to change. Jeans are best. It’s situated on the top of an old warehouse in Hackney Wick, so the cold comes off the canal.”

  “Okay.” A bit bemused.

  He kissed her. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let her go. “It’ll be a mood changer. I’ll check the plants while you change.”

  “Thanks.” Her wry smile acknowledge the privacy challenges in the small flat.

  He preferred being outside to wait, anyway. The cool wind felt good. He’d checked out the state of the roof garden while waiting for Lanie to return, so now he wandered over towards the pigeon cote on the adjacent roof.

  It was interesting how life drew attention. He could have waited anywhere, but he chose to be near the birds.

  What he hadn’t realized was that the birds’ owner had arrived during the short time Nick and Lanie were inside the flat.

  An elderly man backed out of the cote, turned and observed Nick without surprise. He was tall and thin, painfully erect, extremely tidy. “Good evening.”

  There were overtones in the simple greeting, an echo of something Nick couldn’t identify. “Hello. I’m Nick Tawes.”

  “Kevin Marshall.” At a stretch they could shake hands across their adjoining roofs, but Marshall just nodded.

  That worked for Nick. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He had no great interest in being polite. Most of his thoughts were with Lanie. “I’m installing the roof garden here. What do you think of it?”

  “Very photogenic.”

  Nick grinned. The disdain was neatly conveyed. Nelson had asked permission to film the pigeons as part of the television program, and been refused. “I gather you’re a more practical man.” He nodded at the pigeon cote.

  Marshall snorted. “They’re not practical, but once a man gets hooked on a hobby…I reckon those birds might have saved my sanity.” A penetrating inspection, followed by a nod. “Lanie didn’t tell you. She’s one who respects people’s privacy. That comes with knowing too many secrets.”

  Before Nick could come to terms with that comment, Marshall continued.

  “I’m an ex-copper. Detective-Inspector.”

  Well, that explained the overtones to “Good evening.” Nick had been subconsciously waiting for the heavy official thud of “sir” at the end. Suspicion and a watching brief.

  But what was he watching for? Nick focused on Marshall, and it was as if the old man read his mind.

  “I know Lanie’s story.” Marshall scooped bird feed out of a tin. The pigeons fluttered and cooed, bobbed and paraded their enthusiasm.

  At least Nick knew Lanie’s story now, too. Otherwise he wouldn’t have understood the fierce scrutiny in the hollow, wrinkled face opposite him. Or the promise there. The old man kept an eye on Lanie.

  Nick contemplated the support network Lanie had developed. She had the museum’s owner and volunteers looking out for her, and apparently, its neighbors, too. Yet she didn’t broadcast vulnerability. It wasn’t pity that caused people to care. It was Lanie, herself.

  As much as she tried to hide, her compassion came through. People responded to her genuine care.

  Chloe had.

  Marshall latched the pigeon cote. “I still have connections on the force. My daughter and one of my sons followed in my footsteps. My daughter’s a detective-sergeant. They’re keeping an ear out for—” He broke off, focusing on some activity behind Nick. “Evening, Lanie.”

  “Hi, Marshall.” She looked casual and effortlessly gorgeous in jeans and a long pine-green cardigan over a white top.

  Nick preferred her like that, real and touchable, rather than dressed in her 1950s clothing. Although now he comprehended why she might want to hide in a fantasy of the past. His fists clenched and he was glad he had his hands in his pockets.

  There’d been time enough, waiting for her to return to the flat, for him to look up her past. The story of her kidnapping by Purvis was chilling. But the case had closed with Purvis’s death during the kidnapping, so what was an ex-detective-inspector keeping an ear out for? That was very different to keeping an eye on Lanie, and Nick didn’t think Marshall was the kind of man who misspoke.

  Tabling the puzzle, Nick took two paces and put an arm around Lanie’s waist. “You look gorgeous. Casual chic.” He hoped his actions looked casual, and didn’t show the intense protective urge that shot through him. Lanie was scared that he’d act weird once he knew her story, so he couldn’t let loose his inner caveman.

  She didn’t appear to notice anything out of the ordinary in his action. Instead, she shifted closer with a tiny cuddling movement.

  Marshall noticed, though. The old man nodded and held Nick’s gaze. You’ll watch out for her, he said without words.

  Nick nodded. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Marshall.”

  “Just Marshall. Have fun, kids.” He turned away, heading for the outside stairs on the building.

  “Do you mind if we take the stairs, too?” Lanie asked.

  That was the problem with metaphorically “living above the shop”. Everyone took an interest in Lanie’s doings. The museum ought to be closed by now, but some of the volunteers might have lingered.

  “No problem.” Nick pulled keys out of his pocket. “The outside staircase is how I climbed up.”

  The Hackney Wick warehouse was red brick, begrimed and apparently empty. It was a bit of an eyesore if Lanie was honest. On either side of it, the other buildings had already been gentrified, and appeared smugly aware of their higher status.

  “They’re still renovating,” Nick said. “The idea is to house a mix of flats and artist studios.”

  “Will that work?”

  “If the artists can sell enough to cover the rent. Otherwise I expect office workers will move in. Either way, a rooftop bar should survive.”

  They walked inside, along a corridor defined by temporary panels, and brashly painted with arrows and messages advising people to take the lift to “beer, music, beer, art, beer, conversation, and, beer”.

  Nick saw her reading the graffiti. “Simon, who
runs this place, is a craft brewer. He’s selling his own product, but his partner, Freya, is the chef and she’s good.” He punched a button and a monster warehouse lift opened its doors. Its cage walls meant that standing inside, you could still see out.

  Or rather, you could see out in daylight, but the early cloudy evening and obstructions from the renovation project blocked most of what light might otherwise filter in the dirty windows of the warehouse.

  After the industrial, construction site dinginess, arriving at the rooftop garden was a shock. Lanie stared around, then at Nick. “Did you design this?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love it.” She was beginning to fathom that for Nick, a garden went way beyond plants, and this rooftop showcased that vision. It was about framing vistas, letting in light and shutting out wind, creating spaces that encouraged conversation—or, in other situations, contemplation and quiet.

  For the warehouse rooftop, he’d used reclaimed materials, possibly to save his friends money, but also in respect of the building’s history.

  It clearly worked for the bar’s customers. Most were in their late twenties and thirties, and many appeared self-consciously arty. A few of those would be genuine artists, people who knew that their work sold on reputation nearly as much as its intrinsic worth. But most were people spending their leisure time dreaming of living someone else’s life. Wannabes and poseurs were cruel titles, dismissive and, in a sense, untrue. They were people looking for a place in the world and a way to be recognized as just a little bit special.

  Fairy lights were strung along the top of a ceiling-high railing that sketched out a rectangular dining area and gave it definition. Within that area, planter boxes repeated the rectangular warehouse vibe, but were filled with very un-warehousey herbs that softened and flowed across the rigid lines.

  The roof was flat on this side, butting in at right angles to the higher part when the lift exited. In effect, the rooftop bar occupied half the roof, and was sheltered by the angled other half.

  “Nick!” A short, balding, blond guy saw them and wove through the round wooden tables and straight-backed chairs to greet them. He wore a gray t-shirt stretched tight over obviously gym-toned muscles.