“Wouldn't surprise me at all, given the state of things, but where did you hear that?” asked Paul sharply.
“Desmond Black,” said Sam a little guiltily. She knew how quickly rumours spread and wanted Desmond to be wrong, but she had her own business to run, after all. And for this demanding client, she was particularly anxious. “Look, I haven't said anything to anyone else, and I won't, but I'd quite like to double check, please.”
With more comments promising dire outcomes, Paul rang off. Sam caught a glimpse of movement from the house and her stomach lurched.
“I wonder if the Lord of the Manor will deign to speak to the plebs today?” she muttered to herself.
She pressed her fingers against her forehead. The temperature was rising rapidly, and she could feel a headache threatening. She reached into the Land Rover and took a swig of water, the bottle already tepid.
Half an hour later, the delivery wagon drew up in the drive with a spray of gravel.
It took only a few minutes watching Andy's body language and gesticulating hands to realise something was wrong. She walked quickly up to the wagon and its sulky driver, who she didn’t recognise.
“Hi,” she said briefly. “What's up?”
“They've brought the wrong stone,” Andy said, crossly. Sam looked, and indeed, the stone slabs were definitely wrong—wrong size, wrong shape, wrong stone.
“Go back with him and sort out the right stone. Tell your boss,” Sam turned to the driver, “this will put us back a good half day, maybe more. We were very clear about the order, it needed to arrive today because of our schedule. I'm not happy. In fact, don't you bother telling him, I'll tell him when I phone.” She paused, and the driver simply looked at her. “What are you waiting for? Get going!” she said sharply and then turned away.
“Come on, we've got stuff to sort out,” Andy grabbed the driver’s arm as he began to bluster and was marching him back to the cab when Sam's phone rang. She looked at it, saw it was Paul and her stomach turned over with a very bad feeling.
“Sam? You were right. They're about to call in the receivers. They suggested you get over there to get as much of the order as you can before the banks arrive,” came Paul's lugubrious tones. “It won't be complete, but you'll have something to be getting on with.”
Sam closed her eyes. Her lovely schedule, all gone to pot, not to mention the future wrangling over the money…Thank God she'd built in a few days. She called out to Andy.
“Hang on—there are problems with the plant order. Steve, you'll need to head over to Johnson's to get what there is available of our order today, and the rest we'll sort out later. Take the Land Rover, then meet with Andy at the aggregates site to pick him up. Stay in contact by phone.” She tossed him the car keys.
“What will you do here?” Andy asked, climbing into the passenger seat of the wagon.
“Given we're going to have a lot of bedding plants which we weren't expecting until next week, I think I'd better prepare some temporary beds and keep the client reassured, don't you?” Andy flinched in surprise and his eyes narrowed.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to growl at you. I'm hot and it's going to be one of those days, isn't it?” She smiled at him ruefully.
“No problem, we'll sort it out. Won't we Barry?” Andy said to the driver of the wagon, who muttered something inaudible. He threw the wagon into gear and it lurched off.
“Anything else I should know?” asked Steve, getting behind the wheel of the Land Rover.
“Ask for Tony. He and my dad went back years... Be kind, after all, his business has just gone down the pan, but don't take no for an answer about our order. I've spent fifteen hundred quid with him, and I want at least some of it here before the bastard banks move in.”
“Got it.” Steve drove off, leaving her standing in the middle of the drive, feeling rather tearful.
Shit. There but for the grace of God...
“Hiya! Fancy a coffee?” came Magda's cheery voice from the patio door. This morning she was wearing tennis whites. Sam fixed a smile onto her face.
“That would be lovely,” she managed, starting to walk towards the house.
“All alone today?” Magda asked.
“We've got to sort out a couple of suppliers. Hopefully Andy and Steve will be back before lunch.” Sam undid her boots at the patio door.
“Problems with suppliers?” said the one voice she didn't want to hear.
“Well, a mistake with the stone order—it should be easily sorted, but it's robbed us of the morning, which is irritating.”
Sam straightened and looked Jonas in the face. He looked relaxed and casual in blue jeans and a white tee-shirt.
“You look pale. Is everything else ok?” Jonas said, looking closely at her. She forced a smile.
“Just busy,” was all she said, walking into the kitchen. “And it's so hot,” she added, fleeing to that safest of topics, the weather.
“I know—I’m playing tennis with Lisbeth and I'm beginning to wish we hadn't made the arrangements! I'll be nothing but a grease spot at the end of a couple of games!” Magda put in, spooning coffee into the cafetière.
Conversation was a little strained—Magda wanted to know what they would be working on today, and Sam was evasive. Jonas was quiet, and she felt his eyes on her face as she and Magda talked. It made her skin tingle.
It was with some relief she heard the doorbell ring announcing the arrival of Lisbeth. A brief hello, a hug, and the two girls left for the local courts.
“I must get on too,” Sam said, finishing her coffee and easing off the kitchen stool.
Jonas said nothing as she bent to lace up her boots. When she stood up, he was nearer than she realised, and she stepped back hastily, nearly falling over the patio step. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, steadying her.
“I didn't realise you were so close,” she said, her tension making her a little sharp. His hand dropped immediately.
“Sorry.”
She took a deep breath in, and saw his eyes drop to her breasts as they strained the buttons of her shirt. She flushed and almost ran out of the house.
Jonas cursed inwardly, putting the crossword aside impatiently. He couldn't think, the house was too quiet, he was too restless, and it was just too bloody hot.
He glanced at the clock. Nearly twelve. He rose and stretched, feeling the faded blue denim pull against his thighs.
He could see Sam digging in one of the beds, alone. He peered at the sky, which had turned from a rococo blue to a slate grey. The birds seemed to have stopped singing, and the air was heavy, still.
Sam had paused in her digging. From here she suddenly looked exhausted. She must be dehydrating in this heat, he thought, and he walked to the kitchen to get her a cold drink. He was aware they'd barely spoken in the last few weeks, and he'd been like a bear with a sore head. Adding ice to the water, he grimaced.
It wasn’t a sore head that was the problem, he admitted wryly.
He heard the rumble of thunder. Seconds later, the heavy thud of raindrops sounded on the skylight in the kitchen. God, it sounded like a real downpour.
Across the patio, he saw Sam gathering her tools and making her way across to the ash tree for some shelter, he guessed. He called to her, but his voice was lost in another roll of thunder.
She dropped the tools under the tree and dragged a tarpaulin over them. She needs to get indoors, thought Jonas.
“Sam! Over here!” he shouted from the patio door. He saw her look over and hesitate. “Come on!” he called. “You'll be drenched out there!”
She looked at him for a couple of seconds and then was running over the grass, slipping a little as the rain soaked the ground. Jonas opened both doors and she arrived, panting, fumbling on the doorstep with her bootlaces.
“Don't worry about them, come in!”
“You won't thank me for getting mud all over your carpet!” she said sharply, as she kicked them off and left them by the door on the mat.
/> Face to face without her boots, she was shorter than he remembered. Her hair was plastered to her head, and her tee-shirt to her back. Her khaki shorts slapped against her legs. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought she'd thrown herself into a pool of water.
“I'll get you a towel,” he said and turned away. Returning a couple of minutes later, he found her still standing where he'd left her, looking thoroughly miserable and starting to shake with cold.
“Here,” he thrust the towel at her.
“Thanks.”
“I'll get you a drink—you look frozen.”
“Th-thanks.”
He glanced sharply at her as he heard the tremor in her voice. She looked upset, he thought.
His mind was a careful blank as he made the coffee. Wet clothes, the two of them alone in the house—it was the worst cliché from a porn movie.
Sam trailed into the kitchen, rubbing her hair. She paused and draped the towel over her shoulders, and hitched her hip onto the tall kitchen stool, cupping her hands around the coffee he placed in front of her. She let out a juddering sigh before taking a drink.
“Are you ok? Not hurt?”
She shook her head.
The rain drummed on the skylight and she looked at it, her mouth twisting. “Looks like we'd have been stuffed getting the paving done today anyway.”
“No, you could never lay it in this weather.”
There was a silence as she sipped her coffee. She stretched her leg. He saw the damp fabric rubbing against the skin of her thigh. His eyes were riveted to it.
“I'll have to go home to get changed,” she said finally.
There was another pause before he said hesitantly, “We have a tumble drier. It would take about thirty minutes to dry your stuff, I imagine. I could lend you a dressing gown.”
She flushed. “Erm...” She looked at him and trailed off. The silence stretched on.
“Yes, you're right,” he said as she didn't finish her sentence. “It probably wouldn't be a good idea.”
She looked at him, a full, honest look, he thought. “No. It probably wouldn't,” she said softly.
“No.”
Silence.
She gripped her mug so tight he could see her knuckles turn white. He hardly dared to breathe, fearing to disturb the tension in the room swirling around them. And then Sam's phone rang, making them both jump.
“Andy? Hi. What's happened? I see... OK, are you on your way back then? No, it started chucking it down, so I'm sitting in Mr Keane's kitchen, very damp... Yes, I will. OK, see you later.” She finished the call.
“I wonder,” she said hesitantly. “Could you give me a lift home? The boys won't be back for another hour and I'll catch my death if I don't change soon.”
“Of course.”
What kind of madness was THAT? Sam wondered during the generally silent drive.
“Just here,” she said, indicating her cottage. He pulled smoothly into it and turned off the engine. The rain continued to slash against the windows.
“I'll sit here and wait for you, shall I?”
She paused. “No, of course not. Come and wait in the lounge, I won't be two minutes.”
They made a dash for the front door, and naturally, as the wood had swollen in the rain, she had to put her shoulder to it.
“Ooof! I need to get that fixed sometime...” she gasped as she tumbled through into the hall. “Take a seat, I'll be with you in just a sec.”
She took the stairs two at a time, pulling off her damp and chilly tee-shirt almost before she was out of sight.
She was listening hard as she rifled in drawers, grabbing fresh clothes. There was silence from her lounge, which was a bit unnerving. As she pushed her khakis down her legs, she called out.
“This is really kind of you, you know. I'd have caught pneumonia without a change of clothes!”
“No problem,” his voice floated up the stairs to her. “You have a lovely cottage.”
“Thanks. It's late eighteenth century, so it has its peculiarities—uneven floors, low ceilings in some bits—and so much planning red tape you can barely change a tap without getting permission.” His low-pitched chuckle licked along her veins.
“God, get a grip, woman!” she muttered to herself as she shoved her tee-shirt into a fresh pair of jeans.
He was scrutinising her bookshelves when she clattered down the stairs.
“You have an interesting selection,” he commented, without apologising for looking at them. She looked at him steadily and then sat down on the sofa to pull on her socks.
“How is it interesting?”
“Huxley, Iain Banks, and also Mrs Gaskill—quite mixed.” He didn’t mention the Labour Party newsletter which blazed red and garish on the coffee table.
“I have wide tastes. And left wing, obviously,” she said, her voice muffled as she wrestled with her socks.
“Well, I gathered that at dinner. Do you and your brother-in-law see eye to eye on anything?”
“Not much, no.” Sam stood up.
“That must make family life a bit trying.”
“We manage. Just.”
“Must be stressful, keeping it civil.”
“It is. I'm a heart-on-my-sleeve sort of lass, me,” she said brightly, and unthinkingly.
His eyebrows tweaked.
She watched warily as he walked towards her. Too close. She could smell him, a faint, spicy scent. She rammed her hands into her pockets to stop her doing anything stupid with them. Like reaching for him.
“Shall we brave the weather?” He was quite still, watching her closely.
“I think we should.” Her voice was a little rough, like she'd been shouting.
He strode to the door.
20
Sam couldn't believe her eyes. Her hand clenched in fury around the letter with its Parliamentary logo.
“Thank you for the interest you have shown in my constituency, but I regret I am unable to help. Responsibility for planning applications is entirely the remit of the local planning committee and any involvement from the local MP—no matter how well-intentioned—would be interference.
I am aware of the fledgling tourist industry in the area, and am a strong proponent of its importance to the local economy—last year, for example, figures from the Department of Culture, Media and Sport estimated that visitors to the UK spent more than £21billion. So I am keen to encourage expansion in the area, but to do this requires homes for the hard-working people who service this growth. This development will go some way towards alleviating the housing shortage which exists in my constituency and although it may cause temporary inconvenience to the local population, it will reap benefits in the long term.”
It was signed Fraser McAllen, MP.
“Patronising, smug git!” she hissed through clenched teeth. “‘temporary inconvenience’? And what a complete waste of public money to bloody write to me! I knew what he thought after I'd seen him!”
Sam crumpled the letter and flung it onto the other side of the room. She paced the floor for a minute or two, muttering. She walked across the room and picked up the ball of paper and noticed it had been copied into the Leader of the Local Council and the Chief Planning Officer.
“Oooh!” she exclaimed and started pacing again. The timing was disastrous, only a fortnight before the local committee met.
After a few minutes, she knew she'd need to get out of the cottage before she broke something and snatching up the letter, her car keys and sunglasses, she strode out.
As it was a Saturday, Fraser would be home. She rang the bell.
“Hi Sam!” said Lisbeth, looking surprised. “Is anything wrong?”
“I just need a word with your Dad—is he in?”
“In the garden with mum. Are you all right? You look knackered.”
Sam didn’t answer but strode off. She caught sight of them in deckchairs in the shade of the oak tree.
“Sam! To what do we owe the pleasure?” asked Charlie, s
urprised.
“I need to talk to Fraser,” she gritted, feeling even crosser as Fraser looked smug.
“Why so het up, sister dear?”
“This letter.” She took the crumpled sheet from her pocket. “Tell me, was it completely necessary to send this to me?”
“You came to me on a constituency matter.”
“I came to you to ask for your support as family,” she said. “I didn't expect a formal response, and I certainly didn't expect a formal response which made your 'unofficial' position so clear to the local authorities!”
“Had I supported your view, you'd want me to act officially, wouldn't you?” Fraser lips tightened.
“Had you indicated you would support us, the group would have written to you officially! I thought my visit was a private chat!”
He shrugged.
“And I imagine that in getting all your bloody paperwork in order, you had no idea your unofficial view would sway the local authorities, did you?” she burst out. “But that's exactly what copying in the leader of the council and the local planning officer will do!”
He took a swig of his drink.
“Sam, I'm sure Fraser didn't mean—”
“Oh, for God's sake, Charlie! Of course he bloody meant it! It's what he does, politicking! He's a career politician! Too busy focusing on the next post in the Cabinet to care much about what happens locally, normally!” She drew breath. “Except you made a special exception for the cause I support, didn't you?”
Fraser got up. “Samantha, you always did suffer from too much self-importance,” he said. “It's appropriate for me to copy in the relevant parties in cases like this.”
“If I'd approached you through your constituency office, maybe, but I didn't! There was no need to send me anything official, but now of course, your paperwork is nice and neat, and you've potentially tipped the balance in the favour of the development. You're a complete arse, Fraser.”
The Garden Plot Page 18