The Garden Plot

by Sara Sartagne

  “What? He’s not canonised, too?”

  This time, Amanda was silenced.

  “Look Amanda, I’m just glad this all came to light before I made a real idi- idiot of myself. I’ve finished the garden and frankly, if I never see him again, it will be too soon...”

  “Famous last words, sweetie. OK, I’ll tell Desmond and Mrs Pratchett they’re carrying the can and let you know how it goes. Take care—call me if you need a shoulder to sob on!”

  Before Sam could swear at her, Amanda finished the call.

  26

  Jonas took off the lapel microphone and handed it to Claudia, the press officer, dimly aware that he was pleased with the interview. Only part of him was concentrating. He couldn't seem to wipe the memory of Sam’s face, hurt and pale, from his mind.

  “...And tomorrow you're on Financial News at six-thirty,” Claudia was saying, the latest of a long, long list of interviews which seemed to have materialised in the past week. Stephanie, his finance director was also doing the media rounds, Neil was talking to their major suppliers, and Bernard, the Chairman, was briefing selected market analysts. It was an impressive team effort, a part of his brain noted.

  Claudia was talking about briefing notes. At this rate it would be the end of next week before he could try to contact Sam.

  “Jonas?” his press officer prompted him sharply. Jonas focused.

  “Yes, fine—is the presenter Moynihan?” Jonas had been interviewed by Tom Moynihan before and he wasn't relishing the prospect. They didn't call him Mauler Moynihan for nothing.

  “Yes. You'll need to be on your game,” Claudia said crisply. “I've got a car picking you up at five to take you to the studios. Wear something sombre.”

  Like a funeral, thought Jonas.

  In the car, reading the same page for the third time without understanding it, he threw down the notes. He stared out of the window for a few minutes, watching the streetlights flash past, his mind blank. He reached for his phone and dialled Sam’s number.

  “Sam, it’s me. I wanted to say I'm sorry. Again.” he said to the answering machine. “I don't want you to think I deliberately set out to deceive you—I didn't. Circumstances...well, circumstances just overtook me. I hope when you've got over your sense of betrayal, you'll talk to me again and we can sort it out. Because I thought…I thought we might have had something very special.”

  He disconnected the phone and looked at the brake lights of the cars on the dark road.

  He started to read the notes again.

  Lisbeth looked rather glumly at the unanswered texts she’d sent to Sam. Without speaking, she passed the phone to Magda.

  “She’s not talking to me.”

  “But you’re, like, her family! Surely she’ll respond to you?”

  “Pah. I wouldn’t believe everything you see in the Disney films,” Lisbeth said, thinking about the rift between her father and Sam, and now it seemed, between Sam and her.

  Magda sighed.

  “Mind you, I can’t blame Sam for being mad at Dad—God, I was furious when I found out about Jessops Field!”

  “What did your Dad say? Like, how did he explain?”

  Magda shrugged.

  “He told me he wasn’t sure about some guy from Anglo Homes and this coincided with Brook Lodge coming up for sale. It seemed too good an opportunity. He said.”

  Lisbeth looked up.

  “You still mad?”

  “Well...yeah, actually. I feel sort of used. I don’t know. He did want to keep it quiet that he was away from the company.”

  “Reasonable, I suppose?”

  “Suppose...”

  “Do you think Aunty Sam and your Dad will get together now?” Lisbeth tried to stay neutral.

  “It was such a good idea...”

  “But let’s face it—Aunty Sam opposed his development, and she was asking his advice, but he didn’t tell her who he was! I bet Aunty Sam just thinks he’s an arse, now.”

  “He’s not an arse! He’s a businessman trying to do the best he can for his company!”

  “Did you see her face last week? I think she’ll take some convincing! And he might think she’s just a trouble-maker now!”

  Magda was silent and to Lisbeth’s horror, she saw tears in in the green eyes. She retreated rapidly.

  “Look, everyone’s still mad—Aunty Sam won’t take my calls, your Dad’s off round Europe doing telly interviews and trying to, like, sort out the company. Why don’t we wait a bit until everyone’s calmed down?”

  Magda looked up.

  “I was going to sort of ‘launch’ the garden but what with everything... yeah, perhaps in a while? And Andy said something about Sam wanting to enter the garden in a competition. That might be one thing to get them talking,” she said, her brow furrowed.

  “We need to chill,” Lisbeth repeated. “And give things time to settle.”

  “Yeah, Dad'll be worried about the company,” Magda said. “Halcyon employs loads of people and he’ll want to make sure no-one tries to take it over.”

  “So he's going to be very busy anyway?”

  “Mmm. And he’s gone back to bloody work before the doctors said he should.” Magda was gloomy. Then, with effort she added, “It'll blow over. Another company will have a scandal and move ours off the front page...”

  “Fingers crossed.”

  The changes to the development plan were all over the local press. As were photos of Desmond, looking proud, and Jonas, looking enigmatic. Enigmatic but tired, Sam noted with bitter satisfaction

  She wrinkled her nose. There were changes to the plans—but nothing, in her view, that merited this level of fanfare, given that it was so wrong to build so near to the beauty spot in the first place. The houses which would have encroached on the Green Belt had been moved back and the link road no longer cut across the fields. There were complaints from those who thought the price of the houses would go up. The rest of the site was as it had been, despite Desmond’s proclamation of the “triumph of the democratic will of the people”.

  “Bloody spin!” Sam muttered, throwing aside the paper. She turned to her computer. She looked again at the email from the Labour Party campaign office, gently turning down her suggestion that they support an appeal. When she’d called a few of the local politicians, one of the Labour councillors had even sneered at her and accused her of simply protecting her privilege. She had been flabbergasted. Privilege?

  “In our view, the homes are badly needed in the area and the development will bring employment which is also below the country average…Halcyon is a developer well-known to us for its sympathetic design…” Her lips twisted at the suggestion that she might care slightly less for the countryside, and slightly more for the local economy and jobs, and she wondered if the unemployment figures they quoted were accurate. Hissing between her teeth, she deleted the email and stomped to get tea from the little kitchen at the side of her office. Andy and Paul were discussing invoicing and the conversation faltered when she emerged with her mug.

  “Problem?” she asked, aware her voice was sharper than normal.

  “No. No problems,” Andy said before Paul could draw breath. “How’s the design for the Linwoods coming?”

  “Getting there,” she replied and went back to her desk. She looked across at the blank paper on her drawing board. She sighed and looked at the photos of the house and again at the brief, which wanted an ultra-modern garden. She waited, but inspiration wasn’t playing today.

  Sam grabbed her sunglasses and her phone and headed for the door. Paul looked up, startled.

  “I’ll be back in a bit. I need some air.”

  She headed to Jessop’s Field, aware even as she did so that her usual sense of peace was tangled with the memories of the conversation and the kisses she had shared with Jonas. She gritted her teeth as she looked at the curves of the landscape, wondering if this too, was another thing ruined by bloody Jonas Keane.

  She looked at the countryside below
her. The developers hadn’t appeared yet and there was a cold lump in her throat at the thought that it might soon disappear.

  Perhaps it won’t come to that.

  She sat there for nearly forty minutes, pushing away the thoughts of Jonas’ firm lips and warm hands. Finally, she took out her phone to at least complete one task today. It was easier, after all, to end a call than storm out of the house.

  “Sam?” Charlie said before Sam had said a word.

  “Hi, yes it's me.”

  “I thought you'd never call. How are you?”

  “I'm fine. Well, actually, I'm not fine, but I'm ok.”

  There was a silence and Sam took the plunge. “I'd like to try and mend some fences with you.”

  “You don't need to mend fences with me, Sam,” said Charlie, and Sam could hear the grin in her voice. “You're my sister. If I hadn't heard from you this week, I was going to come and break down your door. Are you ok? I read about Desmond’s car and I was a bit worried.”

  Sam told her about the brick and the note, and her bruised and battered feelings were soothed by her exclamations of horror and concern.

  “God how awful! God, Sam, why didn’t you call me?”

  “For what?” asked Sam. “I was ok, the police were there, what would you have done?”

  “I’m your bloody sister, Sam! And you must have been scared out of your wits!”

  “I certainly was for a while, but I feel a hell of a lot safer with new locks. You could have knocked me down with a feather when the copper unlocked my door with his bloody bank card! And anyway,” Sam sighed. “They’re just thugs. I can cope with all that as long as we’re ok.”

  “And what about Fraser?” Charlie asked. Sam paused.

  “Well, I hoped he'd do what he always does—act as if nothing happened,” Sam said truthfully. “After all, the development has gone through, which is what he wanted. I thought we’d just return to our usual squabbling.”

  Charlie laughed, and then sighed. “I think he was hurt by some of the things you said. I’m not sure he’ll just forget it.”

  “Well, I suppose I could come around to see him in person...”

  “Well, you will have to see him sometime. Unless you were thinking of getting divorced from the family?”

  “No, of course not.” Sam thought hard. “I could meet him for a drink in the pub. That might be a good thing. Keep us civil, meeting in public, somewhere neutral. What do you think? You could come too.”

  There was a pause while Charlie considered.

  “How about I join you after an hour, give you chance to say everything to each other you want to?”

  “That sounds okay,” Sam said, reflecting that it might have been a lot worse. “When?”

  “Not sure—I’ll send some dates. Now, what's happened up at Brook Lodge?”

  “What do you mean?” Sam said warily.

  “Don’t play games, Sam. You must think I can’t see past the end of my nose. And anyway, I saw Amanda.”

  Thinking of novel ways of torturing Amanda when she saw her, Sam slowly told the story of her almost-affair. Considering the pain she was feeling, the story didn’t seem to take very long.

  “Do you fancy him? He is gorgeous, even I can see that!” Charlie said, at the end of the tale.

  “Yes. Yes, we're very strongly attracted to each other. It's been—difficult—while we were working on the garden.”

  Charlie laughed. “Oh my god! Meaningful looks, yearning tension, that sort of thing?”

  “We were both very professional, Charlie!” Sam said sharply. “It was... It was just...” she trailed off, feeling suddenly, unexpectedly tearful for what might have been.

  Charlie sobered immediately. “Oh. It was serious, wasn't it? I haven't heard that tone in your voice since...well, for a long time.”

  Sam took a deep breath. “Yes. Well, he lied to me, so it’s over.”

  Charlie sucked in her breath.

  “But surely, keeping his identity secret isn't all that dreadful? From what I've read in the Telegraph about the share price, there were very good reasons for it. Did he say he was going to tell you?”

  “After he'd pumped me dry of all the information he could about the bloody development! Frankly, I think if I'd not been involved in the action group, he'd never have given me a second glance!”

  Sam heard Charlie sigh gustily. “Believe me, if Keane wanted you, it was certainly not because you opposed one of his developments. Or that he wanted to kibosh your plans. He probably fancied the pants off you! Don’t be an idiot, Sam.”

  Changing the subject, Sam said she’d wait to hear about a date for her drink with Fraser and spent much of the rest of the afternoon staring blankly into space.

  27

  Sam stared at the stiff cardboard invitation.

  “You are invited to the official opening of Brook Lodge Garden

  on Sunday 7 August from 2.00pm to 5.00pm.

  Ribbon-cutting at 3.00pm.

  Donations to go to Ashlow Hospice.

  Homemade cakes, tea and fizz available.

  RSVP”

  There was a note with the invitation, from Magda.

  “I thought it would be a good way to raise some money for the local hospice and publicise your wonderful work! I hope you, Andy and Steve can come, and you’ll be happy to talk about how you put the garden together. Give me a call to discuss.”

  “Well, thanks for asking me first!” muttered Sam. Then she laughed. Magda would go far. She’d have to think about it, particularly the invitation to Steve. Yes, she’d have to think about that very carefully.

  However, when she mentioned it two days later, Andy was keen. So was Paul.

  “We’re getting in some nice enquiries, but what we could do with is a bit of local publicity which shows people what the finished product might look like!”

  “I think we’d need to double-check that Jonas Keane is ok with this—although he might not be there at all…” Sam nibbled her lip.

  “All the stuff with the development is over, Sam,” said Andy. “Relax. It’s not personal, it’s just business.”

  Sam blew out her cheeks.

  “OK. I’ll accept. But what about Steve?”

  “I think you’ll find that Steve has a new love interest,” Paul grinned. “A new girl started at the supermarket alongside his mum and from his interest in his mobile phone and the look in his eye, I think it’s going very well.”

  “Really? That’s a relief!”

  “Surprised you didn’t notice,” Andy said.

  Sam left that unanswered and went to make the call to Magda.

  It was a stilted conversation, despite Magda’s best efforts. Sam was impressed with the scale of the event. More than a hundred and fifty invitations, including the good and great from the local council. Sam twisted her lips thinking about that. The councillors would be keen to butter up the head of a development company, but possibly less enthusiastic about celebrating a key member of the village protest group who gave them so much trouble.

  Then there was Fraser and Charlie, Steve’s mum, local shopkeepers, the whole of the village action group. Sam was not surprised that members of the local press weren’t invited.

  “Is your Dad ok with this?” Sam eventually asked.

  “Oh yes! He’s cool with it.”

  “And he knows you’ve invited us?”

  “He insisted on it. He’s sorry he wasn’t here when you finished that day but as you know…”

  “Yes, he was busy, wasn’t he?” Sam made her voice as pleasant and neutral as possible. There was a pause.

  “I hope you’re ok with it all.”

  Sam felt a twinge of guilt. Magda was trying to help her business, after all.

  “Yes, I’m very grateful to you for doing this—it’s completely unnecessary, you know. None of my other clients have ever officially launched their gardens with me!”

  “Setting a trend, me. I’m mega-excited, it’ll be awesome!” Magda pa
used and then said, “By the way, I’ve also invited my godfather.”

  Sam was nonplussed.

  “Oh? Is he someone special?”

  “Well, he’s Connor McPherson.”

  Sam almost dropped the phone.

  “What—the Connor McPherson? The garden designer?”

  “Y-e-e-s,” Magda was hesitant. “Is that ok? I did wonder if this was the best thing to do, given that you’re both designers. But I thought it might help you—you know, be a useful contact for the future?”

  The enfant terrible of garden design? The only gardener to have rejected an award from the Royal Horticultural Society? That Connor McPherson?

  “Yes, I imagine he could be useful, thank you,” Sam said faintly.

  She was smiling as she put down the phone.

  Lisbeth was looking anxious again, Magda noted, as she went through the guest list for the umpteenth time.

  “Magda, what exactly did you say to your dad?”

  “Oh, I asked if we could invite a few people to launch the garden and raise some money for the local hospice.”

  “‘A few people’? Were numbers mentioned?”

  “Not exactly. I daresay not everyone will arrive at once, will they?” she smiled sunnily. Lisbeth rolled her eyes.

  “And how are we going to provide tea and cakes to more than a hundred people, Magda?”

  “Mrs Brown has agreed to do the baking, if I pay for the ingredients. Apparently, her sister died in the hospice. I’ve ordered some crockery from the Coffee Cup and they’ll deliver it all on Saturday afternoon. I’ve snaffled some tables and chairs from the library. All in hand, it’s all cool.”

  Lisbeth shook her head. And then she grinned.

  “I have to hand it to you, you’re properly, like, organised.”