It was lucky, thought Daisy. The food was delicious, and she’d never mastered the art of a dainty appetite.
‘It was gorgeous. If you’re sure?’
With a quick movement, George scooped up the plates, stacking them neatly. ‘Just give me a few minutes. How’d you like your steak?’
‘Umm.’ Daisy stalled for a moment. The truth was pinkish but definitely not gruesomely bloody, but was that a terrible admission of failure to a chef? ‘Medium, if that’s not the greatest sin known to man.’
‘Not at all.’
With a smile – which sent a prickle of warmth right down to her toes – he leaned across, his arm brushing against hers as he caught her wine glass with a finger to pick it up.
‘You sure you can manage all that?’ Daisy half-stood, as if to offer her help, but with a shake of the head he motioned for her to sit down.
‘You enjoy the last of the sunshine. I’ll only be a sec.’
She pulled her cardigan close around her shoulders. It might be June, but the evening heat soon faded away.
Occupying herself whilst George cooked, Daisy found the box of matches she’d left by the clay chiminea on the patio. She watched the paper lining she’d placed in there flare up, catching light quickly, and then the firelighters which ignited the kindling underneath the logs. She searched in the little wooden cabinet on the terrace wall for some outdoor candles, which she lit and placed on the table. George popped out carrying a glass bowl full of salad leaves, dotted with herbs.
‘Once the sun goes down behind the thatch in the evening,’ Daisy explained, ‘it gets cool in the shade here pretty quickly.’
George reached across, warming his hands against the now-bright flames.
‘I love sitting outside. A fire’s a grand idea.’
He disappeared into the kitchen again, returning a while later with delicately peppered steaks served with sweetly charred vegetables, and some sort of delicious summer-vegetable puree. He brought out another two wine glasses and replaced the half-drunk bottle of white with the expensively labelled red, which had been allowed to breathe for an hour.
‘How did you do all this in that time?’ The steak was delicious, melting in her mouth. Daisy gave a sigh of contentment. She put her fork down for a moment, savouring the food, looking across at him.
‘I prepared it in advance. There’s not much else to do on the weekends at the moment whilst I’m over here.’
‘Do you get back to Dublin often?’ Daisy hadn’t been to Ireland in years. She tried to picture him strolling across the Liffey at dusk, surrounded by huge historic buildings illuminated by the setting sun. It must be a beautiful place to live.
‘Not so much at the moment. I’m trying to focus on putting in the hours to get money to bail out the restaurants. I could do with a miracle, really – or a lotto win.’ Lost in thought, he gazed up the garden towards the orchard.
‘It’s getting late. D’you want to go inside, or . . . ?’ Daisy looked across at the chiminea. Often in the evenings she’d sit out here for hours, wrapped in a blanket, watching the flames.
‘No, it’s beautiful out here. Come sit by the fire.’
They pulled their chairs round so they were facing the crackling flames, side by side. Daisy could feel George’s thigh warm against hers. He turned for the wine on the table behind, his shirt riding up for a second so that Daisy saw a flash of tanned, muscled back. Full of wine and delicious food, she felt the warmth of desire rushing inside her, and had a most un-Daisy-like urge to reach out and slip a hand underneath his white shirt.
He turned back, bottle in hand. Reaching across, he took the hand that was holding her wine glass and cupped it in his own, holding it steady, pouring in the red wine. Her heart was thudding in her chest now. He was close enough that she could reach out and –
His eyes met hers, and she heard a catch in his breath.
‘I don’t think we need this, d’you?’ he said softly, taking the glass from Daisy’s unprotesting hand. He turned to her, a gentle hand brushing back a long strand of hair which had fallen across her cheek, tucking it behind her ear, his hand curling around the nape of her neck. With a practised gesture, his thumb caressed her jaw for a second. She looked into his blue eyes, heard a voice in her head saying live dangerously, and fell into a kiss.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Do you want me in gardening clothes, or something more respectable?’ Daisy called downstairs to a waiting Elaine. She pulled her battered jeans off the end of the bed, scooping up her favourite Head Gardener T-shirt as she did so, and ran downstairs, hair flying.
‘No, you look gorgeous like that. Cut-off jeans and flip-flops and a vest – you look super-cute. Very relatable.’ Elaine tucked a strand of hair behind Daisy’s ear. ‘Have you got anything to make you a bit less . . . fuzzy around the edges?’
Running upstairs again, she found the trusty hair serum and smoothed a handful through her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. Sitting in the sun had brought out more freckles, but she was definitely glowing, in any case. She swiped on a bit of brown eyeshadow and some mascara and lip gloss. She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard, but the informative articles she’d written for Elaine’s website had proved surprisingly popular, and now Elaine had decided to take some photos and add her in as a gardening expert, writing a weekly column. It was exciting and a bit scary – but, thank God, it was something positive. It’d keep her mind off the house stuff for the morning. The thought of explaining to Thomas that afternoon that Orchard Villa was on the market made her feel faintly sick. The fundraising barbecue at the pub had turned from something she was looking forward to into a grim prospect. Maybe it’d pour with rain and the whole thing would be cancelled . . .
It didn’t look like there was much chance of that happening. They headed up through the village towards Elaine’s house in gentle early-morning sunshine. Elaine, who’d wanted to catch the best light for her photos, had texted her cautiously at seven a.m.
Don’t like to intrude, but – you still okay for this morning?
You’re not intruding. I’m walking the dog (and no, ha ha, that’s not some weird euphemism). See you in half an hour?
Daisy, who’d been up ridiculously early, tapped a reply. She’d been surprised, but slightly relieved, that George had been keen to get off reasonably early the night before. He hadn’t suggested staying, and she hadn’t offered. Afterwards she’d wondered, vaguely, why he had been content to kiss her but then disappear into the night. He’d charmingly explained that he must love her and leave her, as he had some work to take care of before the morning. Maybe, she’d thought, remembering the long hours she often worked in the garden before anyone else was up, restaurant owners ended up working hard at the other end of the day.
‘This won’t take long,’ explained Elaine, clicking her camera into place on a tripod. ‘I just want a few photos of you to accompany the features, and then I thought it might be fun to do an interview on camera, if we have time?’
Yikes. Daisy had imagined a couple of quick snaps and a headshot to go alongside the features she was writing. On camera sounded awfully professional, and a bit nerve-racking.
‘If you can just –’ Daisy stepped sideways obediently as Elaine posed her into a supposedly natural-looking position. It felt anything but. ‘Hold that for a second, then we can get you with the sun at the perfect angle.’ She leaned down, adjusting the focus. ‘Perfect. Now if you can just take this.’
Elaine handed her a spade, holding it carefully to avoid getting dirt on her trousers. ‘Just do a bit of digging in this bed, and I’ll take some photos.’
‘I’m in flip-flops, though. I’d be shot by the health and safety police if they saw me.’
‘Doesn’t matter. You look good . . . And now come over here, and if you can just kneel down and just look like you’re tending to this bed – the colours here are beautiful.’
The long, elaborately planted border was looking gor
geous now. Delphiniums reached upwards, their flowers cerulean blue. The scents of sage and of tiny catmint flowers mingled in the air as bees worked their magic, buzzing back and forth on the flowery spikes. The last dots of dew sat cushioned in the fat leaves of the sedum plants. It was, Daisy acknowledged, the image of perfection.
It was quite fun allowing herself to be directed into position by Elaine, who predictably wanted everything just so for the photographs. Fortunately, Leo was out of the way. He seemed to be increasingly absent – working very long hours, Elaine explained, on some kind of grant application. They seemed to exist on a ships-that-pass-in-the-night basis, Daisy thought. It wasn’t the sort of relationship she’d like – but it clearly worked on some level. The longer they left it without saying anything about what she’d overheard, the more she began to doubt herself. She’d gone over it time and time again, wondering if she’d misconstrued what had been said. Without any concrete proof, there was no way they could say anything, really. Daisy looked down across the terrace to where the golden stone of the Old Rectory glowed in the morning sunlight. It was an idyllic setting.
She leaned forward briefly from her careful pose, spotting a piece of bindweed. It had sneaked, disguising itself, through the leaves of a rose bush. She eased it out carefully. Unchecked, it could strangle the life out of almost any plant, stealthily using the plant as a support before cutting off the light and smothering it. No wonder gardeners loathed it. One tiny half-inch piece of root was all it took to create a whole monster. She unwound it carefully, scooping the soil out of the way to find the root – it would have to be disposed of carefully or the weed would be back, stronger than ever. She stood up again, brushing dusty fingers clean against her cut-off jeans.
‘I’ve never asked – you said you used to spend summers here in Steeple St John.’
Elaine, hands on the small of her back, stretched thoughtfully, arching gracefully.
‘I did, yes. This was my grandparents’ house. My parents worked abroad and I spent term times at boarding school, so my summers were always spent here. When my grandfather died a few years ago, he left it to me. We’d been working abroad. Leo was head of a school in Dubai, but he –’ There was the briefest pause. ‘We decided to come home to the UK. They were looking for a new head at Brockville, and it all just seemed perfect timing. We moved in over that summer.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘We’re very fortunate,’ said Elaine, in a tone that didn’t quite match her words.
Daisy sensed the subject was closed, and turned her attention back to the garden.
‘I’ve got my own secateurs in the greenhouse, Elaine, it’s fine, I’ll just –’
Elaine, shaking her head, was brandishing an immaculate, brand new pair, the handles printed with a pretty floral design. They didn’t bear much relation to the beaten-up old favourites that Daisy normally toted round the garden, a piece of frayed twine acting as a hanging loop.
‘You’re selling a lifestyle, my darling.’ Her tone was brisk, with a note of amusement. ‘You need to look the part. These have been supplied by a company who sponsor my gardening section. Just snip away and look pretty.’
‘But these are hopeless,’ Daisy, ever practical when it came to gardening, protested weakly.
‘That doesn’t matter. Now, can we have that pretty face you make when you’re concentrating, please?’
She wasn’t aware she made any particular face when she was concentrating. She snipped away at the climbing roses, collecting the dead heads into a woven wicker trug. Normally she’d just sling them in a plastic tub, but there was a world of difference between her muddy-knees-and-hair-tied-back-in-a-ponytail style of gardening, and the perfect English postcard image portrayed on Elaine’s website. She had grown to love Elaine, who had a sweet heart and a dry humour beneath the brittle, not-a-hair-out-of-place exterior. But the whole concept of lifestyle gardening was miles away from anything Daisy would want to do with her own life. Gardening – like real life – was hard work, muddy, and often pretty thankless. She carried on working as Elaine snapped away, trying hard not to think about the For Sale sign that loomed outside the pretty rose arch of Orchard Villa.
‘See you this afternoon?’
Photographs done, Daisy was ready to head home.
‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it. Leo’s promised to be back by twelve, so we’ll see you later. I think he’s hoping to charm a few potential parents, with the Brockville open day coming up.’
Daisy made her way back to Orchard Villa, studiously averting her eyes to avoid looking in the direction of the sign. Showered and changed into a summer dress, she scanned the sky. Hopefully a stray thundercloud was waiting to empty its contents over the village, and the fundraiser would be cancelled. No such luck – she’d have to face Thomas, and tell him their beloved garden was on the market. With a heavy heart, she picked up Polly’s lead.
‘Come on, lovely. Loads of dropped sausages for you, I suspect.’
She felt a bit better with Polly by her side for moral support. They strolled up Main Street together.
‘Hello, gorgeous.’
Daisy half-turned, recognizing the voice straight away.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ said Ned, with a snort of laughter. He bent down, ruffling Polly’s ears. He looked up at Daisy, then, his face flushing pink. ‘Not that you’re not gorgeous, Daise.’
She raised an eyebrow, amused at his embarrassment.
‘Yes. Well.’ He grimaced, changing the subject. ‘Anyway.’ He looked back at Polly. ‘No Monty to annoy you today, my darling.’
Polly had enjoyed a few walks round the park with Monty, but she had no trouble letting him know when she’d had enough of his youthful antics. One sharp look and a warning growl and he’d back off, deferring to her age and wisdom. It was unusual for Ned to come out without his bouncing, exuberant companion, but today he was alone, carrying a bag full of –
‘Polly, get out!’ Realizing he was distracted, Polly had reached under his arm and worked her nose into his bag, which was full of sausages.
‘Oops. Contribution from the surgery for the barbecue,’ explained Ned, standing up quickly and holding the bag out of reach. ‘If that was Polly’s response, you can imagine what Monty would’ve been like. I’ve left him back in the flat. He’s probably eaten about fifteen pairs of shoes by now.’
‘You’re supposed to be a pillar of the community, y’know,’ said Daisy, as they headed up towards the pub, falling into stride naturally.
‘I like to think of myself as an accessible sort of vet.’ He looked at her sideways, his green eyes narrowed in amusement.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ teased Daisy as they headed through the stone archway and into the beer garden of the Grey Mare.
Flora’s bunting was out once again, anchored to the huge oak tree at the foot of the beer garden and reaching out across the car park. In a corner the local brass band were warming up, a discordant cacophony of honking and parping which made Daisy smile. Scarlet faces matched their uniforms. One of the men looked up, giving Daisy a grin and raising a pint in welcome.
‘Morning, Daisy, love.’
It took a moment of squinting at him in the sunlight before she realized who it was.
‘Dave! Sorry, didn’t recognize you all dressed up like that.’ It was Flora’s friend, the ruddy-cheeked allotment gardener. Without his customary battered cords, faded chambray shirt and flat cap, he looked quite different.
‘You’re looking very posh.’
Dave’s scarlet suit had a black collar, the edges trimmed in gold. Ornate embroidery decorated the cuffs of his sleeves. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, adjusting his bow tie. ‘Posh and hot,’ he agreed, with a grin. ‘I’ll be needing another drink after this.’
‘I’m looking forward to hearing you in action,’ said Daisy.
He gave her a cheery nod and picked up his baritone horn, polishing it briefly with a chamois leather cloth before
putting it to his lips.
Pulling on Polly’s lead, Daisy turned around, realizing as she did that she’d made a fatal mistake.
‘Daisy, Ned. Wonderful.’ Flora, for once without a clipboard, looked up from the table where she was folding raffle tickets. ‘You two at a loose end?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Daisy, stalling, turning to Ned quickly. The first rule of village life, she’d discovered, was always to look purposeful when you turned up to an event like this, otherwise you’d be instantly press-ganged into helping.
‘We’re supposed to be doing, the, er – the thing.’ Ned scrabbled around, hopelessly, for an excuse. It was futile, and they both knew it.
Flora looked at them both over her reading glasses, eyebrows raised skywards, lips pursed. She was an old hand at spotting shirkers.
‘Well, we could really do with a hand here on the raffle stall for an hour or so. Have a seat.’ She stood up, stepping out from her position by the entrance to the beer garden, and indicated the two folding chairs. ‘If you could just fold these tickets and pop them in the tub, I’ll get Thomas to bring you both a drink. Oh splendid, Ned, are those for me?’ She took the bag of sausages out of Ned’s hand and scuttled off.
‘An hour or so, my arse,’ snorted Ned. ‘We’re stuck here, sausageless, for the duration.’ He pulled his chair in, sinking his chin into his hands with a theatrical sigh.
‘Don’t tell me – this is your only day off this week, right?’ Daisy laughed at his crestfallen expression. She scooped up a handful of raffle tickets and shoved them sideways towards him.
‘It’s fine. It’s absolutely fine. Look at that –’ Ned, ticket in hand, pointed towards the opposite side of the beer garden. They could see Flora talking to Thomas, gesticulating in their direction. ‘At least we’ve got a pint of cider on the way.’
‘You’re easily pleased, Ned, aren’t you?’ Teasing, Daisy gave him a shove.
Coming Up Roses Page 16