The Garden of Little Rose

by Suzanne Snow

  ‘Oh no, you don’t.’ Mac gently pulled her back, still holding her hand as the floor filled up around them. ‘You’re going to stay and dance with me again.’

  Her voice was incredulous as she raised it above the din. ‘You’re not serious? Dance to this?’ She recognised the implacable look on his face, and then they were jostled together as almost all the guests hurried up to get the party really started to The Nolans’ ‘I’m in the Mood for Dancing’.

  He nodded, giving her a wicked grin as he started to dance, looking scarily like an extra from Saturday Night Fever but with better clothes, and Flora laughed. She tapped her feet, watching Mac in amazement as he danced wholly unselfconsciously, throwing himself into a disco routine. It would’ve looked desperate if he hadn’t been so good: he was perfectly in time with the music and she couldn’t have been more astonished if John Travolta had suddenly been parachuted in to take over. But then he reached for her hand and she was dancing with him, still enjoying every moment, as people crashed into them and spun away again.

  Mac’s performance was attracting attention and the crowd parted to form a circle around them. Before long Mel, Harry, Sophie and Eddie eagerly joined in. Sophie hadn’t been a teenage dance champion for nothing, so when she cranked up the disco routine with expert moves, Mac copied her and everybody else could hardly stand, let alone dance, for laughing – it was so funny and brilliant. Once the track ended and another one began, Flora found she couldn’t bear to leave the floor or look away when her eyes met Mac’s. It was all such fun and Flora couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so silly or enjoyed herself so much.

  They managed another forty minutes or so, until Flora laughingly pleaded for a break and rushed to the bar, hurriedly finishing a glass of water. Mac was keeping his promise to dance with her all evening and she was loving every moment. She strolled back through the room, her eyes eagerly searching for him, impatient to dance again. Given his height, he shouldn’t have been difficult to spot, but there was no sign of him, and she wandered onto the terrace, casually seeking him out.

  He was standing on the far side, his back to her, phone clamped to his ear. She waited, safely out of earshot and therefore not feeling as though she was prying. A few smokers were nearby, and she nodded at them. Her gaze settled on Mac again, and she recognised the tension in his frame as the call continued, one arm gesturing to make a point to a person who couldn’t see him, the other running through his hair. She was missing him, loath as she was to admit it, and she waited for another minute, still in the shadows.

  She saw him turn and begin to walk across the terrace, and she heard his voice – resigned, fraught – as he ended the call and rammed the phone in a pocket. Flora slipped out of the shadows and moved inside, worried that he might think she had been trying to listen on purpose. She was chatting with another guest when Mac approached her, the tension she had recognised outdoors all but gone. He excused himself for interrupting, reached for her hand and they were back on the dance floor, the call seemingly forgotten.

  As the party progressed, the evening flew away into the next morning all too quickly, and just after midnight, Mac took her hand and led her outside. They huddled in the light beneath the portico, facing one another without touching. She was horrified to realise that she might cry again, as she knew this moment would be a goodbye. She had long since kicked off her heels and had to lift her head to meet his eyes. She knew at once that he had withdrawn from her, had distanced himself to somewhere she could no longer reach him. The coolness was back, though she was surprised by the regret in his voice as he spoke.

  ‘I have to go.’ There was a suggestion of curtness in his tone, too, and Flora was very still.

  ‘Of course.’ She nodded coolly, clenching her hands into fists and determined not to give away her reluctance to say goodbye. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Mac smiled then and she saw his face soften. ‘So polite,’ he said quietly. ‘You make it sound like it was a business arrangement. Was it really nothing more?’

  Flora didn’t answer, in case she revealed the truth: how she’d loved every minute of the day with him and her regret that it was already over. She tried to slow down her racing pulse, wondering when – if – they might see one another again. Better this way, her mind tried to tell her heart. Better this way. Say goodbye. Watch him leave.

  ‘Flora?’

  He reached out and she felt the warmth of his hand on her bare arm, stroking her skin almost without thinking. He brushed his mouth against her cheek, and it was very different from the quick, impersonal kiss earlier in the day, when he had greeted her at the church. Flora was hardly aware that she had turned her head, but then his lips found her mouth and they were finally sharing the kiss she had been longing for.

  She had known it would be like this. Her hands were already on his shoulders, urging him nearer, exploring the hard smoothness of the muscles beneath his shirt as he silenced every doubt with his mouth, offering a certainty and skill she had never before known. He pulled her closer still and she arched into him, until he was holding her tight against the hard length of his body. One hand was already exploring the curves outlined by the thin satin of her dress, while the other was on her neck and moved higher, until his fingers were in her hair, trying to loosen the pins that held it.

  Somebody coughed behind him. She heard feet on the gravel and, abruptly, Mac let her go. His arms fell away, and Flora opened her eyes hurriedly, stunned by his absence. She was suddenly cold and trembling all over, and she stepped backwards sharply, grateful for the stone column of the portico steadying her.

  ‘I have to go,’ he muttered hoarsely, shoving his hands into his pockets as he turned away. Flora heard the uneven rasp of his voice and she was in no doubt that their kiss had affected him, too. She stared at him through the dim light from the house, hardly able to comprehend the words he tossed back over his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, Flora, I do have to leave now. Please will you say goodbye for me?’

  She watched, astonished and hesitant, as he strode away into the shadows without looking back. She heard the sharp crunch of his feet on the gravel and a quick beep as the car was unlocked. The noise and laughter from the party seemed so incongruous, as she tried to process what had suddenly occurred between them. A kiss like that… surely it was a beginning, not a final farewell?

  ‘Mac,’ she called tentatively, her voice barely rising above a whisper as she took a step forward. He gave no sign of having heard her, and she saw the flash of lights as his car hurtled down the drive and then he was gone, leaving chaos and questions scattered in his wake.

  Chapter Nine

  The wedding was over. Mel and Harry had escaped to the Amalfi Coast on honeymoon, and life, for almost all the guests, had returned to normal. But as Flora wandered around her cottage, getting ready for work on a wet Monday morning two weeks later, she knew that something inside her had changed. She had been careful to try to conceal her feelings, especially from the eagle-eyed and intuitive Sophie. It hadn’t been difficult to pretend with Mel; she was so wrapped up with her new husband and the two friends had barely spoken since the wedding. But Sophie was different. Flora knew from the way she had hugged her that she had guessed something had happened between her and Mac. She had also made her promise that she would pick up the phone or come and stay just as soon as she was ready.

  Looking back, Flora remembered the wedding as a blur of excitement, filled with fun and the inescapable sensation of discovering that she was falling for somebody. But after Mac’s abrupt departure, which had followed their kiss at the end of the evening, Flora had heard absolutely nothing from him, and she was hurt and surprised. With each day that passed in silence, the corner of her mind that told her he had liked her, too – had come all that way to be with her and had seemed to enjoy her company – was gradually being overtaken by the doubts pressing in. Was he too busy or not attracted to her after all? Maybe he simply had nothing better to do that
day and decided to indulge her dare.

  She threw herself back into her work in an effort not to think of him. After the way he had left, she was utterly determined not to contact him for fear of being turned down now that the wedding was over. But at night, alone in bed, she was tormented by the memory of their kiss and the feel of his arms around her – and sometimes she woke up believing that it had all been merely a dream, and almost wishing that it had.

  But she couldn’t think about that now. Soon she’d be leading a party of visitors around the garden at Middlebrook, and then the guests would have lunch, before exploring the grounds on their own. She took a quick shower, dressed in jeans and a Trust polo shirt, and headed upstairs to the kitchen, as she had something to do before heading out to work.

  Flora loved her little cottage. Converted from farm buildings, it was a tiny upside-down house, with one bedroom and a shower room on the ground floor, and an open-plan living room and kitchen upstairs, with a small round table squashed between the two rooms. There was a compact deck outside, with views over woodland towards the town, two miles away. When she needed more space, she simply escaped into the estate and its gardens.

  She plonked herself at the table, reached for her laptop and opened a file, absently chewing the top of a pen as she stared at a list of plants. She deleted a climbing rose and added two different varieties of clematis after a quick google to check availability, and then glanced through the window at the rain bouncing off the glass as she pictured, in her mind, the garden she was busy planning.

  Her older brother and his wife, Sam, lived in nearby Thorndale in the Yorkshire Dales, where Charlie was the vicar of the village and three other parishes nearby. When they had moved into their large Victorian house, Sam had asked for help with the overgrown garden and Flora had come up with a simple yet effective plan, which improved the design and minimised the workload to accommodate their busy lives. Since the birth of their daughter, eight months ago, Sam had been on maternity leave from her job as a drama teacher, and Flora had made sure that the garden behind the house included a separate area for children to play, as well as comfortable seating to enjoy the south-facing views.

  Sam had loved Flora’s designs. She had been so enthusiastic that soon after Flora had received a call from Jon Beresford, owner of the Thorndale estate. Married only a few months ago, he was in the process of modernising a cottage that had recently been donated by his new wife, Annie, to an education trust they had set up together. The garden at the cottage had been created by Annie’s godmother many years ago and had fallen into disrepair.

  Flora had met with Jon and he had asked her to restore it to how it used to be, as a surprise for Annie. Flora was thrilled with the commission and was now finalising the planting scheme before work began. She knew that time would be tight, but everything was in place and the contractors ready to begin. Jon was taking Annie away and he wanted the garden to be finished by the time they returned. Sam was going to project-manage in Flora’s absence and she intended to visit in a couple of weeks to complete the planting.

  Flora enjoyed designing, but her heart absolutely lay in restoration and she was passionate about the ability of a garden to change lives for the better. Taking a blank space and creating something new and beautiful was exciting, but for her that didn’t compare to stepping around history and discovering the past. Her grandmother had largely been responsible for Flora’s love of gardening: during long periods spent at her grandparents’ home, she had been given her own little plot to plant as she liked, and they had enjoyed visiting historic properties together. Even now, whenever she first entered an abandoned garden, her mind always took her back to that first glimpse of the Lost Gardens of Heligan, when she was fifteen, and she had understood then what could be achieved with love, time and careful thought. It was this same sensation she had experienced when she had stumbled upon the forgotten garden on Alana – the excitement of discovery, what it had once been and could be again.

  Her mobile rang, startling Flora, and she looked at it, tempted not to bother answering. But the call was from Sophie, so she picked up the phone warily.

  ‘How are you, love?’

  Sophie sounded unusually hesitant and the realisation made Flora immediately suspicious. ‘I’m fine.’ Her pen dropped to the table, as she tried to imagine what might be coming next. ‘What’s up? You don’t usually ring in the middle of the morning for a casual chat. Is everyone okay?’

  ‘Yes, all good, but you’re right: I haven’t rung for a natter about the family. Have you seen any of today’s posts from Belle magazine?’ Sophie got straight to the point.

  Flora’s heart sank and she jumped up impatiently, taking two steps into the kitchen. ‘No, of course I haven’t.’ She switched the kettle back on to make a second cup of coffee, more to distract herself than because she wanted another drink. ‘Why would I? You know I don’t read that stuff.’

  Social media was a stranger to Flora, despite Sophie’s best efforts down the years. She flatly refused to join any of the usual platforms, certain that she would never suffer from fear of missing out. She understood only too well how a simple comment could sometimes be translated into a whisper that became more hurtful and less truthful as it travelled.

  ‘Okay… Here goes. I just wondered if you knew – about Mac?’

  Flora dropped the spoon she was clutching and tried to keep an alarmed yelp from escaping, as she bent down to retrieve it. ‘What about him?’ She heard Sophie sigh and her dread spiked again, shooting adrenalin through her limbs.

  ‘He’s in a post of theirs with someone who looks very much like a girlfriend; there are pictures of them on holiday in Ibiza. I’m so sorry, but it’s Chloe Berkeley, Flora. There’s no official confirmation that they’re actually together again, but the images look right.’

  ‘Again?’ Flora whispered the word, winded by the sudden and terrible news she had not seen coming. Together. Again. Tears gathered in her eyes as she remembered her and Mac at the wedding, the evening they had danced into another day and his kindness over her dad. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That they were a couple for nearly two years and apparently split up in February. Usual story: separate careers, travel, too far apart. No one else, blah blah.’

  ‘So they weren’t a couple when we were at Mel’s wedding?’ Still a shocked whisper, a moment of hope.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. I’ve done some digging and I can’t find anything else on social media that’s linking them beyond this. No comments from mutual friends, no official statement or relationship status from her publicist. I just thought you would want to know, and I didn’t think you would’ve seen it. I’m so sorry to give you such bad news.’ Sophie paused. ‘Have you heard from him?’

  ‘No.’ Flora was astonished that her voice sounded fairly normal, even though her heart was still crushed in despair and her hand had balled into a tight fist. Of course he wasn’t single. She was almost more upset that she had allowed herself to be deceived, when usually she was so careful, and she slammed her still empty cup onto the counter, muttering angrily under her breath, before she continued. ‘There’s no reason why I should. Thanks, Soph, but it doesn’t matter. The wedding’s over and I won’t see him again. This just confirms it.’

  ‘Flora?’ Sophie’s voice had lowered in sympathy. ‘I know you like him. And it was perfectly obvious that he liked you, too. Why don’t you call him, ask him if it’s true?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Flora answered furiously, her mind still restless, as memories, both good and bad, kept darting back in. She was definitely not going to call him; that much she was sure of. ‘I’ve already made a fool of myself once, I’m not about to do it again. Thank you for telling me; I don’t suppose it was fun for you either.’

  Sophie sighed again, her sorrow for Flora clear. ‘Sure, babe. Let’s speak again tonight, when you’ve had time to process it.’

  They said goodbye and Flora hung up, shoving the phone away, as though it
was responsible for her sudden black mood instead of the news about Mac. All thoughts of planting schemes and coffee were forgotten, and she ran down the stairs, desperate to be outside in the fresh air. She grabbed a coat and shoved her hair up into a baseball cap, as she closed the door behind her. Flora marched across the yard and followed a track from the farm into the estate, skirting around the edge of a wood as she crossed the deer park towards the main house.

  She reached for the keys in her pocket and let herself into the garden through a narrow gate in the elaborate wrought-iron fence. Normally, she couldn’t look at the house without appreciating its beauty and enormous, solemn façade. But today she barely noticed it, furious with herself for allowing Mac to intrude even here. Yet, she found it impossible to forget him, and her mind churned over the few details she knew about his girlfriend.

  Chloe Berkeley was the latest in a line of former models turned actress and television presenter. Popular and friendly, she was part tomboy, part style icon, as she raced around the world on wildlife adventures and threw herself into the latest extreme sports in between acting roles. Slight, with sharply styled short dark hair, she managed to pull off a look that was wholly unique and yet copied by teenagers everywhere. She was always denying rumours that she was planning to pose for men’s magazines, and her signature look was definitely girl-next-door with an edge, which seemed to appeal to dads as well as their daughters. Flora walked faster and faster, as she tried to drive the image of Mac with such a beautiful and sophisticated girl from her mind.

  Flora headed around the west side of the house, past a huge eighteenth-century orangery, her eye quickly taking in details of things in the garden that she would have to attend to later. A check of her watch confirmed that she still had twenty minutes before assembling her group, so she crossed the walled garden and emerged in a cobbled courtyard, dodging visitors and a group of volunteers selling plants from the garden. She smiled at them as she passed by, but didn’t pause until she reached the shop and stepped inside.