Sky Garden

by Jenny Schwartz

  A few heads turned to assess them, and took their time doing so.

  Lanie got it. If it was a new bar, then people would be adjusting, trying to work out where, or if, they fit it.

  “Hi, Simon.” Nick made introductions.

  “Great to meet you, Lanie.” Simon shook hands enthusiastically. He glanced at Nick. “Quiet table or the Lion’s Den?”

  “The den.”

  “Lion’s Den?” Lanie mouthed as she and Nick followed Simon. She had her answer a minute later as they skirted the kitchen, housed in an old shipping container that they must have hired a crane to get up there, and round behind back of it to a jumble of a space crowded with furniture and filled with people chatting, laughing, lounging and pacing.

  “The Lion’s Den,” Simon said. “It was Nick’s idea, so he can explain it. What would you like to drink?”

  Lanie ordered a ginger beer. Nick ordered a pint of chocolate stout.

  “Really?” She raised an eyebrow at him as Simon dashed off.

  “I’ll let you try some. Then you’ll get the appeal.” He glanced around, spotted an empty sofa and led her to it. He angled it a bit, improving the view they’d have over the skyline. He sat, long legs stretched out comfortably.

  She stood for a moment, admiring how he looked.

  He’d grabbed a beaten-up dark brown leather jacket from the back of the car before entering the warehouse, and he wore it over his shirt and jeans, and looked like he belonged here just as much as he’d seemed right at Waterhill. The brown leather was the color of his eyes.

  He smiled at her. “Are you going to sit?”

  “I’m admiring the view.”

  A guy sitting in a rocking chair—seriously, a rocking chair in a bar!—gave a snort of laughter. “Well worth looking at, but you better sit and claim him, sweetie, or someone else will!”

  Others joined in the laughter.

  Nick grabbed her hand and pulled her down onto the sofa and into the circle of his arm. “Welcome to the Lion’s Den, where there are no strangers.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s a lot of space up here. Out front, where we came up, has the best view, so we put the best seats there. Proper tables, nice chairs, civilized dining. Then the kitchen slots in and hides this space behind. Its view is not so good, so we went instead with the whole secret space idea. Here, people can shove the furniture around to suit their needs. Sometimes it hosts poetry readings.”

  “They’re pretty good.” Rocking chair guy, again.

  Nick kept his concentration on Lanie. “Sometimes Freya escapes the kitchen and has everyone push back the furniture and dance.”

  “Won’t be able to do that when people move into the flats below.” The rocking chair had a squeak in it that punctuated the complaint.

  “But the one rule of the Lion’s Den is that anyone sitting in here can be spoken to. No introductions needed.”

  “How very unBritish,” Lanie said.

  “But a cool idea.” A woman Lanie’s age carried a crate over and sat on it. “I’m Tia.”

  Introductions paused a moment as a waiter brought Lanie’s ginger beer and Nick’s chocolate stout. It was good, but so was her drink. She sipped the sweet summer beer, enjoying the bite of real ginger.

  About a third of the people present fractionally shifted their seating to include Lanie and Nick in their circle. The dim lighting helped create a sense of intimacy. It could have been a smoky den in a cellar bar. Instead they were on a rooftop.

  Nick really was gifted at designing living spaces, virtually out of thin air.

  And he’d discerned precisely what she needed: anonymous, friendly conversation that allowed them to be together but not analyzing and angsting over their pasts and future. Been there, don’t want to dwell. He probably felt the same.

  He sprawled beside her, apparently relaxed, but his arm around her kept her close.

  She slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet up. She craned her neck. The wall to her left wasn’t original to the building, but its rusty iron appearance matched. And when she looked up, there was a roof over them, with a dull black matt finish. All very low key and yet subtly stylish.

  “I say, make them walk the plank.”

  “Swim with sharks.”

  “Audit their expenses.”

  She blinked and tuned into the discussion, only to discover that it was about politics. It seemed vaguely linked to the redevelopment of city sites, but ranged widely from there. The capitalist imperative, heritage and welfare rights were bandied about.

  “I’d sculpt them in wire.” A thin man with a prominent nose moved his hands around an invisible model, pulling and twisting similarly invisible metal strands. Abruptly, he strode away, thought unfinished. Or perhaps he was off to put down his idea on paper?

  Others took up the question: how should politicians be portrayed?

  Discussion became intense.

  You had to have a healthy ego to survive as an artist or critic, and none of the people in the Lion’s Den hesitated to express themselves.

  It reminded Lanie of being back among theatre people. She leaned forward. Her interest in politics was recent, no more than a year old, and focused on people rather than policies, but for now she could put aside the reason for her obsession and use her knowledge. “Puppets. They should be literal puppets, framed in a mock-up of a puppet theatre stand.”

  “Not original,” rocking chair man said didactically. “Although if you added in skeleton figures of those who pulled the strings it might work.”

  “Who do you mean? Who are the puppet masters?” Tia challenged. “Lobbyists?”

  A rude raspberry expressed his disdain for lobbyists. “Advisers. Those political parasites. They’re the ones that matter. They shape the country, but they’re unelected and mostly unknown to us poor working fools. They’re also unaccountable.”

  But that last point was howled down by a man in work sleeves and a loose tie who occupied an upturned milk crate that had a cushion tied to the top. “There’s plenty of oversight. Big Brother is constantly watching us.”

  The discussion split in two. Some discussed the electronic surveillance of the city and the cyberworld. Others returned to the original point, housing.

  Unsurprisingly, Nick had strong views on social housing, and the problem of juggling it with heritage. “Living people matter more than old buildings, but you can conserve the past without fixing it in formaldehyde.”

  Lanie listened to the passion with which he spoke of everyone’s duty to the present and future. It was an expanded version of what he’d told her that afternoon.

  The afternoon seemed ages ago. Their mutual confessions and revelations clouded by distance and by…she eyed her ginger beer, suddenly uncertain. Just how strong was this stuff? Maybe she should have drunk the first one slower.

  “You can respect the past, but you must build for the future.”

  “You’re talking of stewardship.” Her mind darted back to Waterhill and all the Taweses who had lived there, loved and preserved it. She leaned into him, lowering her voice. “It’s in your blood…lord of the manor responsibilities.”

  He glanced at her from under lowered eyebrows, frowning. Then the frown lifted. He leaned even closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear. “Are you reminding me of my droit de seigneury rights?”

  She exploded into giggles.

  His response was just too unexpected.

  And the ginger beer was definitely alcoholic.

  Freya, Simon’s partner, arrived as Lanie was muffling the last of her giggles in Nick’s shirt. She brought a tasting plate of everything from smoked duck breast to stuffed mushrooms and tiny assorted pies, and set it on a small table in front of Nick and Lanie.

  “I can’t stop,” she said. “But it’s good to see you here, Nick. Nice to meet you, Lanie.”

  “She seems nice and wow, can she cook. Delish.” Lanie licked her fingers after finishing a mini-quiche with asparagu
s and ham.

  Nearly an hour later, she uncurled reluctantly and went in search of the Ladies. When she returned, she paused a moment at the edge of the Lion’s Den and observed Nick. Without her presence, a very drunk and very gorgeous blonde woman was trying to hook up with him.

  Lanie circled around, using a wingback chair and a couple dancing to the man’s not-so-great singing, to conceal her reappearance. It wasn’t that she distrusted Nick. In fact, it was his obvious lack of interest in the stranger’s flirtation that intrigued her. She came close enough to hear the conversation: slurred on one side, cool on the other.

  The rules of the Lions’ Den meant anyone could talk with anyone, but Nick’s self-deprecating charm set people at a distance. He wielded it ruthlessly, protecting himself. You’d have to be incredibly drunk to persist in the face of his polite disinterest.

  She watched how it was done: the quiet ignoring of bids for attention, the elimination of invitation in his own responses. There was no way to engage with him. “Do they teach that at public school?” She rounded the back of the sofa and sat.

  “Teach what?” His face came alive again as he looked at her.

  “Never mind.” What did she care how he froze out strangers? For her, he was passionately attentive.

  She lifted his arm, wrapping it around her shoulders, and stole a sip of his chocolate stout.

  Nick stretched out his legs, nudging aside a low table that someone had pushed into his space. The Lion’s Den had filled to capacity, some people even sitting on the floor. He looked around, enjoying the indefinable vibe that, more than the crowd, meant the bar was a success. Simon and Freya deserved it. They’d sunk everything into their dream, and Nick was glad to be part of its development.

  For himself, he liked the freedom rooftops gave him. It had been instinct to bring Lanie here. The day had been tough for both of them, and tough was an understatement. Involuntarily, his arm tightened around her, and she snuggled into him. He smiled down at her, but she was chatting with Tia. She’d snuggled without thinking.

  He hid his smile behind his pint of stout. He’d made one final discovery, today. One that amused and delighted him. Lanie was a cuddly, snuggly drunk.

  Not that she was seriously intoxicated. She’d drunk just enough to take the edge off the day. But with it, she’d lost some of her inhibitions.

  He liked that she touched him possessively. Her hand on his thigh felt right.

  They stayed there till Lanie yawned three times and apologized four times.

  “Time to go.” He pulled her up and made sure to pay a waitress rather than Simon, who’d try to refuse his money.

  A chorus of good-byes and some blatantly envious stares followed them out.

  Lanie let Nick guide her out of the old warehouse and into his car. She nestled into the leather seat, discovering that it was warm. Such luxury.

  The streets of London blurred into light and dark, bright and hidden, awake and asleep. Lanie hovered between the latter two. She felt boneless. Her spine had melted and only the superb comfort of the expensive car’s passenger seat kept her upright. She was buzzed, more on tiredness than alcohol.

  At the museum, she had to concentrate to disable the security system, but it was worth it to avoid the climb up the steep outside staircase. She was definitely too sleepy for that.

  Nick walked in behind her, closing the museum’s elaborate front door. “I’d accompany you up to the flat, but then I wouldn’t leave.”

  “Presumptuous.” Oh so flirting.

  He leaned in, backing her against the hall wall. “Really? You’d kick me out?” He kissed her leisurely, thoroughly, taking his time. Finally, he drew back. “I’m flying out to Los Angeles, tomorrow.”

  “What’s in Los Angeles?”

  “A prospective client, a high rise hotel, and a water-saving challenge.”

  “So, nothing important.” She wound her arms around his neck and reclaimed his mouth. It felt good to be trapped between the wall and his hard body, even if she felt him laugh at her.

  “Nothing as important as you.”

  “Good response.”

  “I like your responses, too.” He rubbed a hand over her breasts and their tight nipples.

  “Mmm.” Half-whimper, half-purr. Her ability to form a coherent sentence seemed less important than being in the moment.

  “I really like your responses.” For a moment his kiss became hard and demanding, then he pulled away.

  She pouted at him.

  A half-grin kicked up the corner of his mouth. “Lock the door behind me.”

  “I will.”

  He hesitated.

  Some of her happily bemused state faded. “I’ll be fine, Nick.”

  “I’ll phone you.”

  “You’d better.”

  Another kiss. Neither wanted to end the evening, but nor was it the right moment to add another emotional entanglement, sex, to this bruising day. That would wait for Nick’s return from America.

  Something to look forward to.

  Chapter 12

  Nick’s quick flight to Los Angeles turned out to be not so quick. It wasn’t that he got stuck in Los Angeles. On the contrary, he seemed to be flying everywhere, and his frustration came through clearly when he and Lanie spoke.

  He was also resigned. “It’s summer. People think of gardens.”

  Past, current and future projects demanded his attention. A symposium in Delhi was desperate to find ways of alleviating the choking pollution and heat in Indian cities. Nelson accompanied Nick to that one, and went down with a tummy bug.

  “The air is terrible.” Nick looked tired even through the not-too-clear video link. “We’re in an air-conditioned hotel, but when you go out…if you go into the slums…people shouldn’t have to live like that. They have to control pollution, but there’s such need for electricity and transport. The city needs more green lungs—garden spaces—but people need safe places to live and work, too. Competition for land and water is the huge problem of our century.” And he wanted to be part of the solution, creating new gardens out of neglected roofs and city spaces.

  One week away turned into three and stretched out to five.

  In the end, Lanie had reason to be grateful to the television program’s filming schedule. It would bring Nick back to London to film the museum’s roof at mid-summer.

  The roof garden had not only established itself, it had burst into flower. Lanie picked roof-grown larkspur and arranged the flowers in a crystal vase in the drawing room. A squat green vase filled with daisies occupied the center of the kitchen table.

  Fresh flowers weren’t the only change at the museum. Rupa’s room was nearly ready for public display and Lanie was turning over ideas for a Gilbert and Sullivan evening at the museum. Chloe was a surprising help with that.

  She’d contacted Lanie via the museum’s website, and gotten her private email address, and now they chatted. Chloe had a lively way of expressing herself, and on email, it was impossible to guess at her frailty. She was also a fundraising genius and Lanie was learning all she could because the museum needed to stand on its own feet and not rely on Mrs. Smith’s generosity for its running expenses and upkeep. That meant exploring ways to elicit donations, grants and maybe even run a small souvenir shop.

  Lanie shuffled through the collection of phonograph recordings in the music room that had inspired the Gilbert and Sullivan idea. She’d sat through enough of the performances in her time to be able to sing many of the songs; not sing them well, but she could carry a tune.

  She sang the rousing pirate king’s song from The Pirates of Penzance. Nick would make a fabulous pirate if she could get him into costume.

  A pianola stood in the corner of the music room with a violin, displayed in its case, leaning beside it, and the gramophone on a table by the window. On weekends, Russell, one of the volunteers, often set the pianola running. Visiting children, and many of the adults, had never encountered a player-piano before and they shri
eked to see the keys moving up and down, worked—as it seemed—by invisible fingers.

  If Russell’s girlfriend was with him, they’d costume up, playing the role of the young people of the Edwardian household, rolling back the light rug that covered the polished wooden floor, and dancing.

  On quieter days, the music room’s well-filled bookshelves and comfy armchairs hinted at a room used for general relaxation.

  If they did hold a Gilbert and Sullivan evening, they could roll up the rug in the music room, but they’d also have to have dancing in the hall. It would be a lot of work, providing catering and arranging a live band. But it would be worth it if they decided to raise the Horry Museum’s profile.

  Lanie would have to talk with Mrs. Smith.

  She’d have her chance simultaneous with Nick’s return, since Mrs. Smith, newly back from a Mediterranean cruise, intended to attend the mid-summer filming of the roof garden.

  Mid-summer was the high point of the garden’s design, meant to express the essential and romantic Englishness of an Edwardian garden. And it did. As long as the sun shone, Nick would have achieved his goal and the television program would show the garden in its full glory.

  But when Lanie messaged him the night before with the forecast, he brushed aside her “fingers crossed, they’re saying fine”.

  “I’m coming home to you, not the garden.”

  She looked out at her roof garden, shadowy in the dying twilight. “We’re both waiting for you.”

  Nick arrived early, knocking at Lanie’s door at dawn, a minute after he sent her a wake up text.

  “It’s too early to be early,” she said as she opened the door.

  He ignored her grumpiness and kissed her, which was quite the nicest way to wake up. She emerged smiling and flushed from the kiss. “I forgive you for waking me.”

  “Hold that thought.”

  He ducked back out the door and returned with two coffees and a cardboard box. “Assorted muffins, doughnuts and pastries. Tuck in.”