by Anita Notaro
‘And if you wouldn’t mind turning off that radio, I’d appreciate it.’ The tone was milder, but she was determined not to give him an inch.
Without a word he leaned over and pressed a button and the drone of early morning fake chirpiness that passed for commercial radio ceased. He resumed his work with hardly a shift of his body, this time weeding with his hands so that she couldn’t complain.
She turned on her heel then spun back around. ‘Do you have to start so early? Nine-thirty would suit me better.’
‘I was told you wanted this done urgently.’ How the hell did a gardener get an educated accent? she thought. ‘There’s a lot to do. I can start at eleven if you like, but I won’t guarantee I’ll finish on the date I agreed with your housekeeper. And I’m afraid I have another job waiting, so I can’t stay here any longer.’ Again the manner was mild but the tone was confident, and just a teeny bit too cocky for her liking. Libby was used to her workmen being in awe of her and very subservient and this one definitely didn’t fit the bill. She knew he’d won in this instance anyway, and she took even more of a dislike to him, storming off in the direction she’d come, sensing he’d be smirking. As she turned the corner she glanced back and saw he was deep in concentration, pruning away some tangled bindweed from a delicate flower, incident clearly forgotten.
Back in the kitchen she poured juice and water, made coffee and took a tray back to bed. Her head throbbed and as she searched in the bathroom cabinet for some relief she looked in the mirror and saw a mass of hair that needed washing and a lined, grey face. It was not pretty and just for a moment the old Libby wished she had died along with her husband, before the newer, determined model took over. She opened the shower door, turned on the jets fully and abandoned the notion of a lie-in.
She was agitated as she dried her hair so she lay on the bed for a few minutes and flicked channels and realized again why she hated morning TV. All those fresh-faced, cheesy weathergirls who loved reminding people to stay in bed unless they absolutely had to travel, even though they’d been up since five and looked fit to burst with energy and general bonhomie. And then there was the endless round of female newsreaders who could make a story on the Middle East sound sexy with their pouting, collagen-injected, blubber lips. They made her want to throw up, because unknowingly they made her feel inadequate, like being caught in your PJs at lunchtime by a slinky, polished neighbour on her way home from the gym. It never occurred to Libby that she must have aroused those same feelings in others many times. And why did all the shows talk about revolutionary new diets and miracle face creams and cellulite and fake tans, as if there was nothing else to life? She felt like smashing the screen.
Grumbling, she pushed back the duvet for a second time that morning and faced the day, even though it was not yet eight o’clock and her dull, groggy head needed at least another two hours of oblivion.
Toast and muesli and full cream yoghurt helped, and she plodded around the kitchen still plotting revenge. He was certainly not getting the traditional coffee and scones with jam and cream for elevenses, as she was sure he had with Mrs O’C. when he’d called the first time. The woman loved feeding workmen or ‘real men’, as she annoyingly referred to her favourites, going all girly. Ugh. Libby had never got used to finding strangers sitting scoffing a banquet in her kitchen, spreading home-made jam and clotted cream on plump scones and staring at her endlessly as soon as they realized who she was. Well, this one could starve.
An hour and a half later she emerged dressed in black leather and wearing dark glasses, hair and make-up immaculate, and revved up and shot past him in her shiny motor, feeling very pleased with herself in a childish way. She had nowhere to go, really, but she did a few bits and pieces and when she returned he was sitting on a corner of the lawn with a flask and food spread out like a picnic. Instantly, her annoyance returned and she wanted to stop and roll down the window and ask him not to eat in full view of visitors.
As soon as he saw her he leaned over and turned off the radio and that irritated her even more. She screeched to a halt, skidded and gave herself a fright, then tried to look nonchalant, but he was reading and didn’t even glance in her direction.
Next morning she woke early, much to her annoyance, and this time there were no intrusive sounds to blame it on. When she peeped out the new gardener was still kneeling in a corner, as if he’d never gone home and this time he was wearing a tiny earpiece, his way of getting his fix of trash, she thought nastily.
By lunchtime Libby was feeling she’d gone over the top the previous morning. He was doing an amazing job, the place was starting to look really cared for and he was even replanting some of the large old urns, badly neglected since the early spring bulbs had faded.
At about one she crossed the gravel area, heels scrunching. Again he was bent down, trowel in hand, and didn’t turn around as she approached.
‘I’ve made some soup and a panini, if you’re hungry.’ She wondered if he’d know what a panini was. No reply. She coughed. Still nothing. She tried again, tipping him on the shoulder and causing him to turn his head sharply in her direction but still he did not stand up. She towered over him and immediately felt the full weight of her double chin as she looked down on him. Quickly she straightened up and ended up making her offer to the beech tree.
‘I’ve made some lunch if you’d like to come into the kitchen.’ Her tone was cool; she wanted to keep him at a distance yet didn’t want him bad-mouthing her down at his local.
He took the earpiece out and shook his head.
‘Thank you but I have my lunch with me.’
Didn’t he know she was an internationally renowned chef? ‘Can’t you eat that later? It’s all ready inside.’
‘No really, I prefer to eat outdoors when I can, but thank you anyway.’ He was determined to make her grovel. Well, he could rot.
‘Fine, suit yourself,’ she said airily and disappeared in a waft of DKNY’s latest offering.
She sat in the kitchen and ate all the lunch herself and when she glanced out he was sitting on a stone, eating and staring around the garden. He looked relaxed and content and she envied him his utter self-containment.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
FOR SOME REASON the gardener’s calm self-assurance unnerved Libby and made her want to find out more about him. To do this she reckoned she first had to make her peace with him, and admitting she might have been wrong had never come easy to her. She thought about it that afternoon. She was making heavy work of a voiceover script when her phone rang. The interruption was welcome and the caller doubly so.
‘Libby, hi, it’s me.’
‘Annie, hi.’ She recognized the voice at once now, they’d spent so many hours on the phone to each other recently.
‘Any news?’
‘No. I’m getting nowhere fast today, I’m hot and sticky and I’ve got the gardener from hell outside.’
‘Worse than George?’ Even Annie had heard the legendary tales.
‘No, actually, he’s great in that way, just a bit too smart-assed for me.’
‘I’ll bet you could make mincemeat out of him,’ Annie teased.
‘Believe me, I’ve tried. He’s bulletproof.’
‘Well, if he’s a good worker then go make your peace with him because you might need him very soon if you find your dream cottage. They always have overgrown gardens in the movies.’
Libby laughed and knew she was right.
‘Any chance of a coffee? I’m just finishing for the day and I could walk around to your place.’
‘Yes, please, I need someone to pull me out of my dark mood.’
‘Maybe you could start by not wearing black all the time.’ It was so unlike Annie to even suggest she do something that Libby responded immediately.
‘Maybe you’re right. I’ll start tomorrow.’
‘Great, see you in half an hour for that caffeine hit. Now, go grovel on the gravel.’ Libby laughed. Annie always cheered her up.
&n
bsp; It was a glorious summer’s day and she felt heavy and frumpy as she made her way to where he was working, kneeling as usual. He wore faded jeans and a white cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up. An impractical choice for a working man, she thought.
‘How’s it all going?’
If he was surprised he gave no sign. ‘Fine, thanks.’
‘You’ve made big changes already. I hadn’t realized how we’d let things go.’
He nodded, then shifted around and continued working. ‘A few more days should see a big difference.’ Libby was dismissed. She resisted the urge to simply walk away. There was something about him, an intriguing take it or leave it attitude. Nothing for it but to plunge straight in; she wasn’t used to being at a disadvantage, and certainly not with an employee.
‘Look, I eh, think I may have over-reacted yesterday morning when I first met you. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately and I took it out on you.’ She didn’t smile, not wanting him to think she was grovelling. If he’d known her he’d have realized she was nervous by the way she pushed her hair behind her ear and licked her lip.
‘No problem, I’ll be out of your way as soon as I can.’ It was odd that he made no effort to engage her in conversation the way most people did.
‘There’s no hurry.’ She didn’t know what else to say.
The silence stretched between them, leaving her no option but to try again. ‘I was rude, I hope you’ll forgive me.’ It sounded stiff and formal and she didn’t look at him.
‘Forget it. We all have our moments. I know I sure do.’ He gave her a distracted smile, as if remembering something, and it annoyed her. She was used to being the centre of attention. The memory softened his face and it unsettled her further.
‘Right then.’ Libby was all business again. ‘I’d better get back to work. If you need anything please let me know.’
‘Will do.’
She walked slowly away and had the distinct impression that he saw her as a spoilt, rich bitch wife and she was sorry, even though he wasn’t the sort of person she’d normally worry about for even a second.
Annie arrived, a bundle of energy in a bright red dress. ‘I just saw him. He’s gorgeous. Tall or small?’
‘Do you know, I don’t know. I’ve never seen him standing up.’
For some reason that sent them both into fits of laughter. It was one of the things Libby liked best about their friendship. As they drank a pot of coffee, they gave the stranger a character.
He was nowhere to be seen as she left to drop off some notes and recipes to the office and he was gone when she arrived home at seven. She was disappointed and didn’t know why. His tools had been cleaned and they stood neatly in a corner: she liked knowing he’d be back.
Next morning she was up early and made a decision. No more black. It was too hot and ageing and morbid. Annie was right. She showered and put on a simple cotton dress that had cost a fortune, and left her hair loose. The gardener was nowhere to be seen all morning and when she eventually spotted him he was, as usual, on his knees in a far corner of the front lawn. She had no excuse to go anywhere near him.
Her mother arrived unannounced at lunchtime and was delighted to see that Libby had shed her black clothes, although wisely she said no such thing. They were sitting in the conservatory when she suddenly announced, ‘There’s a man in the garden.’
‘He’s the gardener.’
‘Where’s George?’
‘Not feeling well, as far as I know. Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee please, black. What’s his name?’
‘I’ve no idea. I was a bit rude to him when he arrived so we’re not exactly on speaking terms. I know I should be grateful he’s not a pest like George. Constant talkers irritate me no end and I can’t pretend otherwise.’
Christina knew her daughter could be a battle-axe to work for, so she tactfully changed the subject, quickly losing interest in the workman.
In the early evening Libby was cooking, feeling more relaxed than she had for a long time. When she looked outside it was raining and he was sitting on his hunkers under a tree. Without thinking, she went out. ‘Won’t you please come into the kitchen and shelter. You’ll get soaked.’ He was wearing a light-blue cotton shirt and the pale sky colour emphasized his tanned, sallow skin. He looked completely unfazed by the downpour and didn’t appear to have a coat or jacket.
‘It’s only a shower. I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Not if you look over there.’ She pointed to the pewter sky.
‘I’m almost finished for the day anyway.’
‘Have you a car?’
‘Not here. I prefer to walk when I can.’
‘Well, you can’t walk home in this. Where do you live?’
‘Not too far away. Don’t worry, I’m used to it, although they didn’t predict this on the early morning forecast.’ That lazy smile was there again, and so was that uncomfortable feeling in Libby’s stomach.
‘Please. At least have a coffee until it clears. I’m cooking, so you’re not disturbing me.’
He looked up at her for a moment but didn’t move, then he seemed to make a decision.
‘OK, thanks, a coffee would be great.’ When he stood up, she was taken aback. He was tall – taller than her, and she was in heels – and the whole package was quite striking, if you liked the rugged, outdoor look. A bit unsophisticated perhaps, she thought, wanting to keep him at a distance. She was dying to tell Annie he had legs.
She led the way to the kitchen. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, black, no sugar.’ He didn’t look at all ill at ease. She remembered he’d been here before with her housekeeper.
‘Is there somewhere I can wash my hands?’
‘Yes, of course. Through there, second on the right.’
Libby set the table with silver cutlery and china cups, her everyday stuff, then thought he might prefer a mug.
When he returned he looked as if he’d splashed his face with icy water: he was young and healthy and fit and she felt old and out of condition and fat.
‘Please, sit down. Would you like something to eat?’
‘No, coffee’s fine. I’ll cook when I get home.’
‘You like to cook?’
‘Yes, I suppose I do. Do you?’
She was amused. ‘Sometimes. When I’m relaxed.’
‘Well, it smells good. I don’t think I could compete.’
‘What sort of things do you cook?’ She poured coffee and left a plate of goodies close by.
‘Pasta, chicken, fish. Nothing too complicated.’
She wondered about a series aimed at men like him, hard-working labourers who probably wouldn’t know one end of a stick of lemongrass from the other.
‘Oh, and I like to try Thai when I can get the ingredients.’ He smiled, scotching another of her theories. ‘Do you cook a lot?’
‘All the time.’ He obviously didn’t recognize her or else he was a very good actor.
‘It’s not much fun cooking for one. I like to have people round when I can, rope them in as well.’ He stretched his long legs and looked perfectly at home. ‘I suppose you have a family to cater for?’
She was taken aback. Surely Mrs O’C. had filled him in? She must have warned him. His remark threw her and she kept her back turned. ‘No, actually. Still, I don’t mind.’ She paused in her stirring. ‘You know something, I’m just about to have a glass of wine. Would you care to join me?’ She was unsure of herself; it sounded like a very formal conversation to be having with a workman.
‘No thanks.’
‘Sure?’ She took a heavy crystal goblet from the shelf and poured a generous glass of chilled Mâcon-Lugny.
‘I don’t really drink much, to be honest,’ he said.
Libby took a gulp and tried to relax. He seemed content to sip his coffee and watch her cook, while the rain lashed at the window and the room filled with the comfortable sounds of sizzling and stirring.
She didn’t know where the offer
came from, but she found herself asking, ‘Would you like to stay for supper? I’ve made risotto and, as usual, I’ve cooked enough to feed an army. It will only get thrown out.’
He hesitated for a split second and she wondered if he felt obliged, but he seemed relaxed enough.
‘Fine, if you’re sure.’
Surprised at herself, Libby went to set up the table in the conservatory. He jumped up. ‘Can I help?’
‘No thanks, it won’t take a minute.’ She felt him close behind her.
‘Please don’t go to any trouble. I’m happy to eat here in the kitchen. It’s cosy and it’s where I usually eat at home. No dining room, I’m afraid.’ There it was, the self-deprecating smile again.
She realized he probably felt uncomfortable at a formal sitting so she hastily agreed.
He took the plates from her and cleared away the coffee and set up for dinner as if he’d lived there for ever.
Libby burst out laughing. ‘I’ve just realized I don’t even know your name.’
‘Oh. Sorry. Andrew Harrington.’ He held out his hand.
‘Elizabeth Marlowe.’ She hadn’t called herself that since first class. They shook hands; she liked his touch, he felt smooth and safe and not rough and weathered as she’d imagined. When she took her hand away she felt a slight prickly sensation and she rubbed it against her leg.
‘Do your friends call you Andrew or Andy?’
‘Only my folks call me Andrew all the time. My friends call me both, and much worse. I used to hate Andrew when I was young but I’ve more or less grown into it.’
‘My mother calls me Elizabeth, everyone else knows me as Libby.’ She waited for recognition but none came. He just nodded.
‘I like Libby, it’s sort of . . . mischievous.’ It was a word never applied to her before.
She put the shiny copper pan of artichoke risotto in the centre of the table and added some parmesan and a grater, a huge stainless steel pepper mill and some good ciabatta bread on a board. A herb salad was the only accompaniment.
‘Sure about the wine?’ she offered as she topped up her own.
‘Just water, thanks. I have a lot to do tomorrow.’