“How can you tell?” he asks, looking hopeful.
“Have you noticed, every group of lines seems to have a couple of trees next to it? If you scan the ground, you’ll see there’s only one more of these tree pairs. So my guess is that’ll be the last of the slate designs.”
By five-thirty, we’re almost done and I tell him that I won’t need him anymore. Now we’ve uncovered all the slates. Now we can rest while the tractor ploughs the rest of the dead wood.
“No buried anything,” he huffs. “Not even a Victorian gold watch or something like a old microscope.”
His faith that there’ll be something resembling treasure is touching. “Don’t worry,” I assure him. “When the land is clear we’ll have an easier time searching for buried antiques.”
Chapter Eighteen
Someone has stuck a blue card to my apartment door. It’s there waiting for me after my long day in the garden. I pull it from the drawing pin and unfold it.
Hi Evie
Come down to the ballroom at 6.30 tonight. Dinner and presentation.
Cheers.
Evan & Haneen
The ballroom, not the kitchen? This must be a big deal.
Every muscle in my body aches and it’s 6pm already. That gives me half an hour to shower the dirt, twigs and dead leaves off me and transform from a grubby gardener into a dinner party guest. I look longingly at my off-white Ikea sofa and the squishy silk cushions.
Sigh!
At least I don’t have to worry about cooking.
One thing about working in TV is that it taught me to have very quick showers. Accidents, falls and spills are common enough on a gardening programme; you rush through shower, wardrobe and make-up while the cameras wait for you. Sotwenty-five minutes later, I am walking down the curving stairs looking like I’ve had an hour with a hairdryer, moisturiser, eyebrow pencil, soft plum lip gloss and Issey Miyakeeau de toilette.
The ballroom is that grand hall with the stained-glass windows, mosaic panels and lots of alcoves that have a painted mural each. I remember walking through it that first day I came here but not since because it always had someone on a ladder and dust sheets all over the floors with lots of signs saying things like ‘WET PAINT’, or ‘DO NOT TOUCH’.
Not tonight.
I pause on the step halfway down and look around, open-mouthed. Thank God I dressed up in my pretty heather-purple maxi dress because the hall is absolutely splendid. The floor has been waxed so it gleams. The walls – painted white, jade green and gold – look as if the emulsion was applied with a tiny artist’s brush. And the light! The light. A magnificent crystal chandelier sparkles like a million bright suns and rainbows. The opulence dwarfs even the long dining table and makes it look small and humble.
“Hello.” A woman looks up from placing two baskets of bread rolls on the table. I recognise her by the beautiful smile and honey-coloured hair that lies rich and thick over her shoulders. It’s Haneen Hemingway, Evan’s girlfriend or partner or… I’m not really sure.
“You look like Cinderella arriving at the ball.” She grins at my floaty maxi dress.
It’s not a party dress or anything. Yes, it’s nice, and the shade – heather – suits me, but I’d chosen it to hide my unshaven legsand all the scratches and grazes on my shins from the fall into the scratchy roses this morning.
Someone wolf whistles and a few others look up.
“You’re embarrassing her,” Haneen says, and everyone quietens.
Face warm, I continue down the stairs, very self-conscious. This would be an ideal time to trip and fall in front of everyone; my hand goes to the railing for support. Just as well, because right at that moment, I hear footsteps behind me.
“Hi.” Osian’s voice is warm and deep, pitched low so only I can hear him. “Don’t I feel like the farmer boy at the king’s banquet.”
“You and me both,” I say, walking down in step with him now.
He looks me over; his eyebrows quirk up, but he says nothing. His own dark narrow-leg trousers and slim crew-neck jumper may be casual, but on him they look like Calvin Klein’s catwalk best. I hate that he’s so effortlessly gorgeous.
Only two seats are left free at different ends of the table. Osian waves me to the nearest one and goes round to the other.
There are thirty-five of us; a mix of people. I recognise some of the partners Evan took me to meet on my first day. There are also five teenagers who must be the volunteers, and about a dozen older people who must be the Squad I keep hearing about. The most eye-catching person is a blonde in a tight black top and even tighter black jeans. As soon as Osian sits down, she pushes her chair back, gets up and makes someone switch seats so she can sit next to him.
