“My God, we’re a house of early risers.” Leonie beams as she wipes down her counter. She looks neat and fresh; blonde hair in a high ponytail.
The professor, by contrast, is unshaven, grey hair slightly mussed. He sits at a table, laptop open. “Hardly surprising, given you’re all entrepreneurs. Your enterprises would flounder if you were all workshy slugabeds.”
Even unshaven and uncombed, he still manages to sound like Radio Four. That’s why no one calls him William Jones; not even Leonie who’s his daughter.
“I see we’re not the first.” Osian sniffs the air, which carries the warm smell of baking bread and a trace of salty fried bacon. “Is this breakfast?”
The professor taps his finger on the mouse. “Alex has already finished his, and I think Llewellyn too because when I passed the Hub he was busy inside.”
“Shut up.”
I snort. “Good morning to you too, Johnny Cash.”
“Shit for brains,” the parrot screeches back.
Johnny Cash, the parrot, has become very popular. The Squad, who used to have breakfast in their rooms, now eat here. Even I – who can’t cook and don’t have time to learn – have begun to rely on Leonie for most of my meals. It helps that she gives me the partner discount, but her afternoon cream teas on weekends are worth every penny and a lot of fun with the soundtrack of Johnny Cash shouting insults.
“Why are you up so early?” Osian ignores the bird and speaks to the professor. “You’re not running a business.”
“I write better in the morning.” He indicates the laptop. “And I’m developing an addiction to Leonie’s bacon butties.”
“Leonie’s butties,” Johnny Cash drawls suggestively.
“How can he make that sound dirty?” Leonie blushes.
“This bird can make anything sound dirty.” Osian shakes his head. “I don’t know how you put up with him.”
“Because she’s a soft touch,” the professor says.
“Soft touch.”
This time everyone laughs at the parrot. And it’s true, he even makes ‘soft touch’ sound like something X-rated.
Osian looks at me. “Shall we sit on the terrace to avoid disturbing?” He cocks his head at the professor.
Relieved, I nod back. He immediately goes out to where the plastic chairs are stacked against the wall. But I’m still a little uncertain about us so I wait inside the glass doors and watch him.
Leonie brings the professor a pot of tea. “It’s right about business people needing to be up early.” She comes to stand with me, blonde ponytail swishing. “The previous gardener, Watson, never got out of bed until nearly midday, then surfed the net the rest of the time. I secretly called him Watson the not-gardener.”
I lean on the doorframe and watch Osian looking fit and athletic as he moves tables and chairs around and sets up a table close to the edge where we can look at the mostly cleared garden. “So was he fired? Watson, I mean?”
“No. He was a partner so he couldn’t be fired. Evan had to wait for him to give up and leave. Had it not been for therenovations before Christmas, he might have lived here rent free for years.”
This is one story the chatty Rhian never told me.
“What happened?”
“Oh, last December the council was threatening to close us down.” A cloud passes over her beautiful face. Clearly this was a serious threat. “So we had to have emergency renovations. Everyone rolled up their sleeves. They worked night and day to get the house fixed so it would pass inspection. Most of the time, they ate while working. Everyone except Watson. He said it wasn’t his problem. That he was responsible only for the gardens.”
I think of all the nice partners; the way Llewellyn made it clear I could use his Hub anytime I needed. Alex, with his explanations about the mosaics on the blue wall, and all the young people without whose help the garden would never have been cleared. And yet when they were under threat, Watson refused to help.
“How did they get rid of him?”
Leonie grins wickedly, examining her fingernails as if hiding a secret. “Let’s just say, the guys made no effort to be quiet. Anyone that needed to hammer stuff somehow managed to do it near Watson’s rooms. Alex would bang about early morning moving ladders and buckets. You know Ricky?”
“Oh yes.” I nod. “Let me guess.”
“He’s a little terror. Contrived to leave broken bits of wood and cans of paint piled up outside Watson’s door, blocking his way. But the thing that really pissed Watson off was Llewellyn.”
