‘Nice try. Don’t change the subject.’
‘OK, I’m not sure. I think I need to go see her later tonight and figure it out. But before you open your mean mouth – don’t make that face, you can be very mean – I’m going to tell you to back off this one. I mean to fight for her. I think she’s… well, she’s special to me.’
Angelina leant over and made a very graphic gagging noise, before whacking him with the towel one more time.
Walking through Penmenna Hall towards the nursery always lifted his spirit. As he wound his way down the ancient curvy paths he could feel the pull of history, of all those gardeners who had worked here before, hands deep in the soil and backs sore from shovels. It called to him; he loved that feeling of being part of a great tradition, and maintaining that tradition with the seeds he would sow and the methods of soil preparation that were key to a garden like this. And now, thanks to Rosy, he had a chance to continue all of that with the next generation. Children adept with tablets and gaming could enjoy a chance to escape technology and feel the primeval joy of sowing, growing and harvesting.
The nursery was his favourite place and he just wanted to run through all the soil improvers he had lined up before the filming started next week. They wouldn’t need much, they just wanted to be able to film a short segment on how the ground had to be prepped and the traditional methods of doing so. He ambled down the long Georgian driveway, noting how everything was out a little bit earlier down here. It may only be February but the drive was a colourful riot – daffodils and miniature irises lining the ground, and the pinks and whites of full bloom camellias brightening up the deep green of the shrubbery. He could grow to love Cornwall. Everything here was so laid-back – with the exception of spring, which bounded in like an excited spaniel.
So laid-back that as he reached the nursery he appeared to be the only person in today. He guessed that the other gardeners on staff were all taking advantage of the season to spend or make plans with their loved ones.
He had never really embraced the romantic gesture for Valentine’s Day before, subscribing to the view, seemingly common, that it was merely a tacky ploy to generate sales through playing on people’s emotions and expectations. This Valentine’s Day he saw it somewhat differently. Now he saw it as an opportunity to reinforce his own personal message – and if Rosy was too busy today then tomorrow would do. He had already made a start, the same day he had fashioned his Tudor cap, knowing that he didn’t want to take the garage-forecourt-flowers-and-chocolates route.
Before he began work in the gardens he rang the school and spoke to Marion as Rosy had suggested. He had been disappointed not to be able to outline his plans to her in person yesterday but at least progress was made, and Marion had sounded so excited that at one point he was worried she may explode.
He then mixed up potting composts, organized, planted and labelled seeds, and as he headed to the small section he had cornered off to develop his orchids in, he couldn’t help but smile as Rosy popped back into his head again. She may be confused but he wasn’t; he knew exactly what he wanted and was in no mad hurry to get it. He would simply wait for her to work out what she wanted. He wouldn’t push the issue but he would make it clear how he felt. And he would make it clear with these orchids.
An orchid was the perfect Valentine’s expression. They were elegant and beautiful. He wasn’t sure if Rosy, frequently covered in playdough and glitter, would describe herself that way but he certainly would. Her elegance of spirit, amplified by her patience, was one of the things that attracted him most. They needed tender deliberate care to flourish and that he was happy to provide. Their beauty contributed to a feeling of calm, of awe in the world. With any luck they wouldn’t die (he hoped) in a matter of days, but would stay in her house as a symbol of him. This particular one was a hybrid he had developed himself, and struck him as being the exact match to Rosy’s colouring – pale but flushed with a little pink. Could he get any more romantic? He thought not.
He realized that it was slowly getting dark, and as his ruminations had taken place over the course of the day he already knew what flowerpot to choose for Rosy: a plain terracotta one that provided the perfect foil to the intricacies of the flower he had chosen. He went and fetched it and then headed off to source the most perfect ribbon he could find.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was early evening and Rosy had managed to survive Valentine’s Day and the disco, and was preparing to head home. Not that she wanted to. This made her quite cross; she loved her little cottage and returning to it and all its little sloping-wall quirks at the end of the work day was usually one of her joys. But after last night, it no longer felt like her little safe space, and she knew she was going to struggle to look at her dining table without seeing herself on it, Matt above her. Matt, who, like Josh, had moved into her neighbourhood and then stretched his tentacles out into her work. As if him meeting Marion last night wasn’t bad enough, now he had somehow involved the school in the Penmenna restoration. Her rational self believed he was genuinely trying to help, but her damaged self – and she knew she existed and was getting louder by the minute – was in screaming panic. How was she supposed to reinforce firm don’t-touch-or-interact-with-me boundaries when she was going to have to turn up in his workplace with all the children? On top of which, she was then going to have to control that bit of her that just wanted to run her hands all over him and stick her tongue in his mouth. It was a nightmare waiting to happen. She had no idea what he was going do next and going home was no longer a cocoon of man-free safety. Oh, bloody hell!
She toyed briefly with heading over to Lynne’s, but knew that she couldn’t do that, not tonight. It was only today and birthdays that Lynne actually got to wrestle Dave away from the sixteenth century. Alice had gone away for half term straight after school and everyone else had plans.
She decided to give the school one last look over and then just suck it up and head home. As she headed back out of her office, her head a little bit full of pity-me, she stubbed her toe on the door.
‘Oww!’
‘Who’s that?’ came back a shout. What the hell was Marion still doing here? ‘Is that you, Rosy?’
Marion appeared in front of her, wearing a rather plunging red sequinned dress, and Rosy almost catapulted into the door again. What on earth? As if yesterday wasn’t eye-opening enough now she was exposed to Marion in evening wear! What had happened to the florals and the sensible navy striped boating tops?
‘You’re here rather late.’
Rosy tried not to let her resentment show on her face. Was the woman suggesting she had more right to be here than the headmistress?
‘Yes, I was just heading home.’
‘No plans for Valentine’s?’
That’s it. Stick the knife in.Rosy made her face smile neutrally. ‘No, nothing special.’
‘Well, that won’t do.’ Marion drew herself up to her full height and gave a little shake of her head. Rosy half closed her eyes; she had seen that look before and knew it signified a grand plan. Oh God! ‘I know, why don’t you come with me to a party! That’s a fab idea, you’ll meet all sorts of useful people and we could have a lovely time.’
‘Oh, thank you. I did think you were looking very glam…’
‘Yes, but I left my phone here so I rushed back to get it. It’s going to be a great event, I’ve helped organize it, do come. There’s champagne fountains and the most, simply the most, delicious canapés. The host is also terribly dishy and single, you’d be very welcome.’
‘I’m afraid that whilst it’s very kind of you…’
‘Rosy, it’s Valentine’s Day and you’re going back to an empty house – come!’
Rosy’s empty house, table and all, reared its head in her mind and she started to waver.
‘Really, come!’ Marion’s eyes had taken on that sparkle that few dared defeat.
