The programme would need several segments every week to make it into a whole episode, so he thought the vegetable plot could combine historical facts alongside masses of practical help around growing your own produce, and he could aim it at all levels of gardener, from those who had never so much as planted a carrot to those who wanted to experiment with the more difficult types of heirloom vegetables. He could feel those elusive creative juices flowing. Perhaps he should develop a formal rose garden too, something that married complexity with a simple beauty – roses would be just the thing! Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea, that should definitely be a segment. And he could explore the seasonal changes too, plants that did best in May, June and so on. This was going to shape up well.
He headed around the house towards the huge old orangery, chock full of seed drawers, old tools and memories of the past. He had made this his base, all sun-glinting glass sitting to the side of the recently renovated Penmenna Hall, and its beauty in the afternoon light still forced the breath from his body.
Bam!A foot-stamping brunette jumped into his thoughts, knocking out all his calm just as she had at his front door but a few hours ago. Was that where all this so-called creativity had sprung from? Arosegarden! His brain was playing with him, determined to pull him from his celibate dedication and convince him into developing a crush on his slightly spiky but very cute neighbour.
He was fairly sure that at thirty-four he was too old for crushes as such. Conquests, maybe, but crushes, no. No way. And as he had just firmly agreed with himself, even simple conquests were a no-no right now anyway. But if his next-door neighbour was going to be popping into his head, potentially influencing his work, then maybe this was going to have to be dealt with, and soon.
Angelina had spotted the signs before he had and had tried hard to dissuade him from any romantic imaginings he may have. She was remarkably single-minded in her belief that she should be the most important female in his life. But even her warnings about Rosy peeking out from the curtains earlier that morning and watching her had made him smile. Quite a lot – certainly far more than it should do.
The fact that she had snapped at him on their first meeting hadn’t put him off in the slightest. Used to rich bored housewives slavering over him, awash with the scent of desperation and sexual promise, or Angelina’s even more vacuous friends who managed to embody both ennui and entitlement at professional levels, meant that anyone who didn’t dribble or pout over him but challenged him instead was the very sort of person he found interesting. He found the I-respect-myself-and-you-can-too-or-sod-off kind of attitude very attractive.
The fact that she wasn’t afraid to vocalize her opinions and tempered it with sweetness was so endearing. The baking for her new neighbours was adorable. A kind of country thinking that he could see himself liking. The way she had flushed ever so slightly upon seeing him, in a demure, slightly old-fashioned way, rather than panting at him and encouraging him to remove his clothes, was also captivating. As was her admission that she knew bugger all about gardening, and was pretty rubbish at it when she tried. Honesty rather than bravado was refreshing in his world. Oh, dear God, he needed to get to work!
A whole afternoon of planning, plotting, digging and organizing didn’t seem to wear him out, or help reinforce the celibacy equals creativity principle that had been at the forefront of his mind (or so he had thought) this morning. A long shower and a self-administered lecture once he had returned home to his little Cornish cottage didn’t lessen his desire to get to know her a little better either. In fact, if anything, knowing she was but a wall away intensified her occupancy in his head.
Scramble, unrepentantly spread out upon the sofa, fixed him with a mournful gaze as Matt put his shoes on again, but without picking up the lead.
‘Look, I’m just trying to be neighbourly. You’ll be OK here, I won’t be long.’ He could swear the dog cocked his eyebrow.
‘Hmm, I just need a good excuse now…’ He cast around the house – what reason could he give for knocking so soon, and on a Saturday night?
Within minutes Matt was wandering up Rosy’s path, cake plate in hand and a goofy grin all over his face.
Chapter Six
Rosy opened one eye just the merest crack. The inside of her head had never felt quite so empty or so tender. Even moving a squillimetre on her pillow seemed to make her brain hurtle from one side to the other and hurt as it bounced.
Ow ow ow.
She decided that the best thing to do was just lie there, really, really still until it all passed. It was Sunday so it didn’t matter if it were hours rather than minutes. If she just lay here until she got really bored then the boredom would indicate that she was well enough to move. Problem solved.
She had read somewhere that NASA paid people to stay in bed for seventy days. Maybe if this morning went well she could join them in the summer holidays, top up her finances and see a bit of America. From a window, admittedly, but that was still more than she had seen up to this point.
Hmm, you could do all sorts in bed for seventy days. Keeping her head very still, and thanking God she had duck-feather pillows supporting her in cushioned heaven, she thought of all the books she would read and the ice cream she could eat during that time.
She could take up sewing or needlepoint – after seventy days she could probably have a wall hanging like those littered over Tudor castles and Renaissance palaces. People could come from miles and miles to see her work progressing and bid against each other furiously for each artisanal tapestry. Mind you, she’d have to be careful not to get the ice cream on them.
She was liking this idea the more it developed. What else could she do in bed all day?Whoosh!From nowhere and straight into her diminished and sore brain was an image of her new neighbour. Stop it! Imaginary Matt’s smile widened. To make things worse the camera eye of her brain started to pan down. No, no, no! She sat bolt upright and shook her head violently to try and disperse the image. That way madness lay!
Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow. His image was replaced by a bright white flashing and a spinning bedroom.
For goodness’ sake, she and Lynne had only drunk a couple of bottles last night. Bottles, ah! Rosy wasn’t a big drinker, partly because she had form for the world’s worst hangovers, but mainly because of her active decision after uni to always be aware and alert. Hence The Rule. And she did love The Rule.
But yesterday the combination of Perfect Hair and Matt, and her own godawful hell-date, meant alcohol had seemed like the best way forward. And Lynne was only too happy to help, so much so that they had sung ABBA’s whole back catalogue until the early hours when Lynne’s husband Dave decided to walk Rosy home.
Lying here hungover and trying to keep images of Matt, naked Matt, out of her head was not how she wanted to spend her day.
She was going to have to take more proactive action. Action that made a difference. Action like Emma Peel would take. Emma Peel was Rosy’s role model – a fearless, arse-kicking superspy that always had the answer, and did it all in heels (although Rosy would be quite happy to successfully arse-kick in plimsolls). Emma Peel would not have muddled the words to ‘Dancing Queen’ quite so tunelessly and then lain here the next morning just whimpering. No, what would she have done?
It would definitely involve a catsuit, but seeing that Rosy didn’t have one maybe some paracetamol would be a good start.
She rolled off her bed and onto all fours and padded to the bathroom – this seemed like the best way to do it this morning and had the plus of being deadAvengers-like. Once there, she winched herself up onto the sink and scrabbled in the cabinet to find painkillers. Standing properly now, she managed to knock back not just the paracetamol but threw some ibuprofen in at the same time. It was a medical emergency after all. Maybe whilst she was here she should brush her teeth, see if it was possible to do it without moving her head. Look, see, as soon as the pain diminished, today was going to be OK.
Just as she was finishing, there was a loud knock at the door. A very loud knock. Oh, Jesus, the last thing she needed now were visitors. Very, very slowly, muttering just a little bit, she headed down the stairs, pyjama-clad, to answer it.
Matt knocked again; he was sure she was in this time. Why was she taking so long? They weren’t exactly big houses. Beautiful but not big. And there had definitely been noises a minute ago, signifying she was awake.
Suddenly he wondered if that was kind of creepy. Had he turned into one of those guys that obsessed about their neighbours, listening to every sound and mapping every movement? Was his next step on the inevitable path to serial killerdom preparing a basement? Perhaps he should step away from the door right now so things didn’t escalate.
