CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At some point in the middle of the night, the tone of Ash’s note begins to take on a sinister edge. While I was drunk, I thought that he’d writtenNot happeningwith kind of a cute, flippant air.
But once the high of alcohol wears off, paranoia sets in and I begin to wonder if he meantNot happeningin a meaner way, as in:This is my home and I’m not going anywhere. If you’ve got a problem with that,youfuck off.
I don’t know him, not the way I thought I did. He’s got a girlfriend, a soon-to-be fiancée. If I cause trouble for him, he could have me fired. He holds all the power. I’m just a nobody gardener, easily replaceable.
But I cannotlose this job.
I’m still on edge later that morning when I’m with Evan in West Court, making a start on the summer bedding. We’re planting an annual mix ofVerbena hastata,Salvia‘Love and Wishes’ andAgeratum houstonianumand it’s the sort of work I normally adore, pushing my hands into freshly prepared soil, feeling a connection to the earth, imagining how these tiny plants will grow into huge clouds of purple, pink and blue in the coming months.
But today my mind is all over the place.
I don’t like being this close to the house. West Court backs right up against the Tudor wing, behind the west bay of the eighteenth-century section of the house, which is where the family’s living quarters are.
Ash could be looking down from any window. He could be around any corner.
‘How are you feeling today?’ Evan asks.
‘Hungover,’ I reply, an easy answer after last night’s sesh. ‘What about you?’
‘I feel fine, actually,’ he replies with a grin, glancing at my arms. ‘Still suffering?’
For a second, I wonder if he’s talking about the scratches I sustained when I fell into the rose bush, but then I realise he’s referring to my sunburn.
‘Better. Just being careful.’
I’ve kept my arms covered since Monday evening, but my long-sleeve shirt is as much to hide my injuries as it is to protect my skin.
Evan looks past me. ‘Oh, hey, Mrs B.’
I instantly go tense.
‘Hello, darlings! Evan, Eleanor,’ she says.
I don’t know why she insists on saying our names every time she sees us, or why she calls me Eleanor instead of Ellie, although Eleanorismy proper name.
Maybe that’s why: because it sounds more ‘proper’.
I force myself to look over my shoulder at her. ‘Good morning.’
I haven’t seen her since I ran out of her anniversary party. Does she know I did that? She doesn’t appear to be regardingme any differently, but I’m seeing her through new eyes. That’s Ash’smother.
‘Those peonies are marvellous,’ she says, admiring the blowsy tree peonies growing at the corner of West Court.
‘It’s a good year for them,’ Evan agrees. ‘Want me to cut some for you to put in a vase?’
Her face lights up as though this is the best idea anyone has ever had.
‘Would you? That would be wonderful!’
I can’t help but smile at how accommodating he is as he carefully steps back out of the garden bed and grabs his secateurs from his trug. The wooden baskets they use here are even fancier than the ones we used at Wisley.
I’m about to carry on with what I’m doing when Ash walks round the corner. My stomach drops off a cliff. And then my heart begins topound.
‘Ashton!’ his mother calls with delight. ‘What are you doing here? Have you met our new gardener?’
In the moment it takes Ash’s eyes to find mine, his mother is already introducing us.
