Clem smiled. ‘She was humming it in the kitchen and now it’s stuck in my head; it’s such an earworm. I wouldn’t have sung it if I knew I had an audience, though.’ Her eyes sparkled as she pointed to the handful of yellow flowering weeds he was holding. ‘Such a romantic, Spencer. You really shouldn’t have.’
He glanced at the soursobs. ‘They match your dress,’ he said.
‘And they’re a perfect match for my lovely singing voice,’ Clem deadpanned. Maybe it was the complete lack of strings attached to the conversation, but it felt easy, Spencer realised. No propositions, no pointed questions or promises, just two adults joking around.
He knew he shouldn’t be hiding in the garden, avoiding the three women he’d invited back to the farm, but being with Clem seemed almost effortless in comparison to the work involved in forging a connection with the remaining contestants. Hisold self-preservation tactic of putting distance between himself and Clem Crossley felt ridiculous on reflection.
Clem moved to one of thorny rose stems and read the label, then the next. ‘I love the way you’ve planted them all around the base of your rotunda, they’ll look divine when they grow up around it. I have a Pierre de Ronsard growing up an old fence, but I’d love a whole wall of them flowing en masse. They’re my favourite rose.’
‘Fingers crossed they thrive on neglect,’ he said.
‘A blanket of mulch, a harsher prune and a scattering of Black Marvel Rose fertiliser and they’ll go great guns,’ she said.
‘Thanks, I’m not much of a flower guy.’
Clem looked from the rotunda to the box hedges and the ornamental snowball tree that was now bare, as if she could imagine it fluffed up to a leafy beauty with little white pom poms in spring, just like she’d imagined the roses in full bloom.
‘This garden says otherwise. I recently catered to a wedding in a garden that wasn’t half as speccy as this. It was your wife’s domain, I take it?’
He’d already told the producers and the contestants that Belle was an off-limits topic, and he sure as hell didn’t like the way Clem was looking at him. Was that pity?
‘It’s gone a bit backward since she passed.’
Spencer pushed his hands into his pockets, blinking away the memories that bubbled up too easily. Despite what he’d told Dana, there was a lot about Clem Crossley that reminded him of his wife.
‘I planted those roses myself last winter, they’ve held up surprisingly well so far.’
‘They’ll be spectacular,’ Clem said softly. ‘I didn’t know Belle, but I’m sure she’d have loved them too. It’ll take a few years for them to fully cover the rotunda, but gosh, when they do, it’ll be amazing.’
They stood, silent in their thoughts, and it was then that Spencer realised that these women he’d been stringing up fairy lights for, the reason for all these cameras, all this fuss, had all respected his request not to discuss Belle.
But was it in respect of his wishes, or because they didn’t know what to say? Or worse, was it because they didn’t care?
The conflict in his heart compounded when he realised his future bride might have different ideas for the garden, as well as the property. How would he feel if they decided to put their stamp on this garden, if they wanted to rip out the roses in favour of natives, or lawn?
His thoughts were interrupted by Dolly, who bounded across to them, pausing to scratch her ear.
‘Here’s trouble,’ he said, stroking the beagle’s short coat. Clem turned to leave, and he walked her to her car. ‘Before you go, how’s the guinea pig situation? Tell me that wasn’t the secret ingredient in those choc orange sweets you brought today?’
A burst of laughter bubbled out of Clem’s mouth. ‘God no, I’m not stark raving mad. Even if that rodent hadn’t made a kamikaze run for his life and escaped into the garden the moment we got home, I most certainly wouldn’t have baked him in a dish. Particularly not one I was serving to paying customers!’
‘Good to know,’ Spencer said. ‘Long live Orange Peel the Brave. See you later, Clem Crossley.’
She looked down at his outstretched hand, tossed the tea towel she was holding over her shoulder, and grasped it firmly. Her hands were warm and her grip was stronger than he’d expected. He watched her drive away, then let out a long sigh and returned to the house.
Clem knew her people-reading skills were a little rusty—her failed relationships were testament to that—but there wassomething full-on about Emily Brewington-Major, and when she delivered the next batch of catering to South Giddi Giddi on Sunday morning, she sensed that Louisa Brealy thought so too.
‘I’ll walk you out, Clem,’ Louisa said, linking an arm through hers. ‘Love this dress—it’s even got bees on it. Did you buy it specially for the TV show?’
Clem laughed. The colourful corduroy dress had been one of her favourite finds from her cousin Fiona’s second-hand store several years ago, and even if she could find the time to go shopping, she didn’t have the budget to revamp her wardrobe at the drop of a hat.
Especially not for a TV show she had no role in.
‘You would’ve seen me wearing this dress at the cafe a hundred times, if not more. It’s practically falling apart at the seams,’ Clem said.
‘Well, it’s a darn sight more cheerful than the black, black and more black everyone else seems to wear around here. I’m not sure those girls know other colours exist.’
Clem glanced back over her shoulder to where Madeleine and Kyra were huddled around a small fire pit. They were rugged up in dark coats and scarves, their blonde hair tucked under beanies, casting impatient glances towards the film crew, who were interviewing Emily and Spencer on the deck. Sure enough, Emily was dressed in all black, from her jeans to her jacket, and from the set of her crossed arms, Clem suspected their conversation was more stormy than sunny.
