a
white
dress? With my hips, I don’t think so; but I’ve clung on to the dream, and today is the first day I have the time and the energy to do anything about it. I get The Other Book, Alan’s book, the one that I’ve been reading religiously, one laborious paragraph/fifteen-minute baby power nap at a time, and bound down the stairs. Then I bound back up again to get Ella’s monitor and bound back down.
‘Morning.’ Mr Crawley walks in through the back door. ‘How’s that baby? Any more teething trouble?’
I smile at him, resisting the urge to hug him with joy.
‘Not so far, and guess what?’
He lowers his chin and smiles at me.
‘What?’
‘She slept through the night!’ I omit the fact that I didn’t, and smile brightly. ‘Maybe this is it, maybe she’ll start to sleep though from now on and I’ll never be tired again!’ I whirl around, laughing. ‘God, I sound like a sleep-deprived Scarlett O’Hara.’
Mr Crawley takes his smoked salmon baguette out of his bag and puts it in the fridge.
‘Well, I’m pleased for you, but in my experience it’s not usually so easy …’
I shrug off his experience and ignore it.
‘Yeah, well, according to Scary Poppins, if I haven’t got her sleep-trained by three months she’ll be holding up banks and walking the streets selling her body for drugs by the time she’s eighteen, so frankly, who cares?’ I open the miscellaneous stuff cupboard and take out my first ever piece of gardening equipment, my only piece of gardening equipment actually, but I’m sure they’ll come in handy.
‘Well, watch your fingers with those.’ Mr Crawley raises one eyebrow as Tim joins us fifteen minutes later.
‘Come along, young man, we’ve got a bathroom to grout today,’ he says, his only admonishment a slightly hurt and letdown tone. Tim’s cheeks pinken and he gives me an apologetic shrug as they disappear upstairs.
I have my pristine and unused long-armed shears in my hand when the front doorbell sounds. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with them, but I wholly resent the intrusion on what was to be my cathartic attack on the overgrown garden. I pause for a second and look longingly at the back door before I turn to answer it, sighing huffily as I go. When I open it a scruffy young man in green overalls greets me. It occurs to me that I am still a young woman too, technically at least, and I make a mental note never to refer to anyone the same age as me as ‘young’ ever again.
‘Mrs Kelly?’ he asks. He’s Welsh.
‘Yes?’ He’s obviously some kind of workman but I can’t work out which kind. All of the relevant ones are in the house right now and we won’t need a decorator for ages yet.
‘Ah good, I’m Gareth Jerome, Jerome’s Gorgeous Gardens?’ He rolls the ‘r’ in gorgeous and looks as if he expects me to let him in.
‘I’m sorry, am I expecting you?’ I ask.
‘Oh yes. Mr Kelly booked me a couple of months ago to start on your garden, we agreed I’d get going as soon as the weather picked up. There’s a lot of clearing to do, is that right? Of course, I should have started planting months ago but it’s not too late yet, you’ll still have a really beautiful garden come the summer.’ He smiles with obvious pleasure at the thought and I look him up and down and seethe. Damn bloody Fergus, he
promised
me that the garden would be all mine! I shake my head. The last thing I need is a cuckoo unbalancing my already precariously placed nest.
‘Look Mr … Jerome? There’s been a misunderstanding. We don’t need a gardener. I’m doing the garden and …’ The phone begins to ring and I know exactly who it is. And I would have anyway, even if there were more than one person in the whole world who ever phones me these days.
‘Will you excuse me for one moment,’ I tell him and go to pick it up.
‘Well?’ I ask in lieu of saying hello.
‘Ah, he’s arrived, I see. Thought he might do, what with it being sunny and
white
dress? With my hips, I don’t think so; but I’ve clung on to the dream, and today is the first day I have the time and the energy to do anything about it. I get The Other Book, Alan’s book, the one that I’ve been reading religiously, one laborious paragraph/fifteen-minute baby power nap at a time, and bound down the stairs. Then I bound back up again to get Ella’s monitor and bound back down.
‘Morning.’ Mr Crawley walks in through the back door. ‘How’s that baby? Any more teething trouble?’
I smile at him, resisting the urge to hug him with joy.
‘Not so far, and guess what?’
He lowers his chin and smiles at me.
‘What?’
‘She slept through the night!’ I omit the fact that I didn’t, and smile brightly. ‘Maybe this is it, maybe she’ll start to sleep though from now on and I’ll never be tired again!’ I whirl around, laughing. ‘God, I sound like a sleep-deprived Scarlett O’Hara.’
Mr Crawley takes his smoked salmon baguette out of his bag and puts it in the fridge.
‘Well, I’m pleased for you, but in my experience it’s not usually so easy …’
I shrug off his experience and ignore it.
‘Yeah, well, according to Scary Poppins, if I haven’t got her sleep-trained by three months she’ll be holding up banks and walking the streets selling her body for drugs by the time she’s eighteen, so frankly, who cares?’ I open the miscellaneous stuff cupboard and take out my first ever piece of gardening equipment, my only piece of gardening equipment actually, but I’m sure they’ll come in handy.
‘Well, watch your fingers with those.’ Mr Crawley raises one eyebrow as Tim joins us fifteen minutes later.
‘Come along, young man, we’ve got a bathroom to grout today,’ he says, his only admonishment a slightly hurt and letdown tone. Tim’s cheeks pinken and he gives me an apologetic shrug as they disappear upstairs.
I have my pristine and unused long-armed shears in my hand when the front doorbell sounds. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with them, but I wholly resent the intrusion on what was to be my cathartic attack on the overgrown garden. I pause for a second and look longingly at the back door before I turn to answer it, sighing huffily as I go. When I open it a scruffy young man in green overalls greets me. It occurs to me that I am still a young woman too, technically at least, and I make a mental note never to refer to anyone the same age as me as ‘young’ ever again.
‘Mrs Kelly?’ he asks. He’s Welsh.
‘Yes?’ He’s obviously some kind of workman but I can’t work out which kind. All of the relevant ones are in the house right now and we won’t need a decorator for ages yet.
‘Ah good, I’m Gareth Jerome, Jerome’s Gorgeous Gardens?’ He rolls the ‘r’ in gorgeous and looks as if he expects me to let him in.
‘I’m sorry, am I expecting you?’ I ask.
‘Oh yes. Mr Kelly booked me a couple of months ago to start on your garden, we agreed I’d get going as soon as the weather picked up. There’s a lot of clearing to do, is that right? Of course, I should have started planting months ago but it’s not too late yet, you’ll still have a really beautiful garden come the summer.’ He smiles with obvious pleasure at the thought and I look him up and down and seethe. Damn bloody Fergus, he
promised
me that the garden would be all mine! I shake my head. The last thing I need is a cuckoo unbalancing my already precariously placed nest.
‘Look Mr … Jerome? There’s been a misunderstanding. We don’t need a gardener. I’m doing the garden and …’ The phone begins to ring and I know exactly who it is. And I would have anyway, even if there were more than one person in the whole world who ever phones me these days.
‘Will you excuse me for one moment,’ I tell him and go to pick it up.
‘Well?’ I ask in lieu of saying hello.
‘Ah, he’s arrived, I see. Thought he might do, what with it being sunny and
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