all. You see, the thing is …’ Fergus does his usual trick of riding roughshod over my evident anger and displeasure in the hope that his amiable charm will evaporate my mood. It infuriates me, and worse still it diminishes all of my concerns to nothing but girlish foolishness, as if nothing I think or feel is to be taken seriously.
‘Fergus, you promised! Don’t you remember the conversation? You said moving out of London would be the best thing for all of us and I said okay as long as I get the garden to myself? Remember? The garden is mine! I’ve got plans and everything!’ I pick up my piece of grid paper that I have lovingly filled with my designs under the detailed instruction of Alan and wave it at the receiver as proof. Gareth Jerome shuffles his feet awkwardly on the doorstep and turns his back on me to gather his long reddish brown hair into a ponytail. I glare at him. I mean, who has long hair these days? Does he think it’s the eighties?
‘Darling.’ Fergus’s tone is conciliatory but not remotely cowed. ‘I know what we agreed, but I just thought there is so much crap out there – it’s so overgrown and all that – I just thought that maybe he could help with the clearing of it all and leave you to do the fun bit. I mean, if you just start to clear in the few moments that Ella is asleep you’ll never get anywhere will you? Will you? Look how long it’s taken you to get to chapter three in your gardening book – nearly six months!’
I sulk silently for a few moments, belligerently resisting the logic of his argument.
‘You could have discussed it with me,’ I mumble.
‘I meant to, but you know how busy I’ve been. Dad recommended him, sorted it out for me and then I meant to tell you, but something happened and it just went out of my head until the sun came out today and I suddenly thought, “Oh shit, I’m for the high jump.”’
I smile but try to keep it out of my voice.
‘Can we afford a gardener?’ I feel it’s my duty to mention cash, although it never seems to bother Fergus and since I quit my job I have had nothing to do with it.
‘Yes, we can afford a gardener,’ Fergus says deliberately.
I sigh and look at the lanky figure of Gareth Jerome. He doesn’t look like he could prune a hedge let alone get through the jungle of overgrown thicket out the back. Maybe he’s wiry.
‘Okay, but when it’s cleared he goes and I’m in charge, agreed?’ I raise my voice for Gareth Jerome’s benefit.
‘Agreed. You know that I love you, don’t you?’
The inevitable smile rushes into my voice, along with a brief reprise of that feeling that sometimes seems as distant in miles as Fergus is these days.
‘Yes, I love you too. I’ll see you later.’
He always manages to convince me out loud that he is right, even if my heart is convinced that he is wrong.
Goodbyes said, I return to Gareth Jerome. Of course I know I shouldn’t be suspicious of all Welsh people just because the last boyfriend I had before Fergus was Welsh and possibly the most low-life, double-dealing, two-timing, evil-minded, manipulating man I have ever met, but logic doesn’t often come into it when you’re dealing with an ex-hangover, and I remember once going out of my way home for weeks to avoid a shop called ‘Anne’s Antiques’ just because Anne was the name of the man I loved’s new girlfriend, so really, being slightly resentful and mistrustful of this stranger is me being fairly well adjusted in my book. It’s the very same lilt in his voice that used to send me bananas with Trevor that puts me right on edge now.
‘Did you get that?’
He sighs and nods, looking disappointed, and, tipping his head to one side, watches me with a relaxed scrutiny. With his long straight hair and earthiness, he’s somehow faintly medieval, slightly wolfish.
‘Not really what I do, manual labour, being a fully qualified landscape gardener, but I suppose as I’ve not got too much on at the moment, what
‘Fergus, you promised! Don’t you remember the conversation? You said moving out of London would be the best thing for all of us and I said okay as long as I get the garden to myself? Remember? The garden is mine! I’ve got plans and everything!’ I pick up my piece of grid paper that I have lovingly filled with my designs under the detailed instruction of Alan and wave it at the receiver as proof. Gareth Jerome shuffles his feet awkwardly on the doorstep and turns his back on me to gather his long reddish brown hair into a ponytail. I glare at him. I mean, who has long hair these days? Does he think it’s the eighties?
‘Darling.’ Fergus’s tone is conciliatory but not remotely cowed. ‘I know what we agreed, but I just thought there is so much crap out there – it’s so overgrown and all that – I just thought that maybe he could help with the clearing of it all and leave you to do the fun bit. I mean, if you just start to clear in the few moments that Ella is asleep you’ll never get anywhere will you? Will you? Look how long it’s taken you to get to chapter three in your gardening book – nearly six months!’
I sulk silently for a few moments, belligerently resisting the logic of his argument.
‘You could have discussed it with me,’ I mumble.
‘I meant to, but you know how busy I’ve been. Dad recommended him, sorted it out for me and then I meant to tell you, but something happened and it just went out of my head until the sun came out today and I suddenly thought, “Oh shit, I’m for the high jump.”’
I smile but try to keep it out of my voice.
‘Can we afford a gardener?’ I feel it’s my duty to mention cash, although it never seems to bother Fergus and since I quit my job I have had nothing to do with it.
‘Yes, we can afford a gardener,’ Fergus says deliberately.
I sigh and look at the lanky figure of Gareth Jerome. He doesn’t look like he could prune a hedge let alone get through the jungle of overgrown thicket out the back. Maybe he’s wiry.
‘Okay, but when it’s cleared he goes and I’m in charge, agreed?’ I raise my voice for Gareth Jerome’s benefit.
‘Agreed. You know that I love you, don’t you?’
The inevitable smile rushes into my voice, along with a brief reprise of that feeling that sometimes seems as distant in miles as Fergus is these days.
‘Yes, I love you too. I’ll see you later.’
He always manages to convince me out loud that he is right, even if my heart is convinced that he is wrong.
Goodbyes said, I return to Gareth Jerome. Of course I know I shouldn’t be suspicious of all Welsh people just because the last boyfriend I had before Fergus was Welsh and possibly the most low-life, double-dealing, two-timing, evil-minded, manipulating man I have ever met, but logic doesn’t often come into it when you’re dealing with an ex-hangover, and I remember once going out of my way home for weeks to avoid a shop called ‘Anne’s Antiques’ just because Anne was the name of the man I loved’s new girlfriend, so really, being slightly resentful and mistrustful of this stranger is me being fairly well adjusted in my book. It’s the very same lilt in his voice that used to send me bananas with Trevor that puts me right on edge now.
‘Did you get that?’
He sighs and nods, looking disappointed, and, tipping his head to one side, watches me with a relaxed scrutiny. With his long straight hair and earthiness, he’s somehow faintly medieval, slightly wolfish.
‘Not really what I do, manual labour, being a fully qualified landscape gardener, but I suppose as I’ve not got too much on at the moment, what
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