who was wearing a severe dark suit, tightly-laced shoes and heavy black-rimmed glasses. Her hair was scraped back into a ponytail so tight that it pulled her eyebrows up and made her look as though she was unpleasantly surprised by everything she laid eyes on, including us. She reminded me of my PE teacher at school – strict, efficient and completely devoid of soft edges and sympathy.
“You must be Miss Sharpe!” said Mum warmly. “Hi! I’m Lili Fields. It’s really nice to meet you.”
“I’m glad your plane was on time,” Sylvia Sharpe answered crisply, giving Mum a brief, tight-lipped smile. “The car’s this way. Follow me, please.”
Just as I was beginning to relax into a happy state of invisibility, Sylvia glanced over her shoulder and flashed an unnaturally white set of teeth at me. I’d been reading a new book about body language on the plane and couldn’t help noticing that her grin didn’t reach her eyes. That’s not a real smile, I thought. But then the one I gave in reply wasn’t exactly sincere either. How could it be when we’d only just met?
“You must be Poppy,” Sylvia Sharpe said briskly as she led us across the arrivals hall towards the exit. “And I guess you’re Graham. If you need anything while you’re here, you come to me. Burgers, fries, magazines, movies… If you want it, it’s yours. Nothing’s too much trouble for Miss Sugarcandy’s guests.”
Graham and I exchanged a quick look. My mind was fuzzy with tiredness but I couldn’t help finding this sudden generosity a little strange. We weren’t
guests
, after all, we were
employees
, or at least Mum was. Did Americans always make such a fuss over people who came to work for them? And if they did, why didn’t Sylvia’s words quite match her manner? It was like she was delivering a speech that she hadn’t rehearsed often enough to make it sound sincere. Odd, I thought, very odd. I’m going to keep an eye on her.
We were in the States because my mum Lili runs her own landscape gardening business, Green Fields and Far Away. She won a bronze medal at last year’s Chelsea Flower Show for outstanding garden design, but she still spends most of her time mowing old ladies’ lawns and digging vegetable plots for people who’ve put their backs out. Then, out of the blue, she’d had a phone call from America and the next thing we knew she was invited to make over the Hollywood estate of Baby Sugarcandy. Mum was dead impressed but I didn’t have a clue who Baby Sugarcandy was. I had to look her up on the internet. She turned out to be an actress and singer who’d been part of the Sugarcandies, a British girl band who’d made it big in the States years and years ago. (“Their first single ‘Go Baby Go’ spent a record number of weeks at number one,” Graham informed me on the plane.) The other girls in the group – Lady, Gypsy and Queen – had sunk without trace when the band split, but Baby had gone on to star in several films. (“She won an Oscar in 1989 for her performance in
Shoot Me Dead, Honey
,” according to Graham.) She’d now decided that she wanted to be surrounded by an English country garden, even if she did live in the middle of Beverly Hills. The day Sylvia had called I’d come home from school to find Mum exploding with excitement. She’d given me such a violent hug that she’d almost cracked my ribs. “It’s my big chance!” she’d yelled. “Who knows where it will lead? I’ll be garden designer to the stars! This is where my career takes off!”
Sylvia had told Mum that Miss Sugarcandy was not only paying megabucks for the design, but she was also happy for Mum to bring me along. “She even said you could invite a friend to stop you being bored. I’ll be working all day – you’ll need someone to keep you company. She’s going to pay for our flights and everything. Who do you want to invite?”
“Graham.” My answer had been instant.
“Graham?” said Mum. “Are you sure?
“You must be Miss Sharpe!” said Mum warmly. “Hi! I’m Lili Fields. It’s really nice to meet you.”
“I’m glad your plane was on time,” Sylvia Sharpe answered crisply, giving Mum a brief, tight-lipped smile. “The car’s this way. Follow me, please.”
Just as I was beginning to relax into a happy state of invisibility, Sylvia glanced over her shoulder and flashed an unnaturally white set of teeth at me. I’d been reading a new book about body language on the plane and couldn’t help noticing that her grin didn’t reach her eyes. That’s not a real smile, I thought. But then the one I gave in reply wasn’t exactly sincere either. How could it be when we’d only just met?
“You must be Poppy,” Sylvia Sharpe said briskly as she led us across the arrivals hall towards the exit. “And I guess you’re Graham. If you need anything while you’re here, you come to me. Burgers, fries, magazines, movies… If you want it, it’s yours. Nothing’s too much trouble for Miss Sugarcandy’s guests.”
Graham and I exchanged a quick look. My mind was fuzzy with tiredness but I couldn’t help finding this sudden generosity a little strange. We weren’t
guests
, after all, we were
employees
, or at least Mum was. Did Americans always make such a fuss over people who came to work for them? And if they did, why didn’t Sylvia’s words quite match her manner? It was like she was delivering a speech that she hadn’t rehearsed often enough to make it sound sincere. Odd, I thought, very odd. I’m going to keep an eye on her.
We were in the States because my mum Lili runs her own landscape gardening business, Green Fields and Far Away. She won a bronze medal at last year’s Chelsea Flower Show for outstanding garden design, but she still spends most of her time mowing old ladies’ lawns and digging vegetable plots for people who’ve put their backs out. Then, out of the blue, she’d had a phone call from America and the next thing we knew she was invited to make over the Hollywood estate of Baby Sugarcandy. Mum was dead impressed but I didn’t have a clue who Baby Sugarcandy was. I had to look her up on the internet. She turned out to be an actress and singer who’d been part of the Sugarcandies, a British girl band who’d made it big in the States years and years ago. (“Their first single ‘Go Baby Go’ spent a record number of weeks at number one,” Graham informed me on the plane.) The other girls in the group – Lady, Gypsy and Queen – had sunk without trace when the band split, but Baby had gone on to star in several films. (“She won an Oscar in 1989 for her performance in
Shoot Me Dead, Honey
,” according to Graham.) She’d now decided that she wanted to be surrounded by an English country garden, even if she did live in the middle of Beverly Hills. The day Sylvia had called I’d come home from school to find Mum exploding with excitement. She’d given me such a violent hug that she’d almost cracked my ribs. “It’s my big chance!” she’d yelled. “Who knows where it will lead? I’ll be garden designer to the stars! This is where my career takes off!”
Sylvia had told Mum that Miss Sugarcandy was not only paying megabucks for the design, but she was also happy for Mum to bring me along. “She even said you could invite a friend to stop you being bored. I’ll be working all day – you’ll need someone to keep you company. She’s going to pay for our flights and everything. Who do you want to invite?”
“Graham.” My answer had been instant.
“Graham?” said Mum. “Are you sure?
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