Читать книгу Julia Williams 3 Book Bundle - Julia Williams - Страница 34

Kezzie spent several days mulling over what Joel had said. Maybe he was right. If she got in touch with Richard again, she could know one way or another if it was definitely over. It had been nearly six months now, and no word from him, but then she hadn’t made it easy for him to get in touch with her. Perhaps, as Joel had suggested, Richard had been trying to.

But then again, if he’d been trying to find her surely Richard would have got in touch with her via Flick? She didn’t hold out much hope for him finding her through Facebook, as Richard didn’t even have an account. While he embraced modern technology for business, he was less keen on social networking in his personal life, claiming he’d rather speak to people face to face than online.

After some internal debate, she decided that rather than ringing him up again – she wasn’t yet ready for the humiliation of having him slam the phone down on her, or hearing that other woman on the phone again – her best bet would be to use the excuse of the Summer Fest as a reason for getting in touch, and to do it by email.

After much deliberation Kezzie sat down at Jo’s rickety desk with a glass of wine to write an email to Richard.

To: Richard.Lacey@L&GGardendesigns.com

From: Kezzie@hotmail.com

Dear Richard, she wrote. And then got stuck. What to say next? I hope you’re missing me as madly as I’m missing you?

I know you said you never wanted to hear from me again last time we spoke but I thought I’d email anyway?

I think we’ve made a huge mistake?

No, she couldn’t say any of that. It was way too personal.

She started again.

To Richard? Too formal.

Hi, Richard? Too friendly.

In the end she went with,

Richard,

Kezzie here. Just wanting to pick your brains about a community gardening project I’m working on. We’re planning to overhaul a local park, and we need to raise a considerable sum of money. I know it’s cheeky of me after all this time, but I was wondering if you could think of anyone I could contact who might be able to offer their services.

Hope you’re keeping well,

Kezzie

She felt like she had been reasonably casual, and not too intense, while managing to maintain a friendly air. She read the email over several times, and took a great big gulp of wine.

‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ she said, her finger hovering over the keyboard for a minute, before she decided she may as well just go for it, and pressed send. The minute the email had gone she regretted it, but it was too late now. Oh well. She’d have to deal with the fallout tomorrow. As she went to turn the computer off, an email pinged straight back into her inbox. Kezzie swallowed hard. She’d assumed Richard would have gone home for the evening, and hadn’t imagined he’d still be sitting at his desk. It was tantalizing to think of them connected by their computer screens. So close, and yet so far away.

From: Richard. Lacey@L&GGardendesigns.com

To: Kezzie@hotmail.com

Kezzie,

If you want help with your gardening project your best bet is to contact the RoseThyme Agency who have a lot of gardening celebs on their books.

I recall from our last conversation I said I didn’t want to see you any more. That hasn’t changed. I think it advisable for you not to contact me again.

Richard

Kezzie felt as if a cold bucket of water had been thrown over her head. Seeing the words there so starkly in front of her was even more hurtful than it had been all those months ago. She let out a howl of anguish. Part of her wanted to launch a tirade at him, telling him how wrong he was, begging him to forgive her, but she was too proud. All that would do would make him hate her even more. Instead, she responded with a curt, I only contacted you for the information you gave me. Thanks for that. You won’t hear from me again. And then she deleted her hotmail account. It was one she didn’t use very often, but she couldn’t bear the thought of any more correspondence like that from Richard. Better if he didn’t know how to contact her. And now she’d opened the correspondence, better if she wasn’t tempted to contact him again.

Kezzie switched off the computer and stared out into the gathering gloom. Finally she had to face it, after all these months of pretending. It really was over. Richard was never going to take her back.

Lauren was having the opposite problem. After years of thinking Troy didn’t want her, she was being faced with the prospect that now, all of a sudden he actually genuinely did.

Lauren had been stunned by Troy’s revelation that he was missing her. It was what she’d wanted to hear for a long time. And yet now he’d finally recognized the error of his ways, she wasn’t convinced she wanted him to. She’d got used to it being just her and the girls. They’d been doing fine till Troy came along. And if she wanted a man in her life, she wasn’t sure it would be Troy she was after.

A picture of Joel swam unbidden in front of her eyes. Now that was ridiculous. He was good looking, it was true; you’d have to be a blind, hormonally challenged hermit not to notice that. But there was so much emotional confusion tied up in Lauren’s feelings for Joel. First, as Claire’s friend, she felt guilty for even thinking Joel attractive. She hadn’t paid any attention to Joel’s good looks when Claire was alive, but increasingly of late, Lauren had been aware that he was very, very, attractive. But she couldn’t possibly think about it because Claire had been her friend. Besides, Claire had painted a very warts and all picture of her husband, so Lauren was fully aware of all Joel’s faults. Claire had been running round like a headless chicken while Joel had ostensibly been doing up the house, but as far as Lauren could see, it was just an excuse not to be there at bath time. Joel probably wasn’t much of a better bet than Troy. Having a man in the house wasn’t a guarantee of support.

Lauren made her way reluctantly to the pub, knowing that tonight she was sharing another shift with Troy. Despite her anxiety, the sight of a new family of ducklings frantically swimming after their proud mother made her smile. Spring was definitely in the air.

Lauren sighed, enviously looking at the few stalwart smokers who were sitting under the patio heaters on the benches outside the pub. She would much, much, rather be drinking with them, but Sally had called and wheedled her into coming in this evening. ‘I know it’s short notice,’ Sally had said, ‘but I really can’t get anyone else tonight, and you’re always so reliable.’ For which read, I know you need the money. Which was true. Lauren always needed the money, and never felt she could turn an offer of work down. Mum couldn’t babysit, so Kezzie had stepped in, and now Lauren was hotfooting it – late – to the pub.

‘You’re late,’ Sally was on her case the minute she walked in the pub. Who was helping who out of a jam here?

‘Sorry,’ said Lauren, ‘you didn’t exactly give me much notice.’

Sally looked as though she was about to launch into a tirade, but Troy appeared like magic from his side of the bar, and said, ‘Oh, come on, Sal, you know that’s not fair, at least Loz has turned up.’

Loz. She liked the way he called her that. No one else ever did.

Sal was immediately flattered by Troy’s attention; you could almost hear her purr, and within seconds she’d forgotten that she wanted to bawl Lauren out, and was being persuaded that she needed to go upstairs and put her feet up in front of the TV, which was precisely the reason Lauren had been called in at the last moment.

‘Thanks for that,’ said Lauren.

‘No worries,’ said Troy, giving her a wink. ‘I won’t have you being bullied like that.’

Lauren forced down the little thrill that shot through her as he said that. Troy was being Troy. He was trying to get her back, and would use any means at his disposal to do so, she had to remember that.

As it happened, he didn’t try anything at all for the rest of the evening. It was a fairly slow night and only three or four of the regulars were in, so Lauren and he chatted amicably behind the bar for most of the night. To her surprise, Lauren found they had a lot to talk about. They argued about the football, Lauren supported the local third division club, while Troy (naturally) supported Man U, and couldn’t work out why Lauren would be interested in a bunch of losers. They read the headlines in the tabloids left at the bar, and laughed at the shenanigans that low grade celebs were getting up to if the redtops were to be believed. And in between, Troy talked about the girls.

‘I just can’t get over how great they are,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a good job with them, Loz.’

Lauren felt a little glow of pride. It wasn’t as if being a mum came with a yearly appraisal. It felt nice to get some recognition that she was getting it right.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Most of the time I feel like I’m just about coping.’

‘I think you do more than cope,’ said Troy. ‘In fact I think you’re rather magnificent.’

Lauren blushed, and turned away. Why did he have to be so nice now? If only he could have felt like this four years ago.

‘Well, that’s easy for you to say,’ she said. ‘You come in after all the hard work’s done and think by complimenting me that makes it all right.’

Troy had the grace to look embarrassed.

‘Sorry, that came out wrong,’ he said. ‘You’re absolutely right. It is easy for me to say, but I know now what a tosser I’ve been. I should never have left you in the lurch like that, and I wish I hadn’t.’

‘Too right you shouldn’t,’ said Lauren.

‘I do want to make it up to you,’ he said, ‘more than anything.’

Lauren sighed, ‘It’s not that easy to wipe out four years of hurt, Troy. Let’s just leave it that we get to know each other again as friends, and you concentrate on being the girls’ dad. Take one step at a time, eh?’

She touched his arm lightly, then went to clear up the empties and wipe down tables. When she looked up, she caught Troy looking at her when he thought she wasn’t watching. He looked rather sad and thoughtful. She wondered, for the first time since he was back, if he really meant everything he said. Perhaps this time, he had changed, and for the better.

Joel was at home lovingly working on Edward’s desk. He’d decided that if he was going to open the house for the Edward Handford exhibition, he needed to get on and renovate. Thanks to Kezzie having wangled some grant money for the garden from a small gardening charity, he’d had to spend less on the restoration than he’d budgeted for. Which meant he felt able to splash out on a decorator, and had managed to get the dining room and lounge finished. The hallway was next on the list, and in the meantime Joel had resumed work on the desk. As the only bit of furniture still surviving from Edward’s day, Joel wanted it to form pride of place in the exhibition.

He finally finished stripping off the old layers of polish and lacquer, layers and layers of it, which he’d spent weeks doing when Sam was small, before Claire had died. But now he had attacked it with renewed vigour, and he was rewarded for his efforts by being able to see the original walnut in all its beauty. He took a piece of sandpaper to it, and started to sand it down gently. This was such a beautiful piece of furniture. It gave him a thrill to think of Edward sitting here, writing at it, looking out of the front of the house, just as he did. The more he read Edward’s diaries, and looked through the other material he and Kezzie had found, the greater his affinity with his great great grandfather, who had moved into the house in the first throes of love, and created a garden in memory of that love.

For Joel too, it was love that had brought him here, though to begin with it was the garden that had attracted him – he clearly remembered as a child the excitement of coming to visit Uncle Jack, and finding it locked, sneaking into it in much the same way as Kezzie had. He could still remember the thrill, as he swung himself over the wall, and dropped down into the garden.

Back then it had been half tended – Uncle Jack had employed a curmudgeonly old handyman, whom Joel had instinctively avoided – but rarely visited, so the borders had been a jumble of weeds and plants. He particularly remembered there was a lot of heartsease, but then you found a lot of that growing round here. But he could also make out the patterns of the knot garden, just about being kept in shape, although he hadn’t really appreciated what he was looking at. The bushes round the side of the garden had been very overgrown and Joel had spent a lovely half hour having adventures in them before he’d been called indoors. Forever after, the secret garden had held a magical place in his heart. When his mum told him about Uncle Jack’s will it had been a no brainer to come here.

Realistically, though, when he saw the house he should have known it wouldn’t be to Claire’s taste. It hadn’t, if he were honest, been altogether to his. He had taken her to Lovelace Cottage as a surprise, but their first view of the place had been hardly propitious. Uncle Jack had been a bachelor, with no children, and precious little money. So the house had fallen into a state of disrepair, and was in desperate need of modernization. What Joel remembered as romantic and exotic from his childhood had turned into a decaying lost paradise, and even he had balked a little as he opened the creaking iron gate, and led Claire by the hand up the path.

The crazy paving was broken and cracked, leaving the surface uneven. The grass was growing long and wild, and the flowerbeds were a riot of weeds, with the odd snapdragon and forget me not poking out. The scent of the wisteria over the front door was strong, but the plant itself had, triffid-like, taken over the whole of the front of the house and needed cutting back. Claire had blinked in the May sunlight. The sun played upon her face, and she raised her hand to shield herself from its glare. Her fair hair was tied in a high ponytail, and her face was alive and laughing.

‘Um, it’s a bit overgrown,’ she said. ‘And who in their right mind would plant a privet hedge so close to the house? It must be hideously dark inside.’

‘I don’t suppose it was like that originally,’ he said. ‘Nobody’s done anything here forever. I’m sure we can trim that back so it’s not so overgrown. Come on, let’s go in.’

He opened the front door with some trepidation. Uncle Jack was a cantankerous old soul, and from his childhood memories the place had never been clean. Claire was used to the spick and span modernity of their flat in town; would she be able to cope with the amount of work needed here? Even Joel, who loved the idea of restoring an old house like this, felt a little daunted.

They had walked into a house trapped in time. There was dust everywhere, mote beams danced in the green, red and blue shadows cast by sunlight pouring through the stained-glass window of the front door, but the overall impression was of gloomy darkness. The stairway in the hall, though impressive, was made of dark mahogany, and matched the wood panelling up the walls. The parquet floor was partially covered in a faded red and white rug, which had seen better days, and pictures of various aged relatives stared vacantly out of ancient photographs.

‘Who’s this?’ Claire chanced upon a family photo of a stiff-looking Edwardian family: the parents sitting down, the mother with her hair in a bun, looking terribly severe, the father sitting rigid and squinting into the sun, the children solemn and serious, two girls and a boy dressed in their Sunday best. They didn’t look a happy bunch.

‘I think it’s my great great grandfather Edward Handford, who designed the gardens here,’ said Joel. He looked around him, trying to picture what the place could look like without the dust, and the oppressive darkness. The rooms had high ceilings, and there was masses of space. This could be turned into an amazing house, but he could sense Claire’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘I know it’s dark and old fashioned, Claire, but I’m sure if we took away the panelling and opened up the stairway the place would seem lighter. See that window halfway up the hall? If we made that bigger, it would bring in more light. Come on, let’s look upstairs.’

Claire followed him upstairs, pursing her lips as they went through room after room that looked tatty and worn, as if nothing had been touched here for centuries.

‘I feel like I’m in Miss Havisham’s house,’ said Claire, as they walked out of one particularly cobwebby room. ‘How on earth do you think your uncle managed living here?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Joel. ‘Look, I know it’s a lot of work, but can you really resist those views?’

He pointed to the back window. The back garden, as overgrown as the front, stretched down a hill before them, and gave way at the bottom to views of the South Downs. Joel drew the curtains back, and threw open the casement window. Light came pouring in. Suddenly the dark, poky little bedroom they were in was transformed into something much brighter. The sprig-like wallpaper, now faded, had been pretty once. It was possible to see that the room could be bright and pretty again.

‘This could make a lovely nursery,’ Joel cajoled Claire. ‘I know it doesn’t look much now, but really there’s bags of potential. And where else are we going to get so much space for the money?’

Although they were planning to take out a mortgage to buy the house from Joel’s mum, she had generously given them a good price, one they couldn’t really afford to turn down.

‘I suppose,’ said Claire reluctantly.

He looked out of the window and out towards the bottom of the garden. There was a faint sound of sheep in the background, and the birds were singing.

‘You don’t get sounds like that in London,’ he said.

‘True …’ said Claire, still uncertain.

‘You don’t like it?’ Joel had been so certain she would be brought round, once she’d seen the potential of the house. He’d only visited here a few times in his life, but there was something about the mystery and romance of this place that had intrigued him. He couldn’t wait to get going on the restoration.

‘It’s not that exactly,’ said Claire, rubbing her stomach, ‘it’s just such a big move. With Junior on the way, and all the work here, I don’t know how we’ll manage.’

Joel took her hands in his. ‘It will be fine, I promise,’ he said. ‘I am going to make this house perfect for the three of us, and for however many of Junior’s brothers and sisters who come along. It’s going to be fabulous, you’ll see.’

And that’s what he’d done. The first six months they’d been in the house, they’d put in central heating and Joel had worked as hard as he could to strip out the dark wood, bring in more windows, and open the old house to the light. He’d wanted to bring love and laughter back into the house. And now Claire was gone, and the work that had gone into their home seemed wasted and fruitless. He wondered if Edward had felt the same in the end about the garden. Why else had he let it go to rack and ruin? It all seemed such a waste.