Chapter Three #3
As she stood at the gate, pulling on her gloves and surveying her jungle, she wondered what James would say about this.
Probably nothing complimentary, but then she didn’t need his or anyone else’s approval.
She had managed to cope with the aftermath of his death, so a few weeds shouldn’t prove too much of an impediment.
She seized the nearest large bramble and closed the secateurs round the stalk.
As she did so, she noticed a string of ripe blackberries dangling from the stem.
It seemed a shame to chop it down when she had no receptacle to put them in.
Striding through the long grass towards the back of the garden, she saw there were many such blackberry bushes entangled with other weeds.
She would come back on Saturday with a Tupperware pot and pick them, unless Connor wanted to lay prior claim.
Rosie turned her attention to the wooden trellis marking the top end of the garden.
She guessed it had been installed by the occupant of the downstairs flat who was probably dismayed by the number of weeds growing through it.
Starting at one end, she began pulling out whatever she could, and cutting down anything that resisted.
There was plenty of that green sticky weed she remembered from childhood holidays; her dad had always pretended not to notice when she stuck large stalks on the back of his jacket.
The long grass was still slightly damp so she crouched down as she worked her way along, not wanting to kneel on the hard, wet ground.
She began compiling a mental list of what she would need.
Definitely a kneeler, a weeding fork, maybe a larger one too, and something to chop larger branches.
Rubbish bags would also be useful. She stood up for a moment and rubbed the backs of her legs.
It was all well and good making lists of things to buy but she’d need to store them somewhere.
And one of the first jobs was definitely to cut the grass.
Staring down the garden, she tried to estimate how long the plot actually was.
She was never much good at that sort of thing, but it must be at least twenty-five feet, maybe even longer.
She added tape measure to her list of things to bring.
‘Hello!’
Rosie spun round at the sound of the voice.
A grey-haired woman stood waving at her and Rosie tramped over towards the gate.
She wondered if this was the downstairs neighbour.
At first glance Rosie guessed she must be in her early seventies.
Her shoulder-length hair was held back with a silver clip and her eyes twinkled as she smiled.
She almost reminded her of some of the ladies at her mum’s bridge club, except her mum’s friends didn’t wear glasses with bright, flowery frames that could have belonged to Elton John’s elderly aunty.
‘Hello, I’m Rosie.’ She tugged off her gloves as she spoke. ‘I hope I wasn’t disturbing you?’
‘Not at all. I was just so pleased to see someone tending the garden I had to come out and thank you.’ Her hands fluttered as she spoke.
‘To be honest, it’s been the bane of my life this summer and I feel rather like King Canute, only holding back the cleavers instead of the waves.
’ She paused, sensing Rosie’s confusion.
‘This stuff,’ she explained, pulling out a clump of weed that had made it through to her side.
‘It’s called cleavers, or Galium aparine to give it its Latin name, but most people call it goosegrass or sticky weed. ’ She threw it down.
‘Anyway, I’m Dorothy and I live in the ground floor flat.’ Her hand waved in the general direction of the building. ‘I’m delighted to see someone out here. Your young man is not a keen horticulturalist I’m afraid to say.’
Rosie felt her cheeks flush. ‘Oh gosh, no, he’s not… I mean we’re not… That is, I’m just renting the garden.’ She paused, wondering why she had suddenly come over all incoherent. ‘It’s purely a business arrangement.’
Dorothy nodded. ‘That’s good. I don’t need to be polite about him then.’
Rosie laughed.
‘Although I have no idea how he’s charmed you into paying him for the privilege of getting his garden organised. He should be paying you!’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I have no gardening experience really other than helping my mum out a bit.
I wanted to take on a new project because—’ She halted, not wanting to start a discussion about her personal life in front of a complete stranger, but Dorothy seemed not to mind the unscheduled pause.
‘Well, this certainly qualifies as a project! And if I can ever help with anything, don’t hesitate to come and find me.
In the summer I’m usually sitting out in the garden but these days it’s getting a bit too nippy to be sitting around, so I mainly come out to do a bit of weeding and general pottering around. ’
‘I’m sure you do more than potter,’ replied Rosie.
‘I was admiring your garden when I came last time. We walked down the path from the flat you see,’ she added in case Dorothy thought she was being nosey.
‘In fact, I thought that was Connor’s garden at first. I hadn’t even realised this bit here was a garden! ’
‘Well, not yet, but I’m sure you can do things with it. There used to be a lovely choisya in the far corner with gorgeous scented white flowers but it’s got completely submerged by the ivy. That will need digging out thoroughly, otherwise it’ll try to come back.’
Rosie tried not to feel disheartened by the growing list of urgent jobs. She was beginning to realise that her garden fantasy was going to take months of hard work.
‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked.
‘Oh, about twelve years now. My late husband and I moved here after he had a heart attack. Caused by stress, the doctors said. Well, after that he couldn’t manage the stairs as well as before.
I carried on working for a bit but I felt I owed it to him to be around, even though he didn’t really want to be mollycoddled. ’
‘And the other neighbours’—Rosie pointed over the fence—‘do they use their gardens much?’
‘A bit. Next door’s children play in the garden sometimes. Unfortunately, some people complain about the noise’—she nodded vaguely in the direction of the adjacent garden—‘but I think it’s nice to hear children playing outside instead of being glued to their screens all the time.’
Rosie wholeheartedly agreed.
‘Well, I’d better let you get on.’ Dorothy looked up at the sky, already hinting at dusk. ‘It won’t stay light for much longer. Don’t forget though, let me know if you need anything.’
Dorothy seemed keen to help, but they’d only just met, so asking favours seemed rather cheeky. ‘Well, there is one thing…’ Rosie began hesitantly.
‘Yes?’
‘Would I be able to borrow your lawn mower? It would be helpful to be able to see where I’m walking.’
‘Absolutely no problem,’ replied Dorothy briskly. ‘When do you plan to be here next?’
‘Probably Saturday. It gives me time to buy a few things.’
Dorothy agreed to leave it at the gate on Saturday and Rosie drove home feeling that if nothing else, she had taken a few positive steps in the right direction. And maybe found a new friend. It had been a while since she’d done either.
After fixing something to eat, she switched on her computer to start searching for the best deals on gardening equipment.
Her financial position was another thing that people made assumptions about: that James had left her a heap of money and a fat insurance policy.
Other than the insurance required to cover their mortgage there had been one savings policy, but that didn’t have a lot in it.
However, what was there was now hers, and she didn’t need permission to spend it.
It was back at her flat, while she was waiting for the computer to wake up, that her mind drifted back to her earlier conversation with Simon.
Could Mr Tetchy really be a famous television personality?
She hadn’t heard of the programme Bonnie Appetito, but then the last fourteen months had passed in something of a haze.
Simon loved anything involving reality TV, in fact he was a bit of a telly addict all round.
However, he also had a very active imagination and she would enjoy proving him wrong for once.
She typed Connor Forbes into the search bar and waited for the results to appear.
She clicked on “images” and watched as the screen flooded with pictures, her mouth dropping open in astonishment.
There was no question that it was him. Only he wasn’t scowling in these pictures, he was smiling broadly, displaying perfect white teeth, and designer stubble framing a handsome, angular face.
Scrolling down, there were other head and shoulders shots of him looking straight into the camera lens, with soulful brown eyes and arched eyebrows that lent him a man-of-mystery air.
In a number of the photos, he had some fabulously dressed female hanging on his arm.
In all the photos he was wearing either a smart suit or dinner jacket, and Rosie was forced to admit that the camera really loved him.
In fact, he was what Emma would call drop-dead gorgeous.
She smiled. She wasn’t looking for another Mr Right, and he was clearly a few years younger than her, but she could see why women would be swooning over him.
She opened up a couple of the sites and found a video clip from Bonnie Appetito.
She watched transfixed as a curvaceous blonde-haired woman weighed and mixed ingredients, all while chatting to the camera and to Connor.
Whenever Rosie did any baking, if she didn’t tie her curls back, she ended up with hair unhelpfully plastered to her face and looking like she was having a hot flush, but this woman calmly and elegantly removed a cake from the oven, placed it on a wire tray and then proceeded to whip up a chocolate ganache without a hair out of place, while Connor poured two glasses of sparkling wine.
It all looked a bit overblown really. It was cooking in fantasy land, but Rosie couldn’t deny the kitchen was immaculately dressed, as were its presenters.
She guessed there was a team of people ready to clear up afterwards, and judging by the elegant fingernails on Bonnie what’s-er-name, she didn’t do much scrubbing in that kitchen.
Clicking back to the news stories, it didn’t take her long to uncover the tittle-tattle, as her mother would call it.
‘Ooh, you naughty boy!’ said Rosie gleefully as she read several of the articles.
According to the tabloids, the (literally) bare facts of the matter appeared to be that Connor had been caught in flagrante with Bonnie’s PA.
The articles gave scant space to Connor’s side of the story, focusing instead on speculation and sympathy from Bonnie’s army of supporters, although the salacious details varied according to which article you read.
What was not in doubt was that Connor had been sent packing and was presumed to be licking his wounds somewhere in the south of Spain.
Connor even had his own Wikipedia entry, although there were disappointingly few biographical details, and most of the information related to his appearance on a reality TV programme from around five years ago, plus his subsequent television appearances with Bonnie Appleton.
And now, while tabloid reporters were sniffing round bars along the Costa del Sol, here he was, hilariously hiding away in the unfashionable end of Haxford. Surely the newspapers would have been tipped off by now? Or maybe he was old news; yesterday’s fish and chip paper.
Rosie reluctantly closed down the pictures and went back to the garden DIY site where she began making notes on what to buy, and what she could borrow from her mother.
However, the images of Connor Forbes lingered in her head long after she had closed down her computer, as she wondered how long their erstwhile celebrity would remain in Haxford.