Chapter Five
It’ll be a few days before I can furnish the flat, so for now I have to live out of suitcases and boxes. A glance out of the window shows the sun just peeking over the rolling green hills in the distance…
I’m babbling, obviously.
My runaway brain can prattle along on autopilot with minimal input. It’s one of my talents which made me good on TV.
But here, alone, why?
Because I’m trying to distract myself with sun and green hills from the questions that kept nagging at me all night.
Osian James?
Nah, I tell myself with a mocking smile. It can’t be.
What would he be doing here?
No. It must be another man.
After all, it’s a Welsh name and we’re in the middle of Wales, so it stands to reason. The valleys must be crawling with men called Osian. And James is hardly a rare surname. Anyway, listen to these birds!
So many birds singing, twittering, whistling and also that melodious coo-cooing of wood pigeons; it’s like a choir. Is this why they call it the morning chorus? Living in London, the only morning chorus is traffic.
The Kendric House version of Osian James is probably a crusty middle-aged man in a Barbour. Probably has one of those salt-and-pepper curly fringes circling his bald patch.
Coffee. My brain will function better after a nice strong cup of java.
With my apartment still bare, it’ll have to be a trip downstairs to the big kitchen. Ideally not in my tee-shirt and knickers, though. I rummage in my open suitcase for my bath towel and toiletries bag and go into the shower.
The first thing that hits me when I come out of the shower, rubbing myself with the towel, is a divine smell.
Coffee. Rich, strong, gourmet.
Where?
It’s coming from next door.
Now I think of it, my balcony actually runs the width of the west wing. It must be one of my neighbours with luxury tastes. Such is my craving that I’ve actually got dressed without noticing. Slipping my feet into the nearest pair of shoes, I open the French windows and step out on the balcony.
The apartment next door also has its doors open and there’s a small round bistro table with a cafetière, a creamer and a glass of sparkling water. A man turns around in his chair when he hears me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just…” I gabble faster than my brain can find words. “Where did you get the coffee? Downstairs?”
“Good morning.” He gives me a friendly look and indicates the half-full cafetière. “You’re welcome to have some. Just bring a…” He pauses, glancing towards my open door. “I don’t suppose you have cups and plates yet?”
“I haven’t even started thinking about such things; I only arrived yesterday.” My mouth continues talking with minimal direction. It says nice things and thanks him for inviting me to sit.
Meanwhile, my brain is standing frozen with its metaphorical mouth open.
“You must be Evie Palmer?” he asks.
My autopilot nods.
“I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Osian James.”
Of course he is.
He looks the same.
The beautiful face, the dark blond hair that the morning sun catches and highlights, the straight eyebrows.
He gets up and walks inside his flat to fetch me a cup.
He even still has the same long stride, slim hips, perfect body.
The kind of body that makes the gunmetal green corduroys and grey zip-neck jumper look like Prada.
I watch him walk back, not only with a cup but also a chair that he places at the table. Which means he expects me to join him.
I sit. What else can I do?
He pours me coffee, still hot – steam rises gently from the cup as he hands it to me.
“Mmm.” I inhale.
“Another coffee addict,” he says, quirking an eyebrow. “We’re going to get on like a house on fire. Actually, you probably don’t know this, but—” He glances up at me.
Oh God. I’m sixteen again. How is it I still remember the denim-blue eyes? Grey at the centre, dark blue rim. Wide eyes with long lashes.
“I know who you are,” he says.
My heart thumps hard inside my chest.
“I used to watch your programme,” he says.
“Of all the others in that Garden Rebirth team, I always liked your ideas best. The others designed flowerbeds that looked good on camera. But you always created something full of surprises. You planted flowers that someone only finds when walking through. Like a mini treasure hunt.”
I shrug. “It was always a battle because the producer wanted something camera-friendly; shrubs that flowered quickly so we could capture the effect. He didn’t agree with me that sometimes you have to wait for the real character of a garden to develop.”
“Exactly. A botanical design is not like a house makeover.” He sits forward, more animated. “I hate that we live in the age of quick results. Fast upcycling, fast renovation, even fast-food delivery.”
He chats in that friendly-but-impersonal way we use when we’ve just met someone new.
He doesn’t remember me.
Why would he remember that ordinary half-invisible schoolgirl who fell in love with him from the sidelines? I’ve changed.
The problem with light brown eyes and light brown hair is that they all blend into the woodwork. On my first day at Styler TV, the make-up girl took one look at me and immediately wheeled me next door where a couple of stylish gay men transformed me.
Now, my hair is a shiny chocolate brown, cut in a sophisticated layered bob that just reaches my shoulders.
My eyebrows have been shaped and tinted so they frame my eyes.
And my skin has been well-cared-for with regular facials because HD cameras can pick out the smallest flaw.
Everything about me says successful thirty-three-year-old TV personality.
Osian has changed, too, in subtle ways. I can’t really say how, but there’s a definite transformation. He might look the same – ish – on the outside. A bit less skinny, less boyish, face more serious. But on the inside, he’s a different man.
I want to ask him so many questions.
“What?” he asks.
“Sorry?” I shake my head.
“You seemed miles away.”
“I was just wondering about your role here. Are you another of the profit participants?”
And so many other questions. Why is he here? And where is his wife? I’ve been sneaking surreptitious looks through the window into his apartment. There has to be a sign of a woman; where is she? Still in Cardiff? That was where he was until yesterday, wasn’t it?
His eyes widen slightly, surprised. “Didn’t Evan explain? I’m the gardener here.”
My hand holding the coffee tilts, and Osian quickly reaches over to take the cup from me before I spill it all over myself.
“Another gardener, I mean,” he says. “I’ll be working on the smaller patch of land between the east and south wings.”
“Of course, Evan did mention something about the other patches.”
Gardener, Osian James? Why? When did this happen? My eyes drift to his hands. Clean. Although there are small calluses and nicks that you get even if you take care to wear gloves most of the time.
“We’ll have to come up with something better than”—he makes air quotes—“‘The patch between the east and south wings’. It’s not exactly a name that slips off the tongue. What about you?”
The question brings me out of my internal thoughts. Focus, Evie, focus.
“Have you decided what to call your North Park?”
“I’ve been calling it my dream project, but I don’t suppose that will work when we open to the public.”
He gets to his feet, a quick but smooth move that reminds me of his athleticism. He used to move like that sixteen years ago. As if his body were a well-trained instrument, which I suppose it must be. He walks over to the balustrade and leans slightly to look down on North Park.
“Open to the public,” he repeats. “So you’re making it into a pleasure garden. Flowers and all that?”
“The usual thing,” I say, not wanting to talk about myself. “More or less.”
He shoots me a speculative look. “Why does this sound like it’s more, not less? If I were a betting man I’d say probably a lot more.”
Self-conscious to have his attention on me, I make a non-committal half-gesture.
“I promise I’m not going to steal your ideas.”
His words take me by surprise. Does he think I’m being cagy? I rush to explain. “No, no. Didn’t even occur to me, and even if you wanted to do that I doubt you could. No one can copy a garden idea; the land wouldn’t let you.”
His brow furrows and he turns fully to face me.
I shrug.
He waits for me to say more, but I can’t.
This is not something I can put into words in spite of my verbal autopilot that can chatter away endlessly. When he still waits, I have to try.
“It’s hard to explain, just something you find out when you explore on foot.”
He thinks about this then comes back to sit down. “So what is your plan?”
“Initially, I plan to discover what I can of the original design. You see, someone – or many people – created these gardens and I get the feeling that it was something really wonderful.” Talking about gardens puts me at ease and brings me a little more confidence.
“It would be good to find out as much as we can and incorporate it into a new design.”
“How could you do that? I didn’t know there were any pictures.”
“You don’t need pictures.”
He narrows his eyes. “Is this another one that’s hard to explain?”
In spite of myself I laugh. His obvious interest makes me want to explain.
“There are clues, if you know how to look.”
“It’s just a curious idea,” he says, in the way people use when they’re being polite about something they don’t actually agree with.
Then he explains: “There was another landscape designer before you. He promised to create a typical Victorian garden, but after three months he gave up because – according to him – the place had been left to die for a hundred years. None of the original topiary or shrubs survive that long and it would take a miracle and a lot of years to make any kind of garden.”