2. Lili
Lili
"From the comfort of your own home, you can order these professional-grade tools that would cost you twice as much at any garden center.
" I pivoted toward the demonstration table, where I'd arranged the tools with the precision of a surgeon laying out instruments.
"Remember, gardening isn't just about growing plants—it's about growing peace of mind, one seed at a time. "
"Susan from Manchester just called to say she's ordered three sets for her daughters!
" I gestured toward the phones that weren't actually ringing.
"And Thomas from Wales wants to know if these tools will work in clay soil—they absolutely will, Thomas!
The titanium coating resists all types of soil buildup. "
Jerry, our stage manager, held up five fingers from behind Camera Two. Five minutes left in what might be one of our last live shows.
The rumors had been flying around the tiny Canary Wharf studio for weeks—Gardens & Home Television's expansion to London had gone about as well as the Titanic's maiden voyage.
Corporate was hemorrhaging money faster than my old apartment's broken faucet, and the parent company back in Austin was making noises about cutting their losses.
"Our operators are standing by, but they're getting busy!" I demonstrated the telescoping handle on the masterful weeder, extending it with theatrical flair. "No more hunching over flower beds like my poor Mama used to do with nothing but kitchen forks and determination."
My voice caught slightly on that last bit.
Mama had been so proud when I got this job, when I told her I'd finally found a way to help people create the gardens they deserved without breaking the bank. She'd always said I had a gift for making people feel like anything was possible, even with the simplest tools.
Now I was one bad quarterly report away from proving her wrong.
A phone actually did ring then—a rare occurrence that made Jerry's eyes widen. I kept demonstrating while the operator took the call, secretly praying it wasn't another concerned viewer asking if we were shutting down.
"And don't forget, we're including the bonus hand rake—a ￡15 value—absolutely free!" The red light on Camera One started blinking. Thirty seconds. "Call now because when we run out of these sets, and we always do, they won't be back until next season."
The red light went solid. Show over. I set down the garden shears and exhaled deeply, my shoulders sagging as three hours of enforced enthusiasm finally drained away. My feet were killing me—these heels looked great on camera but murdered my arches during long demonstrations.
"Brilliant show, Lili." Carmen, the floor director, gave me a tired thumbs up. "The phones actually jumped during that last segment. Don't know if it's enough, but..."
"Thanks, hon." I forced another smile, though it felt like lifting weights at this point. "Same time Friday?"
"If we're still here Friday," she muttered, then immediately looked guilty. "I mean, of course we will be. Management's just... exploring options, you know?"
I knew. We all knew. The question wasn't if Gardens & Home Television London would close, but when.
And what that would mean for all of us who'd moved across an ocean chasing dreams that were currently circling the runway with no place to land.
The drive to the manor took me through streets that still felt surreal, even after a week. London was nothing like Austin—where everything was spread out under a big Texas sky. Here, history pressed in from all sides with buildings older than my entire country.
Sometimes I felt like I was driving through a period drama, especially at night when the streetlamps cast everything in golden pools of light.
I'd been in England exactly three weeks now, and every morning I woke up surprised to find myself here.
The Gardens & Home Television opportunity had seemed like a miracle when it landed in my lap—a chance to work abroad, just like I'd dreamed about since college.
The company's expansion into the UK market had felt like destiny calling my name.
What they forgot to mention was that British audiences weren't exactly eager to buy Texas gardening wisdom from a curly haired American who pronounced "herbs" wrong and got way too excited about compost spreaders.
My phone buzzing in the cup holder reminded me to check my bank balance. Again. ￡324.67. That number gave me the same stomach-dropping sensation as a broken elevator.
After burning through my savings at that cramped Paddington hotel—￡150 a night for a room the size of my Mama's pantry—I'd been down to my last fifty pounds when I finally broke down and called Daphne.
Thank God for Daphne. When I'd confessed during one of our video calls that I was rationing instant noodles and seriously considering sleeping in the studio, she'd immediately offered me the staff quarters at her family's place.
"Just until you find your feet," she'd said in that sweet way that somehow didn't make me feel like a complete charity case.
Well, mostly didn't make me feel like a charity case.
The GPS directed me through countryside that looked like someone had taken a Thomas Kinkade painting and made it three-dimensional.
Stone cottages with actual thatched roofs, every village pub looked old enough to have served ale to Shakespeare. It was gorgeous, intimidating, and so far from the strip malls and barbecue joints at home that I might as well have been on another planet.
"You have reached your destination," the posh GPS lady announced with considerably more confidence than I felt.
The Grosvenor estate gates loomed in my headlights like something from a gothic novel.
Massive iron scrollwork twisted into patterns that probably told the family's entire history, all mounted on stone pillars that could've been used to anchor a suspension bridge.
A discreet speaker box sat to one side, looking incongruously modern against all that medieval grandeur.
I pressed the button and waited, suddenly very aware that my rental car was making that weird rattling noise again.
"Good evening. How may I assist you?"
The voice was so perfectly butler-ish it could've come from a BBC period drama. I cleared my throat, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.
"Hi there! I'm Lili. Lili Anderton? Daphne's friend from university?" Every word came out with too much enthusiasm, too much volume, too much American. "She said she'd leave word that I was coming."
A pause that lasted just long enough to make me question everything. "Ah yes, Miss Anderton. Welcome to Grosvenor Manor. Please proceed to the main house."
That familiar knot formed in my stomach—the same one I'd felt every day since arriving in England. One week living here, and despite Daphne's generous offer to rescue me from that awful hotel, I still felt like I needed written permission to breathe the rarefied air of this place.
The driveway stretched ahead like a runway, lined with oak trees that must've been standing when America was still a British colony.
My little rental car crunched over perfectly maintained gravel, the sound inappropriately loud in the hushed landscape.
Moonlight filtered through the tree canopy, creating shadow patterns that danced across the windshield.
When the house—mansion, castle, monument to old money—came into view, I had to grip the steering wheel to keep from hitting the brakes.
Grosvenor Manor wasn't just impressive, it was a statement written in stone and mortar that some families had been important for longer than others had existed.
Gothic towers rose into the night sky alongside Georgian wings and what looked like a Victorian conservatory, all somehow harmonious in their grandeur.
Windows glowed warmly in the darkness, suggesting rooms beyond counting.
The whole structure seemed to crouch in the landscape like a benevolent dragon, ancient and powerful and completely beyond my small-town Texas comprehension.
I parked near a side entrance, my pathetic little car looking like a lost beetle next to this architectural masterpiece. Even after living in the staff quarters for a week, the sheer scale of this place still made me feel like Alice after she'd fallen down the rabbit hole.
A figure emerged from the shadows—well-dressed, moving with the silent efficiency of someone who'd spent decades perfecting the art of appearing exactly when needed.
"Miss Anderton? I'm Hartwell, the night butler.
" He spoke with the kind of crisp precision that made my Texas drawl sound like molasses in comparison.
"Lady Daphne sends her apologies—she's still at the Royal Opera House Gala and won't return until morning.
She's arranged the blue guest suite for you tonight, rather than the staff quarters. "
Lady Daphne. I still did a double-take every time someone called her that.
In college, she'd just been Daphne—the girl who binged Netflix with me and split pizza at 2 am while complaining about organic chemistry.
Nobody had mentioned titles or family crests or the fact that her home had been featured in Architectural Digest.
My phone buzzed with a text from Daphne:
Daphne: OMG SO SORRY! Mother dragged me to this endless opera gala thing. You have NO idea how much I'd rather be with you right now! Hartwell will take care of everything. Please don't hate me! The blue suite has the best view and sheets that cost more than most cars. Sweet dreams! ??
I quickly typed back:
Me: Could never hate you! Enjoy your fancy opera thing. I'll try not to break anything priceless. See you tomorrow! ??