Chapter One #2
‘So, I now have space to reinstate my sewing machine. That’s why I’m ringing actually – I wondered if you were around this afternoon as I’d like to pop over and collect it.’
‘Any time after three is fine, darling. And I’ve got a dress you can look at as well. I found it in my local charity shop and I immediately thought it would be a great project for you.’
Rosie’s sewing machine had been a casualty of one of her and James’ early reorganisations; James had emptied out the storage unit he’d been renting, saying it was a waste of money when they had a perfectly good second bedroom.
She hadn’t wanted to seem territorial over the second bedroom, but after the arrival of the boxes, there was no longer any space to sew, and eventually Rosie had agreed there wasn’t really room for her sewing machine either.
At the time, it had been more of a hobby, an interest born out of frustrated ambitions, but now it could be a lifeline.
Over the last fourteen months she had allowed her social life to slowly slip away until she saw very few people outside of work.
The evenings were the worst; sitting alone in the flat with no one to make plans with.
Her best friend, Emma, still phoned regularly, and Simon had made any number of suggestions of things to do, but she didn’t feel up to all that socialising, putting up with pitying glances, discreetly put questions, when what people really wanted to know was how you coped with being a widow at thirty-eight years of age.
She made herself some lunch, then cleaned and hoovered the second bedroom.
As she worked, she mulled over the ad she had seen in the window.
For the first time in over a year, she had experienced the desire to try something new and creative, and she took this as a positive sign.
Maybe her mother was right after all and keeping busy was the answer.
In which case, this garden might be the perfect solution.
She updated her mother later that afternoon and as expected, she had plenty to say on the matter.
‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Katharine, putting a plate of iced biscuits on the coffee table, ‘you’re thinking about renting a garden you have never seen from someone you don’t know, who could turn out to be’—she shuddered theatrically and threw up her hands—‘well, goodness only knows.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Mum, you should be on the stage. Of course I’ll be careful and anyway I’m sure the local criminal fraternity don’t bother putting ads in newsagents’ windows.’
Rosie wondered why she felt compelled to defend someone she hadn’t even met yet, but decided it was a natural reflex reaction to her mother’s ingrained prejudices.
Rosie was well aware that any male who didn’t wear a suit risked being labelled by her mother as a scruffy layabout, and anyone under the age of twenty wandering the streets after dark in ripped jeans – designer or otherwise – was, by definition, invariably up to no good.
After she got home and had lugged the sewing machine and several large plastic storage boxes out of the car and into the flat, and mentally thanked the gods of good fortune that the lift hadn’t broken down again, she sat down on the sofa and pulled out her phone.
This idea of having a garden was really growing on her and now she fervently hoped it hadn’t already been taken.
It would be her new project with the added bonus of no one to tell her what to do or how to do it, and for the first time in over a year, Rosie felt her creative side blossoming again.
‘And I’m sure he or she is perfectly normal,’ she said out loud as she tapped in the telephone number.
A harsh, rather peremptory voice answered.
‘What the hell do you want now?’
Rosie flinched. ‘Er, hello. I was enquiring about the garden to rent. I saw your ad in the window. Is it still available?’
‘Sorry, thought you were someone else,’ the male voice replied in only a slightly less abrasive tone.
‘Would it be more convenient for me to call back later?’
‘No! When do you want to start?’
Rosie frowned, her mother’s advice still ringing in her ears. ‘Well, I thought it would be sensible to come and view it first. Just to make sure.’
She thought she detected a sigh at the other end. ‘So would this evening be suitable? What about eight o’clock?’
‘It’s September. It gets dark around seven most evenings,’ Rosie argued. ‘I won’t see all that much.’ There was a pause. ‘I know tomorrow is Sunday, but would that work for you?’
The grumpy voice agreed that two o’clock would be okay and she made a note of the address. ‘And who will I be meeting?’ Rosie asked.
‘Connor.’
Rosie put the phone down and then wondered whether it was a good idea to go on her own.
After all, the owner of the grumpy voice could turn out to be some maniac who lures young girls to his house.
She laughed at her own vivid imagination.
‘You’re not even that young, Rosie,’ she said out loud.
Despite the fact that her mother reassured her she still had a pretty face and Emma insisted forty (when it arrived) was the new thirty and not a scary number, when she looked in the mirror, she could definitely spot the odd grey hair sneaking in amongst the brown curls.
She picked up the bag at her feet and carried it into her sewing room.
She pulled up the flap of her sewing table and wiped over the top before emptying the bag.
Her mother’s charity shop find had likely been bought originally as a prom dress or ball gown, and Rosie instinctively ran her fingers over the soft material.
It was a gorgeous salmon pink shot taffeta, but the garment had obviously met with an accident as there was a dark stain down the front.
She examined it more closely. Coffee? Red wine?
It looked as though someone had tried to scrub it off but whatever it was had left a brown stain the size of a child’s hand, which had abruptly curtailed its days as a ball gown.
Many people chucked things away if the stain wasn’t removable, but Rosie could see the potential and sketched out an idea for turning it into a smart daywear dress.
She took a few photos on her phone of the dress and the sketch, then messaged Emma:
Hi Emms, am trying to keep busy. How do fancy a new dress? It’s gorgeous material and perfect for a smart celebratory occasion.
She didn’t have to wait long for the reply:
Perfect! Going to my cousin’s wedding in March. Thank you Rosie BFF!!
It had been a long time since she’d had an opportunity to use her sewing machine and for the first time since James’ death, Rosie actually didn’t mind being on her own for the whole evening.
As she sat unpicking the seams of the dress, she thought again about the garden she was going to see tomorrow afternoon.
The ad didn’t say what size it was and its owner hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with details.
It wasn’t the voice of an elderly person though, and her curiosity was stirred.
Maybe it was their son? Son or not, he sounded very grumpy, or maybe she’d simply phoned at the wrong time – how many times had the phone rung when she was in the middle of cooking?
Curiosity temporarily satisfied, she turned her attention back to the dress.