Chapter Nine
For the next few days it rained solidly, and Rosie didn’t feel it was appropriate to keep visiting Connor without the excuse of checking on her garden.
She’d dropped Connor’s spare key back to Dorothy after her follow-up visit, but she texted her patient daily to make sure he was resting, and was pleased to note that by Wednesday he was starting to eat properly again.
She generally received a short acknowledgement, but the last couple of text messages had included a picture of whatever frozen meal he had put in the microwave for that day.
He also sent her a picture of the crumble she had left for him, with the caption Yum! over the top, which really pleased her.
She had kept that photo and had looked at it several times. It cheered her to know that someone somewhere was still appreciating her cooking, even though it was only Connor, her capricious garden landlord, and not her loyal, reliable James.
Having done a bit more research over the last few evenings, Rosie had now watched several episodes of Bonnie Appetito on YouTube.
It had to be said, they made a handsome couple, and Connor certainly looked at home in the kitchen.
However, she could see that Connor was only adding and stirring in things that had already been chopped and prepared; it went to show how easily people were fooled by what they wanted to see, although she had to admit he did look gorgeous in that dinner jacket.
James had never worn anything half that expensive and had generally preferred practical, sensible clothes from sensibly priced shops.
She refused to be drawn by Simon on any of Connor’s real-life details; he had let her into his private life, albeit unintentionally, and she intended to respect his privacy.
However, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to go out with someone like Connor.
She guessed anyone hanging on his arm would have to learn to play by very different rules to the ones she was used to.
She enjoyed chatting to him though; it was as if she had temporarily escaped her routine existence and stepped onto the threshold of a glamorous “other” world.
Goodness only knew what went on in that other world, but for a few brief minutes, it took her away from her own rather boring one.
By the end of the week, the weather had finally let up, and she resolved to spend Saturday in the garden.
She found it easier to leave all her gardening tools and equipment in the boot of her car as there was nowhere to store the stuff in the flat, and as she drove over to Mickleborough Gardens she pondered the practicalities of buying a small tool store.
She was in two minds whether to go and ask Bob for advice; the last thing she wanted was for him to think she was being all girly and useless, but maybe she could have a look at his first.
She promptly burst into a fit of giggles as she imagined leaning over the fence and asking Bob if she could have a quick peek at his tool store as though they were rehearsing a low-budget Carry On film. She was still smiling to herself as she carried her trug and tools into the garden.
Having cut back the overgrown shrubs that were hogging the bottom quarter of the plot, the space now looked a lot bigger, and as she continued weeding, she started to think about what she could plant here.
She could keep the grass in the middle and create flower borders along each side.
However, it would be nice if there was something she could do to bring bees into the garden.
She recalled James’ plan for his vegetable patch; neat rows of regimented planting that appealed to his sense of practicality and order, but not her love of creative chaos.
Even his Beatles memorabilia had been neatly catalogued which, while he was alive, had seemed terribly anal, but she was forced to admit that it made it a lot easier to dispose of, even though she had felt guilty about doing it.
Every now and then she glanced up at the window to see if Connor was around; although they had both been a little on the defensive at the outset, she found to her surprise that she enjoyed his company.
After another hour of weeding, she checked her phone for messages to give herself a break.
There was a text from Simon sending on a joke, an email from Emma asking how she was and suggesting dates for meeting up, and then suddenly a text from Connor pinged up.
Fancy a cuppa?
Put the kettle on she texted back. I’ll be two minutes.
She shouldn’t really encourage him. In all likelihood he was just bored but he was her landlord, sort of, and she was just being friendly.
That’s all there was to it. It was nothing to do with her being incredibly nosey and wanting to find out more about this good-looking reality TV star on her doorstep.
Rosie bashed the worst of the mud from her jeans and walked down the path towards the flats. Dorothy waved from the window and she returned the wave and hurried up, to avoid being waylaid.
Connor was at the door as she reached the top of the steps, and gallantly helped her off with her wellies.
‘Tea or coffee?’ he asked after he’d shut the door.
Rosie followed him into the kitchen. ‘Tea, please.’
‘Mint, jasmine, green, Ceylon or lapsang souchong?’
‘None of the above, thanks,’ replied Rosie. ‘I’ll have the ordinary breakfast teabags, which I know for a fact are in that cupboard over there.’
Connor’s eyebrows gave a surprise leap. ‘Do you always go nosing around other people’s kitchens?’
‘Only when they’re too sick to make drinks for their guests.
How are you feeling, by the way?’ The question gave her a legitimate excuse to study his face for a few seconds and she experienced a now familiar, pleasurable response that she couldn’t explain even to herself.
‘You definitely look a lot better; less green around the gills.’
‘Thanks, Florence.’
Connor made tea which they took into the lounge, and Rosie apologised for the state of her clothes.
‘I can sit on the floor if you like?’ she offered.
Connor waved away her concerns, and they chatted about Rosie’s plans for the garden and the progress she was making.
She enjoyed having a listener whose listening ear didn’t come with a shovel load of advice (Mum) or offers of help (Simon).
She loved them both but this was her project, and whether she succeeded or failed it was giving her something new to do that took her out of the safe, closeted environment that up until recently, she thought she’d wanted.
When she was little, she had loved dressing up and pretending to be someone else.
Usually a princess in a foreign land, or a bold adventurer.
It had given her a means of escape that was both exciting and had seemingly limitless possibilities not grounded in boring, everyday life.
It occurred to her that visiting Mickleborough Gardens might be a grown-up version of this childhood fantasy.
She certainly felt different when she was with Connor.
It was as if she didn’t have to be sensible Rosie Steadman, and knowing it wasn’t a relationship in the romantic sense somehow made it easier to be more direct.
‘So, as we’re now into autumn,’ Rosie waved her hand in the direction of the window, ‘I probably won’t get over here as often and I wondered whether you’d be happy with me putting a small tool store in the garden?’
‘Fine by me.’ He peered at her. ‘Why are you looking at me all surprised?’
Rosie shrugged. ‘I expected you to object.’
‘Do you always expect the worst from people?’
‘Sometimes.’ She laughed.
‘So, what does your husband think about you being here all the time? Or are you married to some football fanatic who doesn’t mind that his wife has become a professional football widow every Saturday?’
The smile slipped from her face, despite her efforts to keep it in place.
Why did these well-intentioned, innocent questions still have the power to wound?
She looked down at the wedding ring she still wore.
The plain gold band that had promised so much.
It wasn’t James’ fault that the promise hadn’t held good for more than eight years, but she wasn’t ready to cast it aside just yet.
That decision came further down the list than getting rid of James’ computer.
Connor’s voice intruded into her thoughts.
‘Did I say something wrong?’
Rosie looked up. ‘Sorry. It’s me. I’m not very good at talking about it.’
Connor’s confusion was evident in his expression.
‘I’m a widow. Not a football widow, a proper one. If there is such a thing as a proper widow.’ She was rambling again, which always happened when she felt on the back foot.
Rosie tried again. ‘My husband died in a car accident last year. Please don’t go all gushy and sympathetic, I really don’t cope very well with lots of that stuff, to be honest.’
Connor’s facial muscles swiftly segued from aghast, apologetic, awkward and then back into neutral.
‘Right. No sympathy for Florence. I get it.’
‘What about you?’ Rosie asked, attempting to change the subject. ‘Do you have family other than your brother?’
‘Mum died years ago. Grandad’s still around but getting frail now. As soon as we were both grown-up, the old man got a job in Canada and then moved over there so we don’t see him that much.’
‘But you could visit him, couldn’t you?’
Connor wrinkled his nose. ‘We’re not a close family.’
‘Why’s that, do you think?’
Connor laughed. ‘Has anyone told you that you’re very direct?’
Rosie pretended to think for a few seconds. ‘Um, they didn’t use those exact words.’
His face was a picture of suppressed amusement as he pointed at the door. ‘Right, off you go then. Get back to the gardening.’ He was clearly trying hard to look serious, but Rosie saw the edges of a smile around his lips.
‘Bye then, Cooking Boy.’