Chapter 2
Everyone exaggerates a bit on their CV, don’t they?
I mean, it’s not like it’s a crime. And I have done gardening in the past. Just perhaps not at this level.
Or for an oligarch in London who can no longer be contacted due to security issues.
And I might not have studied at Kew but failed to get my degree because of a debilitating bout of yellow fever on a trip to deepest, darkest Bolivia in search of a rare plant on which to centre my dissertation.
Like I say, there are a few tiny exaggerations on my CV.
And whoever checks these things? Certainly not my employer, that’s for sure.
Barnaby Ashington was entirely charming – and charmed.
He’d drawn up on the driveway at the same when I’d arrived two weeks ago and shown me in himself.
His elder brother was supposed to do the interview but had got delayed on estate matters so Barnaby had offered to do the interview himself.
From the telephone conversation, most of which I heard as he put it on speaker – Barnaby was delightful but not subtle – the elder Ashington clearly didn’t think that was a good idea but me taking another day to tramp out to the arse end of nowhere because he couldn’t make the day that he’d set up wasn’t ideal either.
So that’s how I ended up bouncing about in the back of a vehicle older than I was, heading for a job I’m not technically qualified to do. But really, how hard could it be?
We bumped along the road before turning into a smaller lane with passing places.
I hadn’t noticed the uneven surface quite so much when I’d hired a car and driven down for my interview.
Probably because my rental had come with suspension – a luxury this particular vehicle was clearly without.
Pulling into a couple of the convenient passing spaces, allowing a car and then a supermarket delivery van to squeeze by, Isaac acknowledged each of them with a lift of his finger from the large steering wheel before continuing on the journey.
I only hoped the front seat had padding so that his gran was having a more comfortable ride home from the station than I was.
After another few minutes, there were more signs of life: little clumps of houses, gardens tended and neat or spilling over with cherry plum blossom and blackthorn, the slight breeze sending the occasional flurry of petals from the trees into the air before they drifted to the ground.
We passed a beautiful, square, Georgian building, its render painted the palest lemon yellow.
A collection of pots framed the steps, a variety of daffodils nodding gently along as though to an unheard tune.
The sign at the low, wrought-iron gate announced it as The Vicarage.
Next, predictably, came the church. From its squat style, I guessed it was Norman.
Or was it Saxon? A later addition of a porch had a distinct Gothic Victorian whiff about it with a well-tended graveyard circling the entire building.
I caught a glimpse of a tall man striding through.
Ooh, hot vicar? He turned at the sound of an engine and I noted he was about eighty. Perhaps not.
A hefty bounce brought me back to my senses.
Romantic entanglements were literally the last thing on my mind.
Or at least should be. I was not the luckiest in love.
I’d dated a police officer for quite a while.
He’d been lovely but between his shifts and my own long hours, we could go for ages barely seeing each other.
In the end, as hard as it was, we’d decided to call it a day.
We’d stayed friends and I was pleased to hear that he’d recently got engaged to a fellow police officer. Mostly pleased anyway.
And then there was the disastrous time I’d dated my boss.
There were various phrases that advised one not to mix work and pleasure, some rather more polite than others.
And I’d managed to dismiss every single one, thinking that Harry and my relationship was more the exception than the rule.
But it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. There was never a massive argument or spectacular showdown.
It just… wasn’t working any more. We wanted different things.
We had different viewpoints. After a week of constant noise and chatter, I preferred to unwind at the weekend with a walk in nature, reading, and tending the pot plants on my tiny balcony.
Harry was all about dinner parties, after-work drinks and Saturday-morning football.
I don’t even like football. So, we broke up.
We’d thought continuing to work together wouldn’t be a problem but in truth, it was horribly, horribly awkward.
It was impossible not to notice the shifting of eyes as we took part in discussions during meetings, the odd exchange of raised brows when we disagreed – even though we’d disagreed on matters before we dated.
When a new member of staff joined, tall, beautiful and honestly, a perfect match for Harry, I couldn’t bear the glances of sympathy sent my way when they shared a joke or her hand lingered a moment too long on his arm in the break room.
The truth was that I didn’t care. But I did care about people thinking I did.
* * *
‘I see.’ was all Dad had said when I’d headed to the tiny Herefordshire village he’d retired to years ago to tell him my plans. As ex-Special Forces, the quiet was something Dad adored – and needed. He always had.
His expression was unreadable. That was the problem with his previous occupation. He still had the ability to hide his thoughts and emotions when he wanted. Admittedly, that wasn’t much these days but I guessed he was waiting for more intel.
‘It doesn’t feel right any more.’ I explained, taking a sip of the delicious, strong coffee Dad had made. ‘And when I sort of questioned what we were doing. It didn’t go down well.’
‘They can’t make you redundant for having an opinion.’
‘I know. But actually, I’m fine with them suddenly realising they were “overstaffed”. They gave me gardening leave instead of having to work my three-month notice and redundancy pay.’
‘That’s something.’ He studied me for a moment. ‘Are you sure it’s not just this break-up with Harry?’
‘No. It’s really not.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I’ve already got a new job, actually. I’m going to be a gardener.’
Dad straightened the tiniest amount at this.
‘A… a gardener?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’
Silence.
‘It’s for Ashington Manor, in Herefordshire, so I’ll be closer.’
‘Good. Ashington Manor?’
‘Yes. They were advertising on The Lady website.’
The stoic expression disappeared, replaced by a large grin.
‘The Lady?’
‘Yes. Admittedly, it’s not my first choice of reading material but it’s come up trumps this time.’
‘Jolly good,’ he said with an excellent Eton accent. Faked.
I stuck my tongue out at him and tried not to laugh. ‘It even comes with accommodation so I’ll be saving a tonne on rent.’
‘The accommodation is free with the new position?’
‘Yes. And you can help yourself to the kitchen garden.’
‘Sounds like a good opportunity. They didn’t want any relevant degree or experience?’ He had asked the question I’d hoped wouldn’t come up.
‘I’ve got a degree.’
‘Not in horticulture. Although no one seems to do anything remotely related to their degrees anyway these days,’ Dad opined, not incorrectly.
‘Exactly.’
‘But you’ve been doing so well in your career. You’ve worked so hard at it.’
‘I know. And I know you’re worried. I’m a bit worried if I’m honest. But this feels like a good time to make a change.’
‘It’s quite a big change.’
I let out a breath. ‘It is. But it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long while.’
‘You never mentioned anything, love,’ Dad said. ‘If you were unhappy, you could have come to me. You know that.’
‘I know. And thank you.’ I leant over and squeezed his hand.
Colin, his Heinz 57 rescue dog, watched from under his tan eyebrows, gave a sigh and flopped over onto his side.
‘It wasn’t that I was unhappy as such. Things just didn’t feel as right as they had done.
It’s been a gradual, creeping sort of feeling but not one I could put my finger on until more recently.
And once I knew, I couldn’t “unknow” that piece of information.
It was front and centre of my mind all the time and that obviously made it a lot harder to come up with campaigns to try and flog people more stuff when the whole concept flies in the face of my beliefs. ’
‘It must be a large drop in your salary, though. Even with the allowances, I’m concerned about how you’re going to live. Taking on someone entirely untrained lets them offer the lowest of wages, I’m sure.’
I thought about glossing over that but I made the mistake of catching my dad’s eye. Damn. He started to smile.
‘What did you tell them?’ he asked.
That’s the thing with my dad. He’d had a career where lives could depend on reading micro expressions correctly. And frankly, I’d never been that good at lying in the first place.
‘I might have told them I had a relevant qualification.’
Dad’s smile had now become a grin. ‘From where?’
I scrunched up my face. ‘Kew Gardens?’
His laugh boomed out and Colin opened both eyes.
‘That’s my girl.’
‘Everyone exaggerates on their CVs, right? It’s going to be fine, I promise.’
‘I know.’
That was also the benefit of having my dad. He knew that there were far worse crimes than fibbing on a CV. I wasn’t putting lives at risk. I wasn’t pretending to be a doctor or pilot so in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t that bad. At least that’s what I was telling myself.