Nearest Thing to Crazy (2 page)

Amelia called on Monday: ‘Come to lunch on Friday. I want you to see the new border – and show it off to everyone.’

‘That’s really kind, I’d love to . . . but honestly, please . . . I’d be embarrassed. I’m just relieved that you like it.’

‘I love it! And I want people to see it. You’re far too modest, and word of mouth is the way to get you more work. It’s really filled out this month.’

‘It’s June. It’s bound to look good now.’

‘Stop doing yourself down, it’s beautiful. And I’ve invited Ellie, to give her a chance to get to know the girls, to introduce her properly.’

‘Good. I barely talked to her the other day. Dan says she’s on some kind of retreat, writing a book.’

‘I didn’t know that. She didn’t mention it. But I think she sounded pleased to be asked. I suppose as she doesn’t know anyone she might be feeling a bit lonely.’

‘Does she really not know anyone at all? I thought she was an old friend of Sally’s.’

‘No. She was just being neighbourly, you know what a one Sally is for taking up new projects.’

‘Well I’ll look forward to getting to meet her properly.’
‘Lovely. See you Friday. Any chance you could bring a salad, something from that amazing veggie patch of yours?’

‘Of course,’ I laughed. Amelia was perfectly capable of putting together an amazing salad from her own walled garden, but she knew how much I enjoyed fiddling about with my edible flowers.

The Gales’ barn was on my way to Amelia’s and so I decided I’d stop and see if Ellie would like a lift. We didn’t often get fresh blood in the village, but when we did we all leapt upon it like crows on roadkill. You could never call us unfriendly. We were all far too nosy and desperate for news from the outside world to let a new neighbour slip into the community unbothered. I could almost feel sorry for her if she was looking for peace. For the next few weeks she’d be inundated with lunch and supper invitations as we all jostled and elbowed each other in the fight to make her our new best friend. It was quite undignified, really, but that’s one of the handicaps of country living.

I nosed into the drive and parked next to ELI 40, thinking that Jules Gale would be unimpressed by the deep furrows gorged by those fat black tyres into the smart new white gravel. I knocked on the door and a dog started to bark. It sounded small and yappy and terrier-like. I heard Ellie’s voice. ‘Coco, shut up!’ The barking continued and she opened the door. From the blank way she looked at me, I realized that she didn’t have a clue who I was.

‘We met at Sally’s. Lunch last week. Dan’s wife,’ I added, guessing she might remember my husband.

‘Of course, I remember.’ Her eyes swept over my cotton dress, down to my ancient suede kitten heels and then back to my face. And then she smiled a big warm smile. ‘I’m so sorry, I was just going –’

‘. . . to lunch at Amelia’s? You’re on my way so I thought I could give you a lift. It’s only a van, I’m afraid, but it’ll save you driving.’

It was a beautiful smile that made me think of Beach Boys’ songs
– ‘California Girls’, ‘Good Vibrations’, all perfect teeth and freckles.

‘How incredibly kind. Come on in.’

I stepped into the sitting room. It smelled of paint and new carpets, all fresh and clean. ‘Gosh, it’s lovely, isn’t it? Jules is so clever. It’s hard to believe it was a ramshackle old barn a matter of months ago.’

‘Isn’t it? I knew as soon as I saw it that it was perfect. Exactly what I wanted. I’ve just got to get my bag. I’ll be two minutes. Don’t mind Coco. She’s just excited to see a new face.’

Ellie left the room, and while the wiry little Jack Russell started to sniff around my shoes, I, too, had a chance to nose. There was an enormous sofa to the side of the wood-burner covered in a kilim throw and assorted tapestry cushions. An open paperback book straddled the arm. Rebecca . . . I remembered Rebecca, the raven-haired temptress; and beside that a drier looking tome entitled The Daphne du Maurier Companion. There was another ancient brown leather sofa with a brown and white goatskin on it. By the window was a desk with a computer monitor flashing photographs from her screensaver: pictures of her on a beach; round a restaurant table with friends; bikini-clad on someone’s yacht; wearing a fur-edged hat on a ski slope. Juan-les-Pins? Saint Moritz? Sacha Distel? Another song.

The desk was neat, with papers stacked in tidy piles. And on one end was a vase full of old English roses. I could detect the faint apple scent wafting towards me. Then I heard light footsteps skipping back down the stairs.

‘Okay. Let me just shut Coco in the kitchen, otherwise she’ll chew something in protest.’

We got into my ancient van, me being careful not to scratch ELI
40’s paintwork with the driver’s door. ‘I’m sorry it’s a bit of a mess,’ I said, moving an old trug off the passenger seat. Along with a pair of secateurs, some gardening gloves and a weeding claw, there were discarded supermarket receipts, scraps of old shopping lists and Tesco carrier bags littering the interior of my van. There was also an unwholesome layer of dust which covered pretty much everything. I was so embarrassed that I almost wished I hadn’t stopped to collect her. Ellie just seemed so neat and clean and organized in her perfect little house with her beautifully ordered desk.

I brushed her seat with my hand before she sat down. ‘I think it’s okay,’ I grinned, sheepishly. She was wearing jeans and a pair of Converse trainers with pink stars and pink bows on them. If I hadn’t seen them on her I would have thought they were designed for ten year olds, but on Ellie they looked just right.

‘You have a business?’ she asked.
‘Fledgling, really. I do gardens. Anything from weeding to designing. Hence the van. I’ve always yearned for a smart sports car like yours, but I wouldn’t be able to cart my kit around – you know, wheelbarrow and Strimmer, stuff like that – very easily.’

‘No. Mine’s hopelessly impractical, but I do love it.’

Amelia’s was only another five minutes away, but Ellie was full of questions. Whereabouts do you live? How long have you been there?

I’m always surprised when I say it was fifteen years ago that we finally found the house of our dreams. We’d been living in Bath in a rambling old town house until Dan was invited to head up the new Birmingham office. He’d wanted a glitzy city apartment two minutes from Harvey Nicks which would have been hopelessly impractical; so instead we bought a three-hundred-year-old cottage an hour and a half away. If money had been no obstacle he’d probably have bought an apartment too, maybe stayed there two or three nights a week, who knows? Fifteen years. It seemed a lifetime ago.

‘So you’re renting?’

‘That’s right. Just for six months. At least to start with. See how
I get on.’

‘Well it’s lovely round here, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’

And then we were at Amelia’s, turning into the mile long drive with the vicious speed humps, the smart estate fencing edging the neatly mown verges and the outgrown warning signs ‘BEWARE OF WILD CHILDREN’. The house was hidden by a screen of ancient trees to make the final reveal all the more impressive. It was beautiful. Georgian. One of my favourite styles. I liked the symmetry of the crisp, white-painted windows set against the mellowed brickwork. It was ordered and classical; the total reverse of our house, with its ramshackle extensions and air of neglect. Iceberg roses smothered the facade, their delicate white clusters perfectly complementing the mood of gracious restraint. In the distance I could see a gardener on all fours in front of the new border, a wheelbarrow placed picturesquely beside him. The front door was thrown open, tempting us inside, into the delicious coolness. Satin floors marinated in centuries of beeswax and designer dust shed from the skin of hundreds of aristocratic ancestors; vases stuffed with roses and lavender, making a seductive, scented cocktail. Log baskets brimming, even though it was the middle of summer; worn sofas that didn’t match, but somehow blended together harmoniously, like their owners, providing overly elegant beds for generations of terriers, spaniels and Labradors. I was conscious of Ellie at my side, barely glancing around, not making the usual ‘oh what an amazing house . . .’ noises, suggesting to me that she was obviously born to all this sort of thing.

We crossed the hallway, Ellie’s rubber soles squeaking and my heels click-clicking over the polished floorboards, following the sound of voices towards the kitchen. Amelia’s housekeeper was busy with lunch, quietly efficient. She was wearing a starched, professional chef’s apron and marshalling plates of pulses, peppers and aubergines, all glistening with extra-virgin olive oil and scattered with freshly picked herbs. I placed my salad bowl on the counter. I’d spent ages on the salad, picking the most tender leaves, carefully washing them and drying them, then arranging them in my favourite wooden bowl with nasturtium and chive flowers over the top. I’d placed four violas in the centre, and I must admit I was quite pleased with the result, even though they were just beginning to wilt.

‘Ah, here you are.’ Amelia rushed over. ‘Wow! That looks amazing. Thank you, my darling. You are so clever, almost looks too perfect to eat. Hello, Ellie, and well done for coming together. Don’t you think she’s creative? And just wait until you see what she’s done in the border.’

‘Oh shush. Anyone could have done it, it’s just having the time.’

‘I couldn’t have done it. Not as beautifully as you, anyway.’

‘Nonsense.’

Amelia was pouring wine into glasses which she then handed to
Ellie and me.

‘Thank you. Just what I need after a hard morning at the keyboard.’

‘Your novel?’ I said.

‘Yes. That’s right.’ I was just about to ask her what it was about, but Amelia grabbed Ellie’s arm.

‘Come on, Ellie, come and meet everyone . . .’ I stepped aside so that she could be propelled towards the crème of village society. It also gave me chance to take a few moments to see how the border appeared from the French windows. I was pleased to see that the gardener and the wheelbarrow had disappeared. From my vantage point even I had to confess that it looked pretty. The roses were at their most perfect; the lavender was just beginning to flower; and the cosmos was beginning to fill the gaps left by the spent peonies and bearded irises. The sweet peas on my home-made willow supports had also bloomed, and provided height and structure, or what I imagined grander people might call punctuation marks.

I was tempted to go and inspect my work more closely, but then
Sally tapped my arm.

‘You’re going to be furious with me.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t come next week, on the garden tour. I’m sorry. It’s all Patrick’s fault. He forgot to tell me that he’s got a client coming for lunch. I’m livid with him and asked him to change it, but he says he can’t. I was so looking forward to it. I’ll pay for my ticket if you can’t get rid of it.’

‘Can’t you leave them a sandwich – or, God forbid, couldn’t
Patrick do lunch?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Patrick? He’s far too hopeless even to open a fridge, or turn on an oven. A corkscrew’s about his limit.’

‘You spoil him. It would do him good to fend for himself.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, darling, but it suits me to have him in a state of dependency.’

‘Like a toddler, you mean.’

‘Something like that.’
‘Well maybe you should be more . . .’ I hesitated. It wasn’t really any of my business, other than the fact I was genuinely disappointed.

But the words were out, and I sensed a chill in Sally, perhaps a cool shell of defensiveness.

‘I should be more what?’

‘Oh nothing.’

‘No, go on.’

‘Who am I to say?’ I wanted to back-pedal, but it was too late.
‘Perhaps, maybe, a bit more assertive. Let him appreciate you, not take you for granted . . .’ I’d lowered my voice, not wanting anyone to overhear us.

Sally chewed on her bottom lip. ‘I suppose . . . but I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain. I know this sounds stupid . . . I just feel grateful to have him there.’

‘Sally! He’s the one that needs to feel grateful.’ I wanted to add that it would have done Patrick a hell of a lot of good not to have her at his beck and call, but instead I said, ‘Don’t worry. I understand, really I do.’ But I didn’t understand, not really. It irritated me that she was being such a doormat.