Your Room or Mine? (7 page)

Two weeks and the only communication from her had been work related. A detailed graphic spec of his garden that impressed him in its detail and professional presentation, a contract which he'd duly signed and had returned to her along with the generous up front payment she requested. No contact with him on any social level and her continued indifference (be it real or faked) intrigued him as much as ever. The trip back from Manchester was punctuated by vague pangs of excitement, alien to him, as he thought of seeing her again tomorrow and taking control of the other aspect of their agreement.

As he pulled into the drive in front of his house in the twilight, his first reaction was irritation as he nearly ran the Maserati into a half-full skip of garden rubbish. His second reaction was a leap of anticipation deep in his stomach as he saw her van parked to the side of it.

She was still here.

He walked through the house and saw movement outside in the garden.

‘Don't come any closer!' she called as he opened the kitchen door. ‘The mud's horrendous.'

He picked his way into the garden. She was standing in the middle of the area that from memory was earmarked for flagstones. Her work clothes were muddy, she wore heavy gloves and there was sand in her hair. She'd been here for two days and on the whole the garden looked worse.

‘Looking good,' he said doubtfully. There were piles of rubbish and stones to the side of the space, huge bags of sand and topsoil that she'd had delivered, tools.

She pulled a face.

‘It will be. It's at the transitional stage. First you strip everything back and rip everything out that needs to go and it looks at its worst. But you have to do that so it can start looking better.' She wiped the back of her hand across her face, smudging it with dirt. ‘I was just finishing up. Wanted to get this cleared done so the next stage can start tomorrow. I'll be out of your way in just a minute.'

Her honey coloured hair was caught up in a loose topknot with strands escaping around her face. He realised from the diminishing quality of the light just how late it was. He was tired from his business trip and company was usually low on his list of requirements in the evening. Yet he found something else about her that drew him in, besides that physical attraction that simmered inside him. Getting dark and she was still heaving rubble about? She had a seriously demonic work ethic. And if he could relate to anything, it was that.

‘Stay,' he said on impulse. ‘Stay and have dinner.'

She shook her head.

‘Thanks but I've got a ready-meal at home and a microwave.'

‘It's no trouble. I insist.' He turned his back against any further protestations she might have and led the way into the house, talking over his shoulder. ‘To be honest, I'd like the company. It's been a heavy day.'

Izzy stared at his back, unsure now of where this was going. There had been no mention of their garden party agreement since she'd started work here, no contact for two weeks beyond the signed and returned contract, and now he simply turned up and invited her to stay for dinner. No,
insisted
she stay for dinner. Was this how it was to be? Did he really want to share dinner with her, or was that just code, a hoop to jump through before he could progress this to a more physical conclusion?

She pushed away the deliberations. Physical desire for him had bubbled inside her since the garden party, as if she could discard him from her mind when she knew one night was an end to it, but now knowing there could be more the hunger for it had grown inside her. She couldn't seem to help it. And the intoxicating thought of where this might lead between them tonight made her catch her breath. Why should she care whether he wanted her company or just her touch?

She paused at the door as she looked into his pristine kitchen. He hadn't thought this through.

‘Look at the state of me, Oliver. I'll walk soil and brick dust all through your house. What am I going to do, sit on a newspaper? It's been a long day and I need a shower.'

He smiled at her, that protest-melting lopsided smile.

‘I've got one of those,' he said. ‘You can shower while I cook. Top of the stairs, first on the left. There's a spare robe on the back of the door, you can borrow that if you've got no change of clothes.'

She hesitated a moment longer.

‘Come on, by the time you get home it will be seriously late. And you have a ready-meal and a microwave?' He shook his head pityingly. ‘It's dinner, not a proposal of marriage.'

She left her work boots by the back door and went upstairs.

First door on the left was the most beautifully finished bathroom she'd ever seen. Showroom polished, it looked as if she was the first person ever to use it and perhaps she was, he'd only just finished the renovations. In keeping with the Victorian fixtures, there was a beautiful roll-top bath, painted wood panelling and intricate black and white floor tiles. There were expensive bath products on the side shelf, fluffy white towels, soap in an ornate dish. But it was brochure-perfect, not remotely lived-in. There was no evidence of any female overnight guests. She stepped into the shower and let the water cascade in hot rivulets over her body, soaping her hair and washing off her day.

She toyed with putting her clothes back on – they might be dusty but to put on the bathrobe would be an unspoken message, wouldn't it? The spare bathrobe was dark blue, man sized and soft against her skin as she shrugged into it. It covered her from neck to ankle but it could be undone with one tug of the tie belt.

Her heart was beating fast. She knew perfectly well what she wanted from this situation. To wear the robe would be to make that clear to Oliver. She was in no danger here, there were no ties, no commitment, she knew his intentions and she knew her own. Her heart was safe. She padded back down the stairs barefoot.

The delicious smell of ginger, lime and coriander met her as she re-entered the kitchen. Oliver was sauteing king prawns in a heavy pan. A bowl of fragrant rice stood on the glass table at one side of the kitchen, next to it a salad. A bottle of ice-cold white wine, condensation clinging to it, stood alongside and as she crossed the room he poured her a glass, then one for himself.

Oliver's fingers touched hers as he handed her the glass and he fought to keep his composure at the sight of her. Swamped in the huge bathrobe she looked fragile, her skin pink from the shower, her hair damp, already reverting to its usual waves, caught up on her head with damp tendrils escaping and clinging to the skin of her neck. Not a scrap of make-up on her face, he could see every tiny freckle. Desire began to pool hotly in his abdomen. Had he ever come across someone who appealed to him so deeply on a physical level? The knowledge that he could extend one finger and pull that robe apart, the thought that beneath it she was naked, made him want to discard the food and have her right now.

She sat down at the table. Obviously for her, dinner was more of a pull. He served the meal and sat down opposite her.

She speared a prawn, forked up some rice, tasted it. He watched her savouring it, his own appetite dissipating despite his long day.

‘This is delicious,' she said.

‘No need to sound so surprised.'

She grinned.

‘Sorry. I'm always impressed by people who can cook, especially when it looks like you've just thrown it together, because I'm so rubbish at it myself. I can grow the stuff but when it comes to cooking it…' she pulled a face. ‘Where did you learn to cook like this?'

An unexpected flash of childhood. In the kitchen, one eye on his younger brother, the other on the stove. His mother working her second job.

‘Circumstances really,' he said. ‘I picked up the basics from my mother when I was a kid and after that I learned by having a go.'

A smile of approval.

‘Your mum was forward-thinking then, equipping you for the world,' she said. She pulled a face. ‘Traditional roles were very much the thing in my house.'

‘He hunts it, she cooks it?'

‘Exactly. My mother was – is – Fifties cupcake housewife living in the wrong decade. She had a sheltered strict upbringing and it indoctrinated her for life. Dad brought home the money and that's exactly the line where his responsibility ended. My mother did everything else. Literally. All the cleaning, all the cooking, dealing with me.'

‘She didn't go out to work? I thought maybe one or both of your parents might have been into gardening too, since you're so obsessed with it.'

‘I am NOT obsessed with it! And no, my parents aren't gardeners. They're bemused by what I do. We didn't even have a garden when I was growing up – we had a little terrace house with a concrete back yard where my mum used to hang washing. It backed onto a cobbled alleyway where the bins were kept. Not so much as a blade of grass in sight.'

‘How on earth did you fall into garden design then, if you weren't encouraged by someone? It's a bit…vocational, isn't it?'

She was smiling a little down at her plate, pushing food around with her fork.

‘My mum sees me in my work stuff and my steel toe-caps she thinks I'm some kind of labourer.' She raised an eyebrow. ‘Or maybe a lesbian. As if I've lost all sense of femininity. But then what do you expect from someone who powdered her nose every day ready for when my father got home. Not that he appreciated it.'

He didn't miss the sudden harshness of her voice. He felt a flash of empathy with her over her parents.

‘She's never really taken the time to understand what I really do. Yes, there's a lot of physical work but at the base level it's really a creative job. Turning something that's old, or a mess, or that doesn't work into something lovely and pleasing.'

‘So how did you get into it then? Is there a career path?'

She smiled at him.

‘Come on,' he encouraged. ‘I had to tick all the right boxes to get where I am. University degree, Legal Practice Course, period of on-the-job training. What happens with gardening, do you suddenly wake up and discover you have a green thumb?'

She laughed.

‘It wasn't like a sudden epiphany, I just always enjoyed being out of the house. We had a park a few streets away and I loved the feeling of space there, my house was so claustrophobic you can't imagine. Then when I hit my teens I looked for a Saturday job, just like everyone else'

As she smiled up at him his heart flipped softly at the delight in her eyes.

‘I started working at a garden centre,' she said.

He grinned, unable to help himself.

From your beatific expression I thought you'd got a Saturday job at a sweet shop at the very least.'

‘Very funny. This was better than sweets. I loved it. I loved being outside, I loved handling the plants, developing displays, advising customers. I just knew this was something I could love and that I'd never get tired of – you know?'

He didn't know. Work for him was about validation and security. About money. The law hadn't chosen him, he had chosen it. There was no vocation involved.

‘When I left school I went full-time at the garden centre and took a few courses at college and then I started doing one-off jobs for people in my spare time. Maybe they wanted their beds sorted out, or a pond putting in. I just picked up small jobs and taught myself as I went along. It wasn't easy, I made lots of mistakes but slowly the business grew and I began to bring people in to do things I couldn't, laying patios, that kind of thing. It's slowly developed into more of a project management thing, with me doing what I can and subcontracting the rest. But I'm in control of all of it. It's the best thing. I never get tired of it.'

Her attitude to work was something he couldn't help admiring and responding to. He had the same drive himself but without the job satisfaction. He'd deliberately chosen a profession, something he knew would pay well if he worked at it. People always need lawyers. His lack of enthusiasm must have shown in his face.

‘You're looking at me like you think I'm mad,' she said.

‘I was just thinking that I envy you,' he said. ‘I've never really been in my work for the love of it.'

‘I can't imagine many lawyers are,' she said. ‘Unless you're one of those altruistic human rights types, fighting for the underdog.'

‘I wouldn't be living somewhere like this if I was,' he said. ‘There's no money in altruism.'

She was forking up rice and salad, not looking at him, and the sudden urge to elaborate came from nowhere.

‘My work ethic probably has a lot to do with my father,' he said.

She finished her mouthful without looking up, and he thought with momentary relief that she would make no comment. He shouldn't be talking about personal stuff, not with her. Then she spoke,

‘Is he a lawyer too, then?'

He couldn't stop his cynical laugh and she looked up in surprise.

‘Did I say something funny?'

He shook his head.

‘I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you. It's just the idea of my father working for a living.'

Izzy could hear the bitterness in his voice and her curiosity instantly sharpened.

‘You aren't close then?'

‘Weren't close,' he corrected. ‘He died eight years ago.'

‘I'm sorry,' she said, knowing it was the stock response and wishing she knew some other way to react. But how else could you react when you barely knew someone? You couldn't commiserate, not without it sounding hollow and insincere.

He waved a hand dismissively.

‘Don't be. To be honest his death didn't have much of an impact.' He paused. ‘He didn't make much of an impact when he was alive so I suppose it follows that he wouldn't exactly knock me flying with his death.'

‘Were he and your mum still together?' she asked before she could check herself, and sudden heat flared in her cheeks and neck. What was she doing? She held up a hand immediately to stop him. ‘I'm really sorry, I'm so nosy. I didn't mean to pry.'