Bluebell Castle

Melody placed her hand over his where it rested on her hip-their agreed signal to move on-and he turned her away from the bank of cameras to the small flight of steps leading into the Leicester Square cinema. Releasing her hip, he climbed the first couple before turning back to offer his hand. Cameras flashed once more, and he urged her up the stairs, keen to be out of the glare of the spotlight for a bit.

Once inside, he left Melody chatting to a television producer she’d worked with on Bootcamp Babes and edged his way through the packed crowd towards the bar. There were servers circulating with tray of drinks, but he preferred to know exactly what went into his glass these days. Having secured two sparkling mineral waters, he wove back to where he’d left Melody in time to hear her saying. ‘Yes, Chris has mentioned the project to us, and it sounds like a lot of fun.’

The word ‘us’ had Will on immediate alert. If Melody was talking about what he thought she was, he’d wring her bloody neck. Handing her one of the glasses, he flashed her a look of warning behind the producer’s back, adding a brief shake of his head for emphasis. Blithely ignoring him, Melody took a sip of her water before continuing. ‘I think Digging Deep could be the perfect daytime show, a combination of This Morning and those garden makeover shows.’

Will downed half his drink as he counted silently to ten in an effort to hang onto his temper. Their manager had come up with a ridiculous idea for a combination gardening and chat show which Will and Melody would co-host. Whilst he showed some random celebrity or another how to make the most of their gardens, Melody would chat to them about their life and career. Although he could see the appeal of the show, Will had zero interest in expanding his current celebrity status any further. He already spent far less time than he wanted to with his hands in the dirt, it was just another distraction he didn’t need right now.

The producer nodded along with every word. ‘Right, right, that’s exactly the positioning crying out for something new.’ She glanced between the two of them. ‘And you’re such an attractive couple. The public can’t seem to get enough of real-life partnerships on screen together.’

Curling his arm around Melody’s waist, Will stared down into her eyes simultaneously hating and admiring the seeming love in her returning gaze. ‘It’s a shame I’m far too busy with my existing workload to consider taking on anything new right now, because I know Melody is just the kind of person to put others at their ease.’ Turning away from the tightness in her expression, he cast a deprecating smile at the producer. ‘Besides, I haven’t exactly got the right kind of face for television.’ He tilted his head, making sure the light would catch the thick scar across his cheek.

The producer’s smile wavered for a second. ‘I was under the impression you were fully on board with the project.’

Will shrugged. ‘Like I said, it sounds like a lot of fun. Maybe we can revisit it further down the road, but I’m still establishing my business and that’s my absolute priority for now.’

‘Yes, of course. Well, it was lovely to catch up, Melody. Speak soon!’ With a flurry of air kisses, the woman melted into the crowd.

Melody rounded on him the moment they were alone. ‘What the hell was that?’

Leaning close, he brushed the side of his face she hated against her cheek. ‘That was me refusing to be railroaded, darling. If you’re going to break the rules of our deal, I’ll push back.’

He felt her twitch against him before tilting her head back to meet his eyes. Through another brilliant smile she hissed. ‘Fine. But remember that goes both ways.’

*

Those warning words were still ringing in his ears the next morning as Will scrambled around his flat, trying to field a phone call from his assistant, Anna, while he got himself ready for the day.

‘But I thought they’d signed off the design a week ago?’ His left hand clenched around his phone. This was not what he needed to hear when he was running on empty. The film premiere they’d attended had been for the latest instalment of a high-octane blockbuster crash and smash franchise, so his chances of catching a nap during the show had been nil. Melody had insisted on them going to the after-party, a punishment for him shutting down her conversation with the producer, he was sure. Not wanting to risk a public row with her, he’d gritted his teeth and gone along, but things were going to have to change. He was not a lapdog, and he would not be treated as one, especially when all these late nights left him feeling bad-tempered in the morning.

Trying to rub his forehead to ward off the headache he could already feel threatening to build, he almost whacked himself in the eye with the training shoe clutched in his right hand. ‘Bollocks, hold on a minute,’ he said into the phone.

Sinking down on the bottom step of the floating staircase that dominated the sleek, minimalist open plan-lower floor of his two-storey apartment, he flicked on the loud speaker on the phone before placing it beside him. He was already running late and as if falling into bed after 1 a.m. wasn’t bad enough, he’d woken up on the hour, every hour, only to finally tumble into a deep sleep about forty minutes before his alarm went off.

To add insult to injury, one of the pods for his supposedly top-of-the-range coffee machine had burst, leaving him with a mug full of undrinkable brown sludge. And it had been the last pod in the box, of course. Exhausted and un-caffeinated was a dangerous combination first thing in the morning. He would have to make an emergency stop at a coffee shop on his way to his first appointment. ‘Sorry, you were saying …’ He aimed the comment towards his phone, bending over to put on his trainers at the same time.

‘They did. I had written confirmation from their PA that both Tony and Phillipa were thrilled with the design.’ Anna, his genius assistant and all-round saver of his sanity, sighed, the sound the perfect counterpoint to the frustration bubbling inside him. ‘Unfortunately, Phillipa showed the plans to her spiritual advisor who is concerned the positioning of the meditation area will generate negative energy.’

‘Oh, for fu-’

‘You already owe twenty quid to the swear jar,’ Anna cut in. He could picture the neat rows of tally bars marching across the top of her jotter pad. Will had always had a foul mouth. Growing up on an inner-city council estate it’d been a part of the daily lexicon for the residents. His manager, Chris, claimed it was part of his edgy charm, and always seemed delighted when one of the tabloids featured a bleep clip on their website of Will telling one of their cameramen where to stick their equipment. When a meme of Will’s swearing highlights had gone viral on social media, it had almost been enough for Will to vow he’d stop swearing on the spot. Almost.

He swallowed a sigh. Getting involved with Chris Maddison was just one of the many missteps Will had made in the whirlwind of the past couple of years since he’d gone from struggling landscaper to darling of the rich and famous thanks to an unexpected Best Show Garden award from the RHS at the Chelsea Flower Show.

Thankfully, he’d made one or two smart moves which went some way to negating the mistakes, most notably hiring Anna. He hadn’t been on the lookout for an assistant, fearing bringing yet another person into his professional life would cede even more of the control that had been steadily slipping through his fingers like water. When she’d marched into the tiny, scruffy office in an unfashionable part of town (he’d refused to give it up even with his star firmly on the rise), C.V. in hand, it had been on the tip of his tongue to turn her away. Behind the mask of carefully applied make-up and the cheap high-street skirt suit she’d tried to dress up with a designer scarf, he’d caught a glimpse of desperation-a hint of the wild-eyed despair that said she knew she was wasting her time traipsing from business to business, but it was that or sit at home and cry.

It was a feeling he knew all too well after being turned away from every horticultural job he’d applied for after finishing college. Too inexperienced, too late the vacancy was already filled, too rough with his closely-shaven hair and the scar on his right cheek from an altercation with a bottle which had nearly cost him his eye and his liberty-though no one had ever come right out and said the last. They hadn’t needed to; it had been written large in every disapproving glance.

Ready to give up on his dream, a despondent Will had trudged home to bemoan his fate to Mrs Tyler, his next-door neighbour and the reason why Will had become interested in gardening in the first place. She’d fed him a slab of homemade cake, listened to him whine for half an hour and then given him an envelope full of information about courses run by the Royal Horticultural Society-complete with details of their bursary scheme. Mrs Tyler had believed in him and given him the means to take charge of his own destiny, and Will had seized it with both hands.

Insanely busy and behind on several urgent commissions, Will had nevertheless found himself asking Anna to take a seat that day. Over a couple of mugs of black coffee-the milk in his fridge being several days past rancid-they’d chatted for an hour about anything and everything. Impressed by the force of her personality, Will had decided it was his turn to be someone else’s Mrs Tyler. Anna had the brains and the drive to succeed, she just needed one person to give her a chance. His instincts had proven sound and Will had never once regretted offering her a job.

At the end of the first week, she’d plonked a large glass jar on his desk together with a sliding scale of fines depending on the severity of the swear word he used. Some employers might have been affronted at her brazenness, but she could just as easily have sued him for creating an unhealthy working environment. Besides, Anna had made such fantastic inroads into the chaos of his desk and diary he was happy to modify his language-or at least pay the price whenever he failed to do so.

‘I know you’ve got your eye on that spa weekend,’ Will said, his stress factor easing, which had no doubt been his assistant’s intention when she’d interrupted him. Anna was free to spend the contents of the swear jar on whatever took her fancy, Will’s only stipulation was that it should be on something frivolous rather than practical. Embracing the idea, Anna had so far enjoyed a hot air balloon experience, dinner at one of London’s top Michelin-starred restaurants and a helicopter flight over the city. ‘I’m just contributing to the cause.’

‘And all donations are gratefully received. Now about the Cornwalls’ roof terrace …’

Picking up his phone, Will headed towards the front door, pausing only to shoulder into the battered leather jacket he’d tossed over the back of the futon he hated with a passion. It had come with the rest of the furnishings as part of a package when he’d signed the lease for the apartment in one of the swanky new developments shooting up all over Battersea. Thankfully, the bed on the mezzanine upper floor was akin to sleeping on a cloud, and it wasn’t like he ever had any guests staying who would need to sleep on the futon-cum-torture-device, so it could remain as an expensive coat rack until he got around to replacing it.

‘Can’t Nick sort it?’ Even as he was saying the words, he knew it wasn’t happening. Nick, an experienced landscaper almost twenty years Will’s senior, was another one of his few good choices. Together with a small core team, Nick turned Will’s designs into beautiful, living reality. Lucky bastard. Will was so busy building the brand and schmoozing the big clients, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had his hands in the soil.

It was churlish of him to be jealous of Nick, knowing how many people would bite their arm off for a chance to achieve Will’s level of success, but on days like today he couldn’t help but long for a simpler time when his days were spent digging and planting. But his skills with a spade weren’t what the big clients were paying for. They wanted his name, his reputation, his presence. ‘Forget I even said that. Can you contact Mrs-’ he glanced at the diary on his phone ‘-Butler and postpone?’

‘Already done.’

Will grinned as he patted his jacket pocket checking for his keys. Of course she’d already done it. ‘You’re a bloody superstar.’

‘I know, and that’s another 50p you owe me.’

‘Shame on me.’ Laughing, Will collected the rucksack he used to carry his work paraphernalia around, tugged his door closed behind him and pressed the call button for the lift. ‘I’ll call you back once I’ve finished at the Cornwalls’. Is it both of them?’

‘Just Phillipa, I think. Tony had to go away for a new project, didn’t he? I’m sure that’s what all the rush was about in the first place.’ Anna sighed, dreamily. ‘Listen to me talking about Tony Cornwall like we’re best mates or something.’ Tony Cornwall was the darling of British theatre. Though he’d made successful forays into the world of film, drawing huge box office numbers for anything with his name attached to it, the stage was his first love. He’d helped make going to the theatre cool again.

‘Yeah, you and Tony are like that.’ Will crossed his fingers and held them up before realising the gesture was wasted as she couldn’t see what he was doing.

Anna got the point, though, from the way she started laughing. ‘Best mates, that’s me and Tone. Talk to you in a bit.’ She was still giggling as she rang off.

*

As he rode down from the twentieth floor, Will contemplated what he might say to alleviate his new clients. Young and old alike adored Tony, and from what Will could tell he seemed like a genuinely decent bloke. According to the numerous features written about him over the years, Tony and Phillipa had met and fallen in love whilst rehearsing for a Royal Shakespeare Company production of Romeo and Juliet in the mid-Eighties when they’d both been 21. Unlike those ill-fated young lovers, their story had a happy ending, as Tony was often quoted as saying.

Phillipa’s star had also been on the rise until they’d decided to have a family and she’d stepped somewhat out of the limelight, choosing to stay at home from where she ran a hugely popular website dispensing advice and no-nonsense guidance on everything from child-rearing to fashion and healthy-eating. Her Life is for Living brand had branched out into a series of successful best-selling books and was always featuring in Top Ten lists in the media.

If he hadn’t already been aware of the honour the golden couple were bestowing upon him when they’d selected Will to design a luxury outdoor space on the roof of their Hampstead home, his manager had driven the point home. Sledgehammered the point home. The moment he’d caught wind of their interest, Chris had insisted Will drop everything. He’d arranged an expensive meal out, pouring praise and champagne in equal measures until Will had been all but squirming with embarrassment over the fawning display. Tony, seeming to take it all in his stride, had cut through the nonsense and answered Will’s questions with the easy charm that had made so much of the British public take him into their hearts.

A home consultation had followed-without Chris, much to Will’s relief-and he’d thrown himself into designing a garden that would work for the multiple purposes the Cornwalls needed it to. With a combination of carefully positioned planters and eye-catching set pieces like an infinity-edged water feature, Will had divided the large area into a mixture of entertainment, family and contemplation spaces.

He’d been really pleased with it, could already picture in his mind’s eye the family sitting around the rustic wooden table he’d selected for the dining area beneath a simple grid pagoda draped in fragrant strands of climbing honeysuckle, or Phillipa doing some morning yoga as the sun reflected off the still water of the infinity pool and the white rocks laid in spirals and swirls to create a zen space. And negative energy, apparently. With a snort of disgust and the hope he could keep from laughing, or losing his temper, Will exited into the underground garage and jogged towards his hybrid flatbed truck.

Chris had been appalled at his choice, telling Will he needed something sexy and sporty in line with the bad boy image his manager had cultivated for him in the press. But sexy and sporty was crap when it came to storage and Will had stuck to his guns. Wincing as he reversed out of his space, barely missing one of the many concrete pillars in the underground structure, Will considered the only thing one of the stupid sports cars Chris had pushed him towards might have had going for it was the ease of parking it.

He was just waiting for a gap in the traffic when his phone started ringing. Flicking the screen without taking his eyes off the queue of cars, he instantly regretted it when his manager’s familiar voice boomed over the car speakers. ‘Will, mate! How’s it hanging this fine morning?’

Will cringed. Was there anything worse than a fifty-something bloke trying to be ‘down wiv da kids’ as Chris liked to put it. Double cringe. Spotting half a gap in front of a shiny, silver Mercedes, Will nudged his big truck into the traffic stream, reasoning that the owner of the Merc cared more about his lovely shiny bumpers than Will did. ‘Morning, Chris. I’m a bit busy, actually, can I call you later?’

‘Sure, sure! I get it, mate, no hassles from my end,’ Chris started laughing as though he’d said something hilarious. ‘But seriously, I’ve scored you a primo invite for this evening. You and Melody are attending the album launch for Clay Givens. He’s making some noises about wanting her to appear in one of his videos.’

Unable to believe what he was hearing, Will lost concentration for a moment. The rear-end of a red hatchback loomed before him and he slammed on his brakes just in time. ‘Christ!’