Bluebell Castle. Sarah Bennett
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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