The Flower Shop on Foxley Street. Rachel Dove

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       CHAPTER TWO

      ‘Morning, Mrs Evesham, looking good with that swing!’ Stuart shouted as he flew past the blonde on the green. She waved at him, wiggling her bottom as he drove past. He was in his element, riding his personalized golf cart like it was a Maserati around the Willard Westfield Golf Club and Spa. Spencer Willard was the founder, long departed, and apparently a bit of a character.

      Stuart liked to think he was keeping the spirit alive, giving the people who subscribed to the place the authentic Willard experience. Being the resident golf pro and sports manager, it was his prerogative that the business did well. He was always on the lookout for new talent, longing for the day a pampered child would walk in and be the next Tiger Woods, under his expert tutelage. Then he would be off, back on the tours, manager to the stars. Or his father would finally relent, give him the much-needed money and clout to play again on his own talent.

      That was the plan anyway. Since his own tours had ended relatively early, and the sponsorship deals had dried up, his father had cut him off, declaring him to be a disappointment. The black sheep in the sporting family. It was only thanks to the nagging and pleading eyes of his mother that her husband eventually pulled a few strings to get him this job, up in the sticks of Yorkshire. Coming up to eight years later, Stuart Woodward was still wondering what the hell had happened to bring him here, and when something would come along to get him out of it. Back to the life that he should have, the existence worthy of a Woodward.

      Stuart came from a long line of sporting heroes: rugby stars, tennis pros. His cousin Gerry even played football for England. Golf, whilst still considered a sport by many, was frowned upon somewhat by his family. His father loved golf – watching it, and playing it on a Saturday – but as for making a career out of it? Not so much.

      Stuart frowned as he pulled into his parking space. Thinking back to the summers of his childhood made him shudder, even more than the cold snap in the post-Christmas weather. He was distracted from thoughts of him being belittled in the garden with his little plastic golf set by a vibrating in his pants. He climbed out of the cart and answered the phone in one swift movement.

      ‘Stuart Woodward. I put the swwwwiinnggg in your swing!’ There was a little hesitation, and then he heard Lily’s soft voice.

      ‘Wayne’s World quotes again? We have spoken about this,’ she said teasingly, and he smiled into the phone at the sound of it. Just hearing her voice made him forget about his family pressures. She made him relax without even trying, and he loved her for that.

      ‘Hey, baby, sorry, I thought it was a work call.’

      ‘And that’s how you answer work calls?’ she asked, obviously amused. ‘I er, I just wanted to know if you were free for lunch today. I can’t meet tomorrow now, I have a meeting with a … supplier.’

      Stuart caught the waver in her voice. ‘You okay? You sound weird.’ It was true – she didn’t sound herself. Stuart could hear it in her voice. Not for the first time, he wondered whether she was as happy as he had been assuming she was. In truth, even Stuart expected her to wake up one day and realize he was more Beast than Prince Charming.

      He started to walk down the drive to the large gravel path that ran to the golf club. Even in this weather, it was beautiful – even if the greenery was a little worse for wear. He would have to get a gardener in. Since the last person left, he had struggled to fill the position. Probably because Amazonian women with big racks were not often chomping at the bit to work in gardening. His last hire looked like a budget version of Charlie Dimmock, minus the personality and the incredible natural scaffolding. And she didn’t know one end of a conifer from the other. He suddenly became aware that the line was quiet.

      ‘Sorry, babe, what was that?’

      ‘I said I am fine,’ Lily replied, sighing a little. ‘It was a little fraught this morning at home, that’s all. I really think we need to talk about getting this wedding started, maybe it will give them something to talk about, as well as improve my living situation.’

      Stuart winced. The golf club, being an old-fashioned establishment, didn’t allow him to have permanent guests overnight in his accommodation, a small cottage on site, but when they married it would be a different matter. No more excuses to hide behind. No more free rein. Could he do well as a married man? He knew himself well enough to doubt it.

      ‘I know, Lily, but we can’t rush these things just to stop your parents killing each other, can we.’

      He could hear the tut down the line, and as he walked to his office, he knew that Lily was mad. The tone of her voice confirmed it, and he nibbled his lip nervously.

      ‘I somehow don’t think a six-year engagement could be seen as rushing things, do you? Seriously, Stuart, sometimes I don’t know how we ever got together. Forget lunch, I just realized I would rather work.’ And with that she slammed down the phone at the shop. Stuart stared at his phone. It took a lot for Lily to get mad; in fact she was the nicest person he had met, which was lucky for him. She trusted him completely, which made his guts twist. Lately though, he had been noticing subtle changes, and her putting the phone down was a first.

      Sitting down at his desk some time later, still in shock, he looked at his golf lesson bookings for the day. Please, he thought to himself. Let one of these people be my key to a new life. Judging by the list of members on the page, today was not the day. He perked up a little when he saw that Mrs Evesham – young trophy wife of the rather portly (and loaded) Mr Evesham – was his first booking. Nothing like a bit of a laugh to pass the day. A nice bucket of sand to dig his head into.

      ***

      Back on Foxley Street, Lily slammed down the black portable shop phone into its cradle and forked it aggressively. Roger, surprised at Lily’s outburst, quietly clicked the kettle on and reached for the biscuit tin. Lily sat at the counter, head in hands.

      The shop was in a lull, people heading to work now, dropping children at school. The deliveries were done, so now she had a slot of time to check the online orders for the day and work on any new designs she had on the go. Her head wasn’t in the game though; in fact her brain was heading to the golf club with a pair of garden shears and a thirst for blood.

      ‘I mean, is it me?!’ she suddenly shouted, throwing her hands in the air and rapping her knuckles on the desk. Roger shook his head, wide-eyed, bringing her a coffee and a delicious Garibaldi over. She took them gratefully, nodding her thanks to him as the cup warmed her chilled bones. Winter sucked.

      ‘No, darling, and pardon me for eavesdropping but, why ARE you with him?’

      Lily СКАЧАТЬ