The Secrets of Ivy Garden: A heartwarming tale perfect for relaxing on the grass. Catherine Ferguson

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СКАЧАТЬ are?’ How can he tell? Should I be worried? And where are my chakras anyway?

      ‘I was just off to my yoga class,’ he says, ‘but I can skip that for one night. Come up to my place. I’ve got just what you need.’

      His flat is just how I pictured it. All lovely calming blues and pale greens, a huge squashy sofa covered in cushions, and an amazing display of crystals in a glass-fronted cabinet. It smells delicious, too. A cross between some kind of lemony essential oil and … chocolate. Yes, definitely chocolate.

      ‘What’s that gorgeous scent?’ I ask, hopeful there might be a family-sized bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk lurking under one of his many cushions.

      He whisks something off a side table and wafts it under my nose. ‘Chocolate-scented candle. Lovely, isn’t it?’

      ‘Is it edible?’ I’ve never really been one for lighting candles everywhere. I always think I might set the place on fire.

      He chuckles. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ His face lights up. ‘But wait a minute …’ He disappears into the kitchen and I hear him opening the fridge.

      ‘I’ve got some kimchee, if you’re hungry,’ he calls through.

      ‘Kimchee?’ I wonder what that is? A kind of yummy Japanese cake, perhaps?

      ‘Fermented cabbage,’ he shouts. ‘It’s delicious and very good for you. Like to try some?’

      ‘I’m fine, thanks. Just eaten,’ I shout, rather too quickly.

      He returns with a bowl of what I assume is the aforementioned ‘kimchee’ and starts tucking in. The smell of it is so rank, my eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. It puts me in mind of a burst sewage pipe.

      ‘Where do you live?’ I ask, while he eats his revolting snack. ‘When you’re not here, I mean.’

      ‘I’ve got a house in Cornwall, right by the beach. Big windows so the light pours in.’

      ‘It sounds lovely.’

      ‘It is. Being so close to the sea is good for the soul. I’ll take you down there some time.’ He rises to his feet from a cross-legged position in one smooth movement and takes his bowl into the kitchen.

      My mind is whirring. Did he just offer to show me his house in Cornwall?

      ‘Now, a spot of meditation, I think,’ he says, coming back into the room. ‘For your chakras.’

      ‘Er, great!’

      Five minutes later, I’m lying on the floor with my eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to empty my mind of all thoughts. Sylvian’s voice is soft and hypnotic in my ear: ‘Any time a thought finds its way into your head, see yourself blowing it away, like a dandelion clock. Pfft! Off it goes, leaving your mind beautifully tranquil.’

      I’m trying my best but I keep getting a whiff of kimchee, which makes the ‘deep breaths in’ slightly nerve-racking, to be honest. Then I open one eye to find Sylvian lying on the floor next to me.

      Thoughts pour in and I’m powerless to blow them away: Is this an elaborate chat-up line? Let’s meditate together. Ha! Good one, Sylvian!

      But peering over at him, I decide his motives are probably pure. He has his eyes closed and he’s meditating with me, his lean diaphragm moving up and down with his deep breathing. It looks like the only reason we’re lying on the floor together is to get peaceful. On the other hand, he did offer to take me down to Cornwall. I can’t decide if I’d be disappointed or relieved if it turns out he only has friendship in mind.

      After our meditation, he makes nettle tea and sits cross-legged on the floor while I try out the vast sofa and admire Sylvian’s suppleness. Any other bloke who sat like that I’d quite frankly think was a bit weird, but Sylvian manages to carry it off and look really rather sexy.

      I tell him I feel much better for the meditation – which actually, I do – and he looks pleased. ‘You should try and do it every day if you can,’ he says. ‘It takes discipline, of course. Abby and Sara both found it really hard to apply themselves at first but they quickly got the hang of it.’

      ‘Abby and Sara?’ I ask, puzzled.

      He looks perplexed himself for a second. Then he says, ‘Oh, I haven’t mentioned them, have I? They live in my house in Cornwall.’

      ‘Oh. Right.’ I can’t help feeling surprised at this. I’d imagined him living on his own in his lovely beach-side retreat. ‘So you have housemates, then.’

      ‘I suppose I do, yes.’

      ‘That … must be nice.’

      ‘It is. They’re lovely girls. You’d like them, I’m sure.’ He smiles warmly. ‘And I know they’d like you.’

      I smile back, flattered he’s even thought about how I’d get on with his friends.

      He tells me about the poetry workshop he’s doing in nearby Cirencester the next day and I take this as my cue to thank him for the tea and therapy and leave him to his preparations.

      He comes down to the main door and leans round me to open it, and when I turn to thank him again, his nearness takes me by surprise. We’re squashed up close in the small space and his eyes are burning into mine. Then he leans forward a fraction and kisses me, full on the mouth.

      It’s an attractively confident kiss. No messing about. His lips are firm and warm, and as kisses go, it’s a good one, breaking my current drought very satisfyingly. Very satisfyingly indeed, in fact. The whiff of kimchee is barely noticeable.

      I’m just about to lean in and kiss him back, when he says, ‘Do you like vegetarian food?’

      ‘Er, yes, I … vegetables are great.’ I stick up both thumbs for emphasis.

      ‘Good. I’d love to cook for you, Holly. What are you doing on Saturday night?’

      ‘Oh, well, nothing,’ I tell him honestly. ‘If you like, I could bring dessert.’ I glance at his lean frame. ‘That’s if you eat puddings …’

      He smiles. ‘Oh, I eat puddings.’ He says it in a way that makes me think he’s definitely flirting with me … or maybe I’m imagining it. It’s all very confusing.

      But as I walk back to Moonbeam Cottage, clutching a carton of goat’s milk Sylvian gave me, I’m feeling much lighter somehow and less stressed.

      It must be the Sylvian effect.

      Or the fact that Ivy’s birthday on Sunday won’t be nearly such a hurdle if I’ve got a lovely evening with Sylvian on the Saturday to look forward to.

      On the way home I peer into the window of the deli-café, hoping Connie is back from Spain, and sure enough, she’s there. The café is empty of customers. Connie waves madly and beckons me in.

      ‘I wish I had time to chat,’ she says, whipping up a sleeve to show off her tan. ‘But Mum’s collecting me and I need to get finished here.’ She charges off to clear some СКАЧАТЬ