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
