It’s fascinating how differently everyone approaches hoarding. You, for instance, don’t seem to have any trouble keeping some areas clear.” Lewis gestured around the veranda, empty apart from the hammock swinging between two rafters.
Jasper took a quick swig from the bottle, imagining that was the warmth from Lewis’s lips he could still feel on the plastic. He handed it back.
“This wouldn’t be a good place to store books.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I can think of a few you might want to store out here. Margaret Thatcher’s autobiography, perhaps? Or maybe George W. Bush’s?”
“Not a fan of right-wing politicians?”
“How did you guess?” Lewis quirked a smile at him, then stepped to the edge of the veranda, where the steps led down into the jungle below. “This is an amazing garden. Seriously beautiful.”
“It’s overgrown,” Jasper said, giving the response he felt was expected of him when faced with the lawn that had turned into a meadow, and the rampant flowerbeds. “I should probably get a gardener in to come and clear it all.”
“Don’t you dare! It’s perfect the way it is.”
“You really think so?”
“Of course. It’s like Hodgson Burnett’s secret garden or something. You’d need to find a gardener like old Ben Weatherstaff to respect it. Or just leave it how it is.”
“Dad planted it for Mama. Growing up in Egypt, she’d always dreamed of an English rose garden.” Strange, how easy it was to talk about her with Lewis. “She loved it out here.”
“And so you’ve kept it clear of clutter. Unlike the front garden, I mean.”
“Yes. She never liked that one so much. Too dark, what with it facing north.” A memory of her sitting out on the veranda in the old steamer chair crept up on him. Where on earth had he buried that chair? It would be great to see it back where she’d used to sit. But a twinge of pain warned him off pursuing that thought any further. He turned from the empty veranda to where Lewis stood, now at the bottom of the steps. “I thought you’d be a fan of trendy modern gardens. All gravel and abstract sculptures.”
“Sounds like my folks’ place.” Lewis shook his head and pulled down a branch of rambling rose to sniff at the blooms. “Don’t let the day job fool you. I’m not a neat freak, really. Well, I am about my clothes, but not everything. I don’t find tidiness particularly desirable in others.” Lewis gave him a lingering look that burned onto Jasper’s skin like the late afternoon sun. Jasper took a step forward, down into the garden, so that the leaves of the grasses brushed against his bare ankles.
One more step, and he could be kissing Lewis. An idea as appealing as it was dangerous. What’s more, Lewis seemed to be inviting him, tilting his head back and staring with a sort of lazy flirtatiousness.
A dog barked in a nearby garden, startling them both.
“We should get back inside,” Lewis said, turning away and walking briskly up the steps. “There’s still the rest of the house to see. Do you mind if I take some photographs? It’s useful for clients to look back on at later stages in the process. Reminds them just how much progress they’ve made. Jasper?”
Jasper realised he’d been zoning out, standing there with his fingers resting on his lips. Lewis hadn’t been making eyes at him. He was a professional. He probably just couldn’t help sending out that kind of signal, being an open, friendly sort of person.
Thank God, Jasper hadn’t embarrassed himself by leaping in, lips first.
Chapter Seven
Showing the upstairs wasn’t as excruciatingly embarrassing as the downstairs had been, but that was only because Jasper now knew Lewis wouldn’t show any shock at the state of the house. Instead, Lewis stood in a shaft of sunshine slanting through the landing skylight, picking up books from the tops of stacks and asking Jasper if he’d read them or why he’d brought them home.
“That one?” Jasper eyed
Jasper took a quick swig from the bottle, imagining that was the warmth from Lewis’s lips he could still feel on the plastic. He handed it back.
“This wouldn’t be a good place to store books.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I can think of a few you might want to store out here. Margaret Thatcher’s autobiography, perhaps? Or maybe George W. Bush’s?”
“Not a fan of right-wing politicians?”
“How did you guess?” Lewis quirked a smile at him, then stepped to the edge of the veranda, where the steps led down into the jungle below. “This is an amazing garden. Seriously beautiful.”
“It’s overgrown,” Jasper said, giving the response he felt was expected of him when faced with the lawn that had turned into a meadow, and the rampant flowerbeds. “I should probably get a gardener in to come and clear it all.”
“Don’t you dare! It’s perfect the way it is.”
“You really think so?”
“Of course. It’s like Hodgson Burnett’s secret garden or something. You’d need to find a gardener like old Ben Weatherstaff to respect it. Or just leave it how it is.”
“Dad planted it for Mama. Growing up in Egypt, she’d always dreamed of an English rose garden.” Strange, how easy it was to talk about her with Lewis. “She loved it out here.”
“And so you’ve kept it clear of clutter. Unlike the front garden, I mean.”
“Yes. She never liked that one so much. Too dark, what with it facing north.” A memory of her sitting out on the veranda in the old steamer chair crept up on him. Where on earth had he buried that chair? It would be great to see it back where she’d used to sit. But a twinge of pain warned him off pursuing that thought any further. He turned from the empty veranda to where Lewis stood, now at the bottom of the steps. “I thought you’d be a fan of trendy modern gardens. All gravel and abstract sculptures.”
“Sounds like my folks’ place.” Lewis shook his head and pulled down a branch of rambling rose to sniff at the blooms. “Don’t let the day job fool you. I’m not a neat freak, really. Well, I am about my clothes, but not everything. I don’t find tidiness particularly desirable in others.” Lewis gave him a lingering look that burned onto Jasper’s skin like the late afternoon sun. Jasper took a step forward, down into the garden, so that the leaves of the grasses brushed against his bare ankles.
One more step, and he could be kissing Lewis. An idea as appealing as it was dangerous. What’s more, Lewis seemed to be inviting him, tilting his head back and staring with a sort of lazy flirtatiousness.
A dog barked in a nearby garden, startling them both.
“We should get back inside,” Lewis said, turning away and walking briskly up the steps. “There’s still the rest of the house to see. Do you mind if I take some photographs? It’s useful for clients to look back on at later stages in the process. Reminds them just how much progress they’ve made. Jasper?”
Jasper realised he’d been zoning out, standing there with his fingers resting on his lips. Lewis hadn’t been making eyes at him. He was a professional. He probably just couldn’t help sending out that kind of signal, being an open, friendly sort of person.
Thank God, Jasper hadn’t embarrassed himself by leaping in, lips first.
Chapter Seven
Showing the upstairs wasn’t as excruciatingly embarrassing as the downstairs had been, but that was only because Jasper now knew Lewis wouldn’t show any shock at the state of the house. Instead, Lewis stood in a shaft of sunshine slanting through the landing skylight, picking up books from the tops of stacks and asking Jasper if he’d read them or why he’d brought them home.
“That one?” Jasper eyed
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