The Great Allotment Proposal. Jenny Oliver

the ceiling glared out at full beam as she tried and failed to work out the dimmer option on the control panel. In the end she turned them all off in frustration and had to change out of her evening dress in the dark, hanging it carefully in the built-in mirrored wardrobe ready to go back to the designer in the morning. Her pyjamas were folded on her bed but it felt too early to put them on and she was too wired for sleep. So instead she pulled on a pair of grey jeans, a darker grey silk T-shirt and a pair of red leather flip flops and jogged down the stairs and out the house via the big glass kitchen doors.

      Outside, the air smelt sweet, of honeysuckle and jasmine with the faint tang of chlorine from the pool. While the previous owners had mosaicked the surround of the pool and made a small trellised patio, which wasn’t that bad, they had done very little to the rest of the garden. The wide lawn, the grass yellowing from the harsh sun, still stretched out to the huge lime trees at the back. The Montmorency cherries stood in clusters on the right-hand side of the lawn, pecked to smithereens by the fat pigeons, and behind the pool some flowerbeds that her brother, Wilf, had built still stood, dominated by a massive pink fuchsia and a quince tree that had quadrupled in size.

      Emily walked the edge of the garden, pausing once to glance back at the house which, from this angle, looked unchanged. The huge windows looked down at her, unblinking. She walked backwards a few more steps and then turned, knowing suddenly exactly where she was going.

      At the end of the garden, where the lime trees towered overhead like sky-scrapers, was a dense network of bushes – an elderflower, some big rhododendrons and a huge purple buddleia – now all entwined with some errant brambles. It was overgrown, untended, the branches all meshed together, but Emily knew what she was looking for was there. She clambered in, pushing her way through the thicket, the branches scratching her arms, spiders’ webs catching in her hair, until finally her feet touched on the pebbles of the old path and her hands met the little wooden gate, once white, now scratched and grey. It took a couple of shoves to get it open and once through she had to contend with more brambles, an old apple tree and a bank of stinging nettles, but when she was out the other side the smell of the river hit her, tart and sharp. She heard the familiar lapping of water against the bank and the shuffle of startled ducks and she shut her eyes and breathed in.

      ‘Would have been easier to come round the side,’ a voice said.

      ‘Please don’t ruin my moment,’ Emily replied, holding a hand up to stop them saying more as she let the evening sun flicker on her face.

      Jack laughed, ‘Sorry.’

      Emily opened her eyes and looked at the bright fishing boat in front of her. Moored to her jetty that should have been neglected and decrepit but which had been mended, the broken posts re-carved, the white paint gleaming. The boat itself was like a mini-trawler painted various shades of turquoise and cobalt blue; bright-red buoys hung from the sides. Around the edge was a white stripe and on it at the front, written in black, was the name, That Jack Built. The cabin in the centre had been extended almost the full length of the boat and the mast had a white flag that flapped in the gentle breeze.

      ‘Nice boat,’ she said, shielding her eyes as she looked up to where he sat, his feet resting on the rail, slicing an apple with his penknife.

      ‘Thanks,’ he said, glancing up at her without lifting his head. ‘I like it.’

      ‘Are you going to invite me on board?’ she asked, head tilted to one side, watching him.

      Jack paused mid-slice, then leant forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘Em, if you wanna come aboard, you come aboard.’

      She felt her face smile as she watched him, all mellow nonchalance and laid-back cool.

      He glanced up again. ‘Are you just going to stand there?’

      ‘No.’ She shook her head, a smile still playing on her lips. ‘No, I’m coming on board.’

      As Jack stood to give her a hand up she felt his palm, all rough with blisters and hard skin. When she was on deck, instead of letting go, she held onto his wrist with her other hand and turned his over so she could see all the marks. ‘Are you bare-knuckle fighting or something?’

      ‘Would it turn you on if I was?’

      Emily raised a brow.

      Jack chuckled. ‘It’s the nature of the job.’

      Emily let his hand go and walked around to the front of the boat, letting her fingers trail on the railing. ‘And what is that exactly? I thought you went off to become an engineer.’

      ‘I am an engineer. I’m also a carpenter. And a boatbuilder.’

      She leant facing him with both hands on the railing behind her. ‘You built this?’ she asked, nodding towards the main cabin of the boat.

      Jack nodded.

      ‘Impressive,’ she said.

      ‘What are you doing here, Emily?’

      She shook her head. ‘I took a walk and this is where I ended up.’

      Jack narrowed his eyes like he was debating whether to invite her in or send her home. Emily raised a brow back at him, almost in challenge.

      ‘You want some dinner?’ he said in the end.

      ‘OK.’

       Chapter Six

      The kitchen was tiny. The table even smaller. Emily sat with a glass of wine watching Jack cook. Throwing together the finest, simplest ingredients – tearing leaves from beautiful lush pots of fresh herbs on the window sill, slicing big juicy Spanish tomatoes, crushing plump smoked garlic and ripping up soft white mozzarella. She wondered where he’d learnt all these skills. He hadn’t been able to cook when she’d known him. Nor, for that matter, could he have built a boat. Not one as stunning as this one. The interior was all chestnut-coloured glossy wood, a worn bench ran along one side of cabin opposite a scuffed black furnace, plain white curtains rippled in the slight breeze and at the end of the room a soft tartan rug had been thrown over a big, high bed. Next to them in the kitchen there was an old worn Peruvian rug on the floor, a bunch of cushions scattered against the wall and a large window that opened up to look out on the river.

      ‘I really like your boat,’ she said.

      Jack laughed as if her saying it was ridiculous.

      ‘What?’ she asked.

      ‘What are you doing here, Emily?’

      ‘Being my usual amazing self.’

      Jack raised a brow.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I liked the idea of seeing you, I suppose.’

      He narrowed his eyes at her as if assessing her motives.

      She bit her lip and half-smiled, ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

      ‘Because my life is really simple now,’ he said, looking down to stir the saucepan full of rich tomatoey spaghetti. There was a tiny half-smile on his face, but she got the impression that he wanted to close his eyes and make her disappear.

      ‘I won’t make it complicated.’ Emily nudged his calf with her toe. ‘I promise.’

      ‘You make everything complicated,’ he said with a laugh and then waved a hand as if they should say no more. ‘OK, well here, have some pasta. You need more wine?’

      She nodded and he topped up her glass with a smoky bordeaux that reminded her of sitting by the wood fire in her mum’s house in France. Then she picked up her fork and twirled up some spaghetti. The moment it hit her tastebuds, all the fancy canapés she’d eaten that night paled into insignificance. ‘How come you can cook like this?’

      Jack sat back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other ankle to knee; he had the bowl of pasta in one hand and was twisting spaghetti with the other.