The Encroaching Rose

It was the Wednesday before that meeting Lucy had come to her decision; dammed if Rose and her pompous husband were going to continue to benefit from her influence on the board. While she had always known her neighbour was one to meddle in everyone's affairs – and was well aware she could be tactless in voicing her opinions – up until the previous evening Lucy had managed to stay clear of Rose's personal attacks. But it wasn't until the following morning, as she set off for home after dropping the children off at school, she started to think about what her neighbour had said. By the time she reached the turning for Bicester she was fuming. That interfering bitch had absolutely no right! Just because she imagined herself to be a magnet to every man that passed her way, didn't give her the right to pass judgement about my affair with Rupert. And to call me needy – well, that's just going too far!

The Langley roundabout was clear and when she reached Highworth junction Lucy shot off down a country lane. The next bend came at her in a rush. She gripped the wheel as the BMW rode the bank – it was an anxious fifteen seconds before she was able get the car back on course.

Bloody hell! Better pull over somewhere and calm down. Lucy took it steady for the next two miles and when she reached the sign for Ferngreen Nurseries, turned into the customers' car park, switched off the engine and took a deep breath. Why be so affected by a stupid remark? Why give Rose so much attention? It wasn't as if she was a close friend. While I may not have seen Rupert for the past few weeks, I'm quite happy with the way things are at the moment – well, up to a point – and if I choose not to get involved with anyone else, then that's my business. Come to think of it, I haven't noticed Rose's husband paying her much attention recently. Maybe it's she who's the frustrated one.

Lucy tried to put the episode out of her mind. She looked around at the other vehicles nearby and took a second look at the white van parked across from her. She was sure she'd seen a truck with the same logo turn into her neighbour's drive a few times in the past couple of months. This must be the place where Rose gets her garden plants. More than once she'd recommended one of the gardeners here; how she would leap at the chance to employ him full-time if only her husband would go along with it. Lucy thought of the empty space in her own garden where the old silver birch had been dug up – how envious Rose would be if she saw it replaced with something exotic. She smiled to herself, stepped out of the car and marched over to the nursery entrance. This could be a way to get her own back.

It was a clear morning and the air had a bite to it – September was probably too late in the season for most plants, but there may be something. She looked around the ornamental tree section. Bewildered by the endless varieties on offer, she was about to give up on the idea when she first saw him; standing between two rows of conifers was a man with golden hair tied in a ponytail, a man who could only be described as an Adonis.

Lucy side-stepped and took cover behind an alpine spruce. She watched him through the branches of the dense foliage. He was about six feet tall, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years old. With feet placed apart, he was stacking terracotta planters onto a trolley. Using his whole body, he lifted the containers with such grace and ease that each planter seemed to float through the air until it landed square onto the pallet. It was like watching a ballet. The scent of spruce filled her lungs as Lucy gazed at this creation of beauty, a warmth imbued her groin and she had to grip a branch to steady herself.

The man straightened and looked across in her direction – he must have heard her.

She was caught in a panic. There was no way out. She detached herself from the spruce.

"Could you help me, please?" she said, attempting to wipe the resin from her fingers. "I have an empty space in my garden and I'm looking for someone – for something to fill it."

Too late, the word was out before she could think. She hoped he hadn't read too much into it. But there again, as soon as she looked into his eyes, she really didn't care if he had.

"Of course, Madam. You are looking for the bags of compost?" He brushed a strand or two of hair from his perfectly sculptured face.

What is that accent? German? Dutch maybe. Lucy pulled herself together. "Oh, no. I'm looking for a small tree that will give a bit of shade in a sunny area of my garden." Those eyes; limpid blue, the colour of azure.

The man glanced up at the cold grey sky. He shrugged. "Please, I will show you."

He led the way down a path where he pointed out various trees which could be planted at this time of year. Mesmerised by the resonance of his words, hypnotised by the shape of his bottom encased in light denim, Lucy followed a couple of paces behind. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

He turned and gave her an amused look. "Excuse me. I am from Sweden. I think my English is not so good. My question is how much size do you want?"

She dropped her gaze to the front of his jeans. Her mind was reeling. God! Who cares, does it really matter? She had to pinch herself to get back on track. "Oh, I don't think it needs to be more than ten feet high."

He thought for a moment then took her down a narrow path bordered by rows of shrubs until they came to a halt before a small tree.

"This one is Amelanchier Canadensis," he said, caressing the stem between thumb and fingers. "It has beautiful red leaves at the finish of the season."

Lucy looked up at his wide sensuous mouth; imagined a flickering tongue emerging like a –

"It is small now, but, he will be up to two metres when he has grown."

Again, her eyes dropped to the crotch of his jeans. If this carries on I'm going to make a fool of myself. She looked up. "Yes, that's fine. I'll have this one."

"You will need to make a big hole for this." He seemed concerned at her rushed decision. "You would like to see some more before you make your mind?"

For a moment, he caught her with his piercing eyes.

She looked away and tried to focus on the plant. "No, I like this one. This one is fine. Can you deliver it?"

"Of course we can, madam. You can arrange this with reception when you –"

"No –" She almost shouted the word. "I mean, you have been very helpful to me and I was wondering," she hesitated, her heart thumping. "I was wondering if you could show me where to plant it." (Bloody hell! What am I saying – have I gone out of my mind?) "Of course, I'll pay you extra," she added.

The man considered her for a moment. "I am only work here in the mornings," he said.

"Oh, good. This afternoon will be fine. Say, one thirty?" Lucy didn't wait for his answer. "Here's my phone number." She took out her card, Lucy Sutton – Director Retrospective Theatre Company, and wrote her address on the back.

His face broke into a broad grin as he studied the card. He held out his hand. "I will be there at one-thirty Mrs Sutton."

He kept a gentle grasp of her fingers as she gave directions. God – if this man doesn't let go soon I'm sure my body will start to shake. At last, he released her and she started to walk away. A few paces on, she turned around. "By the way. What's your name?"

"Jöran. Jöran Engstrom."

"Jöran Engstrom," she repeated. "Half-past one then?"

"Yes, I will see you then."

She ambled towards the reception, telling herself not to look back until she turned the corner. When she did, he was still standing where she'd left him, studying the card she'd given him. He took out his mobile, tapped in a number and brought the phone to his ear.

When she reached the car park, Lucy let out a deep breath.

The weather had cleared and it was already warm by the time she reached home. There was a letter waiting for her; from her agent. She stood in the hall and tore it open – Great news! Her series, Windows after Hopper, has been accepted for the Spring Exhibition at the Walter Sickert Gallery in Hampstead and could she contact him as soon as possible to discuss media coverage. Lucy went straight to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. At last, all her work over the past year has paid off – this will be her biggest break since winning the Tristan Humbert Prize three years ago. This has to be her lucky day.

She looked at the time: 12.35. God, that lovely man will be here in an hour! She picked up her glass and checked every room in the house, then she poured herself another. Thank God it was Wednesday and Janice had been around to clean up the previous afternoon. Upstairs, she took a bath and went to extraordinary lengths to ensure not a single hair remained attached to her legs. In her bedroom she pulled open the wardrobe doors, took down the little black dress and threw it on the bed. Moving to her bedside table, she rummaged through the top drawer and groaned at the crumpled heap of cotton briefs and sports bras. She emptied the contents onto the bed alongside her dress, stood back and glared at the pile – all clean and fresh but nothing likely to induce the passions. Then, as if a genie had leaped from her wine glass, she remembered the set she'd bought for that date last New Year – one of many Rupert had to cancel.

She pulled open the bottom drawer. The packet was still there, buried beneath her woollen jumpers, unopened and bearing the label Allure of Paris. She tore it open and, within the space of a minute, was standing before her cheval mirror dressed in an enticing silk bra and matching panties. She closed her eyes and imagined him there – Him? Christ! What did he say his name was? Oh yes Jöran. That's it, Jöran, laying on the bed; piercing blue eyes gleaming, strong hands reaching out to her, pulling her down – she glanced at the clock on her bedside table – Ten past one! She grabbed the dress and hitched it over her head and shoulders. After a quick look in the mirror she pulled it off and threw it to the floor along with her stockings. "Shit, shit, shit!"

Two minutes later she bounded down the stairs dressed in a straight grey woollen skirt and cream shirt and shoved her bare feet into a pair of flat leather shoes.

Another glass of wine and a quick inspection of the dining room. An empty coffee cup had been left at the edge of the carefully polished dining table. She picked it up, rushed over to the dresser and opened the bottom door. The contents spilled out across the floor: a paperback book, two broken pencils, all the Sunday supplements for the last three months, a yellow cushion (part of a pair used to decorate the sofa she had replaced last year) and a tennis ball which had now rolled under the table – everything spewed out and scattered.

When, at last, all was back in place Lucy wedged the empty cup between the pages of the supplements and eased the door closed. She waited, expecting it to spring open, but it held. She stood back and surveyed the room.

After a little consideration she moved the vase of fresh cut flowers from the dining table to the mantle shelf above the fireplace, centred it between the jade statuettes of Vishnu and Brahma, only to return it back to its original place at the table.

She raced into the kitchen and glanced up at the clock: 1.27. Her heart was pounding like a bass drum. What's wrong with me for Christ's sake! The man's only coming to deliver a tree for the garden, and anyway he's probably forgotten all about it now.

At that moment wheels crunched through the gravel of her drive. Lucy stepped back from the window and watched a rusty old pick-up truck pull up outside. The bell gave a second ring. Lucy waited in the hall and willed herself to get to twenty before answering. Six, seven, eight, she pulled the door open at nine.

"Oh, goodness!" Lucy raised her eyebrows. "Is it that time already?"

"Hello. I should take these off?"

Lucy, head spinning, gazed at the figure on her doorstep and wished she hadn't been so liberal with the wine.

The man pointed to his feet.

Her eyes travelled down the length of his body and rested on his mud-clodded boots.

"Oh, no. That's all right. Come through, Johan."

"Jöran."

"Yes, well. We'll go to the garden first."

He followed her down the hall, across the lounge, through the conservatory and out to the back garden, leaving a trail of mud footprints across the polished floors and deep-pile carpet.

While he measured the space for her new tree, Lucy went to perch on the garden table. After a couple of failed attempts, she managed to position herself at the edge of the bench and watched the man at work. Each time he had his back turned, she hitched her skirt a little higher.

"What did you do in Sweden?" she said, trying to get his attention.

He glanced up. "My work?"

For a brief moment, she was sure his eyes took in her exposed thigh.

"Yes, your work?"

He told her that he was an actor for the Personlig Teater in Stockholm.

Lucy considered this. So that would explain why he had taken an interest in my business card. However, she didn't comment and Jöran went on to say that, when there was no work in the theatre, he was employed as a masseur and personal trainer in a fitness centre in Malmö.

God! thought Lucy, this is too good to be true. She asked if he enjoyed the work.

"For the theatre?"

"No, the fitness centre."

He said it was okay but he would prefer to work for himself as a gardener but found it difficult to get established.

"Maybe you should offer a discount for recommendations. I'm sure you could find plenty of clients that way."

"But I think it is not so easy. First I must find somewhere to keep my equipment and then it will be the rent to pay." He shrugged. "I think this will take much time and money. I finish my employment at the garden centre this month and, if I cannot find somewhere for my work, then I will have to return to my country."

While she watched him at work, Lucy thought of his dilemma. She considered her summerhouse; heated, double glazed, about ten by twelve feet of floorspace.

"How much room do you need?" she asked.

Jöran stepped back and checked the depth of the hole. "Oh, I think that will be size enough."

With his feet braced apart and knees slightly bent, he lowered the sapling gently into the hole. Lucy imagined herself suspended with his hands at her waist and her legs wrapped around his middle.

"No, I meant for your garden work," she said. "For your storage?"

He trod the soft dark earth firmly around the base of the tree. "Ah, it would be the same as a small office."

Lucy slipped off the bench and they both stood back to admire the tree set in its new location.

"Lovely. Wait here. I'll just be a moment." Lucy went back to the house and returned with a chequebook in her hand. "Now, how much do I owe you?"

"Oh, I think twenty-five pounds is good for me. It is too much, do you think?" He looked to her for confirmation.

There was a movement from the curtain at her neighbour's window.

"No, I think that's very reasonable." Her pen was poised over the cheque. "How much do you charge for a massage?"

"It may be a little different here, but at the centre in Sweden they charge three hundred kronor for forty minutes, which is about thirty pounds."

"Well, yes that's fine. So, I make that fifty-five pounds altogether. Is that okay?" Lucy started to fill out the cheque.

"You pay for a massage, now?"

"Well, not if you don't want to," she added.

"Of course, yes, this is not a problem. I was a little unexpecting, that is all." His voice trailed off. "You want me now? Here in your home?" he asked.

She gave a quick glance to her neighbour's bedroom window. "Well, I was thinking out here in the garden would be fine."

Jöran paused. "But I have not my roller and balls."

Lucy's eyes dropped to his crotch.

"And have not my oils," he added.

"Oils? Oh yes, that's all right. Wait a moment." Lucy headed back to the house. After a few paces she let out the breath she had been holding in for the last twenty-five seconds.

Less than a minute later she was back in the garden armed with a bath towel and the bottle of massage oil which had remained unopened in the medicine cabinet for over nine months. "Is this okay?" she asked.

He took the bottle and read the label.

Lucy spread the towel over the garden table.

"Yes, this is okay," he said.

Lucy turned to face him. "Shall I get undressed now?"

"Yes, I think this will be necessary," he smiled.

She attempted to undo her shirt but the buttons kept slipping through her fingers. She looked up. "Can you help me with this, please?"

The curtain gave another twitch at Rose's bedroom window.

Jöran slowly unbuttoned the front of Lucy's shirt. He was standing so close she could feel the warmth of his body. His eyes were fixed on the final button which stubbornly refused to pass through the hole. Hers dropped to his slim waist beneath his t-shirt. She became conscious of her breathing, hard, through parted lips. She held her breath.

The final button gave way and he looked up. Their eyes met. Lucy had to fight the impulse to fling her arms around his neck and kiss him.

"How long are you staying here?" Her words came out as a whisper. She cleared her throat. "I mean, in England?"

He repeated that his contract with the garden centre would be finishing next month and, if he couldn't find any work here, he would have to return to Sweden.

"Oh, yes. You told me." Lucy pulled her shirt off her shoulders, convincing herself that this was no different than a routine examination at her doctor's surgery. She let her skirt drop to the grass and climbed onto the table.

"Do you want to lay me on my back or my tummy?" The innuendos, although unintended, flowed so naturally Lucy didn't bother to correct them any more. Besides, the man didn't seem to notice.

"I begin with your back first," he said.

Lucy stretched full length on the table with her head turned to face the garden wall. At the sound of squelching oil warming his palms, Lucy had to remind herself to stay detached. She unclipped the back of her bra.

His first touch was electrifying. As soon as his fingers pressed between her shoulder blades Lucy knew that she would have a struggle to keep control. Her eyes fixed on the flowerbed. She had just started to count the second row of gladioli when there was a sound of metal scraping against brickwork from the other side of the wall. Moments later, a head of auburn hair appeared through the fronds of ivy draped over the top of the wall.

Lucy closed her eyes. She turned her head away and smiled; her plan was working, better than she expected. The sun was warm on her back as her masseur's fingertips glided along the centre of her spine. She opened her eyes a little, just enough to take in the front of his jeans pressing against the bench inches from her face, the edge of his bleached t-shirt working it's way above the waistband. Her eyes followed a trickle of sweat as it ran down the tight skin of his stomach.

"You can take your shirt off if you like?" Lucy bit into her lip. "I mean, it's quite hot out here."

Jöran removed his hands from her back.

God! She hadn't meant to say it aloud. And now he's taken offence; he's packing up and leaving. And all witnessed by Rose too – she'll never hear the end of it.

The edge of his t-shirt moved up to his chest and over his shoulders to uncover a smooth tanned waist. Never had Lucy seen a man in such good physical shape – at least, not in real life. The tight rippling pectoral muscles she thought only existed in the pictures of male models in magazines. She let out a sigh as his fingers resumed their sensual movements. Then a thought flashed through her mind: What if he's gay!