The World at My Feet Read online

  ‘I’m appalled,’ Mum says.

  ‘Well, she’s been miserable for years,’ Dad replies.

  ‘I don’t mean about the affair, I mean that I hadn’t worked it out. I should’ve realised nobody can lose that much weight just from playing badminton.’

  Theirs is a large kitchen and dining room, with soapstone countertops and copperware that jostles for space on the shelves. It is cosy and unselfconscious, a touch chintzy, though there are a few mod cons and stainless-steel gadgets. It’s mainly filled with mismatched furniture dappled with the imperfections of time and picked up from anywhere and everywhere. Kilims from the Balkans. Batiks from Indonesia. Walls full of books and art and a ‘good’ oak table that might have been worth something if it wasn’t dented by roller-skates and patchy from decades of buttered crumpets devoured by my sister Lucy and me.

  ‘Can’t be long before your concert, Dad,’ I say, finishing the pudding.

  ‘End of May. I can’t wait. It was worth turning sixty-five for that.’

  The two tickets to see the Rolling Stones at the London stadium were from Lucy and me. They went on sale more than a year ago and it took both of us, plus Mum, simultaneously hammering websites on five devices before we eventually hit the jackpot.

  ‘I still haven’t decided who I’ll take with me,’ he says, as Mum stands to start clearing the dishes.

  I look up, surprised. ‘Why aren’t you going, Mum?’

  ‘I’ve got an after-dinner speaking job, sadly,’ she says. ‘He won’t be short of takers to accompany him though.’

  ‘Hey, what was that concert I took you to as a teenager?’ Dad asks. ‘It was at the Forum in Kentish Town.’

  ‘Macy Gray,’ I tell him. ‘She was brilliant.’

  He holds my gaze long enough for me to realise that he is considering an alternative reality, in which the person he gives the other Rolling Stones ticket to is me. In which we leap up and down to the music, buy the T-shirts, drink the beers, feel the thrum of sixty thousand voices singing along to one song. The thought sends a prickle along the back of my neck. ‘Your friend Alistair would be a good choice for the Stones, I think,’ I say decisively. ‘Don’t you?’

  He smiles in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘Yes, I’m sure Alistair would love it.’

  * * *

  Afterwards, Mum goes to watch the news in the living room and, after finishing the washing up, I find her curled on the sofa, bare feet tucked underneath her legs. Her hair was a vivid ginger when she was younger, but has faded to a peachy blonde. She has a fine bone structure and thick lips that once prompted someone from her tennis club to ask if she’d had collagen implants.

  ‘Certainly not,’ she replied, though judging by the number of times she’s since repeated this anecdote, she was secretly pleased at the suggestion.

  I sit next to her and wait for the closing credits while my eyes drift over the photos on the wall, an identity parade of badly cut fringes, braces and teenage spots, clutching graduation scrolls or running trophies.

  I last won one when I was fourteen, when I competed at county level. I think it had been a surprise to everyone that I could run as fast as I could, me included – and it certainly kept the pounds off more easily than I can manage now. If Mum wasn’t away, she’d be the one to drive me to the fixtures. She’d been a good runner herself as a girl and loved watching me compete, judging by the volume of her cheers if I won, at least.

  Of course, when I first started those races, aged nine, she was still working abroad all the time. I used to seek her out on the sidelines and, if I saw her with her mobile phone at her ear, anxiety would bolt through me, because back then only one person ever phoned on that – her news editor. It was a sure sign that, later that day, she’d be packing her little brown bag, ready to fly off to God knows where. I never got used to it.

  ‘Our new cleaner starts next week, did I tell you?’ she asks, as the programme’s credits roll.

  ‘Oh, Mum, I’ve already said I’m happy to clean for you,’ I protest. ‘It’s such a waste of money when I’m only next door.’

  ‘No,’ she replies firmly. ‘I don’t want you doing that.’

  ‘But you walk Gertie for me. It’s only fair that I do something in return.’

  ‘Walking Gertie isn’t a chore. I enjoy it. Besides, I’ve got Mandy starting next week now.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Ellie,’ she says, interrupting, as she pats my hand gently. ‘It’s out of the question.’

  There’s no point in arguing. Dad doesn’t always agree with her, but he’d back her up on this. The thought of me being stuck at home, scrubbing a floor, instead of putting my university education to decent use is unbearable for them. Because however they imagined I’d turn out, it was a long way from that.

  Chapter 3

  I wake the following day to the soft thud of Gertie’s paws as she jumps on the end of the bed and scampers to me to say hello. It’s been a long time since anyone has tried to nibble my earlobes, but it’s so gross that I prise her off immediately.

  ‘You silly thing,’ I murmur, ruffling her fur as she wags her tail, apparently ecstatic at the mere fact of my existence. I pick up the phone and check the response to the tulip post. It has attracted a solid 948 likes and lots of comments, though I discover as I scroll that this was largely prompted by a question from one of my followers.

  @DaisyFallowes

  Could you settle a difference of opinion between me and my boyfriend? He recently grew a man bun, started drinking craft ale and, as well as showing an interest in bee-keeping, is obsessed with making our garden organic. I’m all for this, but he claims that ‘human urine is the most effective fertiliser known to man’. I’m now worried about him ‘fertilising’ the botanicals in broad daylight. The neighbours are a nice bunch but I’m pretty sure they have limits. Is he pulling my leg?

  @EnglishCountryGardenista

  @DaisyFallowes I prefer Growmore, but your boyfriend is not wrong: human urine is a rich source of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium. However, I wouldn’t recommend applying it directly (and not merely for the sake of your neighbours). It works best when diluted ten to fifteen parts water. Happy fertilising!

  I make sure I reply to everybody – @patti.74, who tells me that tulips are her favourite too. @Urban.gardener.NYC who wishes he had the space I have on the terrace of his loft apartment. @Dorinda.Smythe from Winnipeg, Canada, who says she’s waiting patiently for her own tulips to poke through a blanket of deep snow… and dozens of others.

  It’s time-consuming but I was brought up to believe that if somebody takes the trouble to start a conversation, it’s only polite to respond. I like to think of social media as a cocktail party. You get to chat to all kinds of people; some you hit it off with, others you don’t.

  This connection with the outside world is one of the reasons why I don’t really think of myself as agoraphobic, whatever my medical records might say. I don’t closet myself in a room with the windows nailed shut, unable to go to the bathroom without fearing what might jump out of the loo and get me. Also, it’s not as though I don’t go outside. I am constantly outside, where I feel not only relaxed but positively content, as long as it’s within the perimeter of the garden, which is looped by a high stone wall and dense hedges that provide an atmosphere of seclusion and privacy. Compare this to some poor bastards on the panic forums. Some of them never even leave their bed.

  I could leave if I had to, but the life I have constructed here is one I happen to like – and is all the better for the fact that it allows me to do a job I’m passionate about. I don’t get paid a fortune as an influencer, but the sponsored content that I create, curate and publish online amounts to more than when I first started out, when I’d have done anything for a free watering can. Now, my paid-for posts are planned in advance with the marketing manager of one of the firms who employ me – everyone from online plant stores to clothing companies and publishers.

  I like to thi
nk that one of my key attributes is flexibility, so when I was approached this morning by a firm I’ve partnered with before – The Creative Planter – to ask if I could squeeze in a sponsored post before Wednesday, I immediately said yes, despite the weather forecast. With rain promised later today, I need to get cracking. After wanding my hair into long waves, I apply liquid eyeliner and pull a pair of Hunter wellies over my jeans. I step outside with my tripod and camera, as milky morning light shimmers through the buds on the fruit trees.

  Our garden wraps around my parents’ house on a perfectly sized plot of around three quarters of an acre. The main house has the nicest aspect: from the top floor, where my mum’s home office is, the view is an idyllic slice of English countryside, a carpet of green hills, church spires and woodland. Inside the walls, my aim was to create the perfect cottage garden, an exuberant and informal display of peonies and foxgloves, snapdragons and pansies. There are berry and fruit trees, as well as rambling plants that grow right up to the main house, weaving into each other and cascading onto the pathways. Right at the end is a huge weeping willow, with graceful, whispery leaves.

  I start on the first few shots on my list – pictures in which I prune a fig tree and or tie back the rambling roses. But by 11am, the sky looks ominous, so I prioritise a now-or-never shot to illustrate a post about lily bulbs that the marketing manager of The Creative Planter was desperate for. It involves a side-on view as I kneel with a trowel, a splash of colour from the bluebells in the background. I set the timer and get into position, when a burst of sunlight shines through the clouds. It’s a winning shot.

  ‘Er… hello?’

  With a second before the shutter clicks, I ignore the arrival of Ged with my Marlboro Lights – and fix my smile.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  But I realise that the voice isn’t actually Ged’s. As footsteps approach, my breath catches and I look up without actively making the decision to do so. I register as my stomach plummets that a total stranger is standing in my garden.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Don’t leave the gate open, I’ve got a dog!’ I yell, though Dad took Gertie for a walk an hour ago.

  He freezes and looks round, alarmed. ‘Oh, sorry.’

  I glance at the logo on his polo shirt and realise that, while he isn’t Ged, he is from the garden centre. I remember my camera and check the last photo it took, discovering that as a result of the confusion all I’ve achieved is an unusable shot of my elbow. I groan as he heads up my garden path, carrying a tray of alpines.

  He is a bear of a man, with the kind of height and bulk that you can’t ever imagine fitting into an economy airline seat, or emerging from a gift shop without having broken a couple of knick-knacks. He wears grubby workman’s gloves and an unironed shirt, and has a spongy midriff that, harsh as it sounds, does not compare favourably with the Nordic male supermodels I’m used to seeing on Instagram. His muscular forearms are milk white and his hair light brown, the colour of dust in the summer. He looks vaguely familiar though I realise that this is because, beyond thick, solid eyebrows and long lashes, his face isn’t one you’d pick out from a crowd.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks. ‘I let myself in when I saw you from the gate. I thought you might have fainted.’

  I frown at this bizarre assumption. ‘I was planting bulbs.’

  ‘Ah,’ he laughs, looking sheepish. ‘Good job I didn’t call the air ambulance then.’

  The sky is leaden and oppressive and I need to get that picture urgently. ‘Just leave the plants on the patio. Thanks.’ I smile politely, hoping he doesn’t take it as an invitation to stop and chat, then reset the camera.

  ‘There are another couple of things in the van,’ he says, heading away as something occurs to me with a crunch of alarm.

  ‘Where’s Ged?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, the last guy? He got a job at Cuthbert & Sons.’

  I blink. ‘What – doing deliveries?’ I decide there and then that, wherever he works, I’ll be taking my business there immediately.

  ‘Kind of – they’re undertakers. Don’t worry though. I’m only on a temporary contract but I’ve been told you’re a big customer. If you’ve got any special requests, just ask.’

  I pause, trying to work out if I imagined the inflection in his voice. ‘What kind of “special requests”?’ I ask tentatively, wondering if Ged has let this guy in on his sideline, perhaps in some kind of franchise arrangement.

  ‘Well, carrying any heavy stuff. Supplying the goods at short notice.’ He shrugs. ‘Doesn’t sound all that special really, does it?’

  ‘But when you say “the goods”… exactly which goods are we talking about?’

  He pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket. ‘Half a dozen alpines, a bag of fertiliser and some all-purpose linking supports. Is something missing?’

  ‘No. Forget it.’

  As he returns to the van, I take out my phone to text Ged.

  There’s a different delivery guy here and he says you’ve left. I’ve completely RUN OUT. Can you get here tonight?

  I look up to find Ged’s replacement stacking fertiliser against the house wall. ‘Sorry if I ruined your picture,’ he says.

  I’d forgotten about that, though by now the otherworldly gloom that’s descended has entirely put paid to capturing that shot. ‘They mentioned at the garden centre that you’re a social media star. Is it on Twitter?’

  ‘Instagram.’

  ‘Oh, right. I’ll have to look you up. Not that I’m on Instagram – or any of that stuff.’

  I glance up. ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I tried setting up a Facebook account once. All kinds of people kept coming out of the woodwork.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘Yeah, but then I found out that the lovely little old man next door was actually a Britain First supporter and my Aunt Sarah kept posting mad, anti-vaccine rants and saying garlic could cure cancer. I basically discovered that I was surrounded by lunatics.’

  Then, as if someone has switched on the setting on a shower, great thick gobbets of rain begin to fall. I gather up my equipment and race across the patio, until I push open the door and scramble inside. I tip them out onto the kitchen table, then become aware that the delivery guy is hovering at the threshold, his hair plastered to his forehead in a kind of weird, knotty fringe. ‘You left this outside.’ He holds up my make-up bag.

  I walk to the door and he hands me a soupy cauldron of foundation and Charlotte Tilbury eyeshadow.

  ‘Oh, great,’ I sigh.

  ‘It’s… Ellie, isn’t it?’ he asks, inching further under my small porch roof.

  I look up, surprised. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I knew it was you.’ He crosses his arms and smiles.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We went to primary school together. We were only in the same class for a year. I remember the day you started.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say awkwardly, feeling heat radiate to my neck. ‘Do you need me to sign for this?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’ He takes the signing device from his back pocket and starts clicking on it. Thirty seconds later, he is still clicking, mumbling about technology and repeating the fact that it’s his first day.

  I’m not going to offer the information, but now he’s mentioned it I do remember him from school. I recall seeing him emerge from the office behind his mum one day, as the head teacher was telling her that they ‘took bullying very seriously’. I only had to glance at this hulk of a boy, his head hanging between the shoulders of his blazer, to know he was the victim, not the perpetrator. I felt sorry for him, but my overwhelming feeling was: thank God I’m not him.

  ‘Got anything planned this weekend?’ he asks, as he finally hands over the machine. ‘It’s meant to be nice and sunny tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll probably do some gardening,’ I say, scrawling my name.

  ‘Great!’ He smiles pleasantly. ‘Nice to see you again anyway.’

  Then he turns and heads ba
ck towards his van, closing the gate and leaving me to breathe a little easier.

  Chapter 5

  That night, I have one of my dreams. I knew it was coming. I can feel these things, in the same way that some people with migraines say they are preceded by certain distinct, peculiar feelings. In my case it was the overwhelming sense of dread that accompanied me as I curled up with Gertie in front of Gardener’s World and made me fight to stay awake for as long as possible. I eventually became so tired that I’d hoped I could sleep through anything. I did drift off, but the valleys of my mind were soon infiltrated by the same thoughts and images that have haunted me for years.

  Now when I wake, I am irradiated by fear and flooded with cortisol, my heart thrashing so hard it feels as though it might give way.

  But I know the drill. I know to breathe, to turn on the light. To pull myself together.

  It is only Instagram and Gertie that get me through the next few, sleepless hours. The dog doesn’t mind that I cling to her like my life depends on it, occasionally getting out of bed to smoke a cigarette or top up my water. There is no point in trying to do anything other than scroll through gardening accounts to occupy myself until daybreak.

  It’s around the time when the sun is filtering through my curtains that a photo appears on my feed with a hashtag that I follow: #Chilterns. It was taken from Coombe Hill, a chalk downland site that’s one of the highest points in the region, with sweeping views of the Vale of Aylesbury. Mum used to take Lucy and me for walks up there. My sister wasn’t even a teenager by then, but she’d still grumble endlessly about it, as if no more pointless endeavour had ever been invented than walking. But I used to love it, at least when I was in the right frame of mind. Mum would roll up a picnic blanket and stuff a rucksack full of egg and cress sandwiches, peaches and macaroons. Once we were at the top, I’d eat until there was an exquisite ache in my belly, licking the sweet zing of lemonade from my lips, savouring it as if it were my last.