The Great Allotment Proposal

Welcome to Cherry Pie Island – once you step on to the island, you’ll never want to leave!

Socialite Emily Hunter-Brown has just bought the old manor house on Cherry Pie Island – and her friends think she’s gone mad! Still, they should have known that wild-child Emily will try anything once…even settling down!

But when Emily discovers she has an allotment to take care of as well as the crumbling mansion, she’s unexpectedly flummoxed! It’s all very well knowing that you have to swap your high heels for Hunter wellies….but it’s quite another actually getting dirt underneath her Chanel Rouge Noir polished nails?

And what is she supposed to do with her bumper crop of courgettes anyway?!

Also by Jenny Oliver

The Parisian Christmas Bake Off

The Vintage Summer Wedding

The Little Christmas Kitchen

The Grand Reopening of Dandelion Cafe

The Vintage Ice Cream Van Road Trip

The Great Allotment Proposal

Cherry Pie Island

Jenny Oliver

JENNY OLIVER

wrote her first book on holiday when she was ten years old. Illustrated with cut-out supermodels from her sister’s Vogue, it was an epic, sweeping love story not so loosely based on Dynasty.

Since then Jenny has gone on to get an English degree and a job in publishing that’s taught her what it takes to write a novel (without the help of the supermodels). Follow her on Twitter @JenOliverBooks

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Extract

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

‘That’s it!’ Emily stood up, both hands raised in an enough-is-enough gesture. ‘This interview is done.’

‘Emily, Emily, sorry, I apologise. It’s just this is what our readers want. I won’t mention Giles again. Sit down, please.’ Faye Starkey, the journalist from Deluxe magazine, had half stood up, reaching towards Emily with a calming outstretched hand.

Emily was tired. She’d never walked out of an interview before. But this was the last one of the day. She’d coped with the pile-up of questions about the birth of her ex-fiancé Giles Fox’s third baby, she’d smiled when they’d brought up his recent proposal to Adeline Cooper as he’d accepted his Oscar, she’d laughed off questions about her eternal single status, her broodiness – especially since her brother had recently announced that he and his girlfriend were expecting, her poorly judged flings, her short-lived blue hair, her mother’s remarriage, but then Faye Starkey had leant forward and said, ‘Now, about this house you’ve just bought. Cherry Pie Island, isn’t it? That’s quite a departure for you, Emily. I’m wondering what’s going on.’

Emily had pushed her hair away from her face. The air conditioning in the hotel was broken and sweat was starting to bead on her forehead, outside a helicopter was waiting on the lush grass to take her to an awards ceremony in Cannes. ‘Nothing’s going on, Faye.’

Faye had leant back in her seat, crossed her legs, taken a sip of water. Emily’s water had run out and the jug on the table was empty. ‘I just think, the recent hair changes, the launch of the new signature scent – Cherry Blossom, isn’t it? – hugely nostalgic, Giles having more and more babies, buying up some great house with far too many bedrooms for a single woman with no expectation of children … Emily, it smacks of a mid-life crisis. However you try and dress it up. I can’t imagine how must it feel; the press have you earmarked as being desperate for marriage and a baby so no eligible man will come within a mile! Surely this house, thrown into the mix, will have them running for the hills. I feel for you, I really do. If we’re completely honest, you’re romantically doomed.’

That’s when Emily had stood up to leave. At the mention of the house something inside of her had snapped. It was the best thing that had happened to her in years and somehow they’d already snaked their way inside and put their grubby little stamp on it. ‘Faye.’ Emily turned back and rested her hand on the back of the sofa. ‘This is over. I’m not answering anything else.’

‘Oh come on! What happened to the Emily Hunter-Brown that we all know and love? Just give me a little soundbite, tell me who you’re shagging and your plans to wreak havoc in the countryside and I can flip the whole focus of the piece.’

Emily ran her tongue along her top lip, watched Faye with her chewed Biro hovering over her notepad.

Just give her what she wants and she’ll go away.

But something made this time different. Something held the quip back about blazing a trail through the sleepy little island. Something Emily couldn’t quite pinpoint, but she knew there was only one answer. ‘Sorry, Faye, that’s private.’

Chapter Two

‘I can only apologise, Ms Hunter-Brown, it’s a hold up on the other end. It’s nothing to do with us,’ the estate agent stammered down the phone.

Emily pulled a face at Angus the removals man who was leaning against his van door having a cigarette and opening a Lilt.

Emily hadn’t had a Lilt for about twenty years. In this glaring sun it looked tantalisingly tempting.

‘You want this?’ Angus said, holding up the can as he saw her staring at it.

‘Really?’ she mouthed as the estate agent wittered on about how he didn’t see them completing till about two o’clock. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered as she took the can and reached up to give Angus a peck on the cheek, making his chubby cheeks blush.

‘OK, fine, fine, fine, darling – stop, it’s fine – just ring me when it’s done and we can go in,’ Emily said hanging up the phone and taking a sip of the ice-cold Lilt.

‘How do you do that?’ her friend Annie asked as she stood up from where she’d been sunbathing on a patch of grass outside Montmorency Manor.

‘What?’

‘That – get people to give you things.’

Emily made a face. ‘I don’t know. They just do. Want some?’ she asked, handing the Lilt to Annie who shook her head.

‘I don’t like Lilt, it has a funny aftertaste.’

‘See, that’s why no one gives you anything, you turn your nose up at it. Right, boys,’ she said to the removals guys hanging around the truck, ‘I’m starving, can we go and get something to eat?’

‘Don’t you think, while we’re here, we should go to the allotment?’ Annie said, dusting off the back of her denim shorts.

‘No I absolutely do not. I can’t think of anything worse.’ Emily rolled her eyes, looking across at the removals men to bring them in on the joke and they all sniggered.

Annie made a face. ‘I don’t want to go either, but we did promise, Emily.’

Emily scrunched up her face. ‘Can’t you just go?’

‘No.’

‘Pleeeease?’

Annie stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Emily, remember I’ve known you since you were fifteen. That crap doesn’t work with me. The whole Emily Hunter-Brown thing – nothing. Doesn’t work.’

‘Actually, Emily,’ Removals Angus stepped forward, ‘I was wondering if you’d sign this…’ He held out one of his company fliers, ‘For my daughter. She just loved your films.’

Emily gave Annie a smug little smile and said, ‘Of course I will, Angus. Do you want Annie to snap a photo of the two of us?’

Annie glanced heavenward, but even she then had to smile as Angus perched up on tiptoe to give a crimson Fred another kiss on the cheek for the camera.

‘Right then,’ Emily said, ‘Shall we go and get bacon sandwiches, I’ll buy.’

‘Emily—’ Annie cut in, ‘The allotment.’

‘Urgghhh, you’re so boring! OK, fine, Fred, here’s a twenty, we’ll be there as soon as we’ve gone to look at plants. Come on then, Annie. Let’s go.’

By the time Annie had realised she’d got her way, Emily was already halfway up the path that ran down the side of the manor to the allotment, her gold wedge sandals crunching on the long grass, and Annie was the one trotting along behind her, trying to keep up.

The Cherry Pie allotment was based on a small patch of land between Mont Manor and the boatyard and studios. The plot Annie and Emily were caretaking was #138 and had once belonged to the late island matriarch Enid and their close friend Holly. Together they’d won a number of trophies every year at the Cherry Pie Show and, this year, as a tribute to Enid, Holly wanted to win at least one of the categories. She’d planted and netted all the seeds, carefully looked after her dahlia tubers over winter, chitted her potatoes and had a variety of seedlings growing in the shed, however she’d then discovered she was pregnant and had moved to France to live with the baby’s father.

Asking Emily and Annie to step in wasn’t an ideal choice – neither of whom knowing the slightest thing about gardening – but Holly’s options were limited as most of the island gardeners were preparing to do battle against her in a bid snatch up the categories previously dominated by Enid’s horticulture.

Winding through the grassy path, Emily realised that she knew most of the faces from her youth – on her right was Holly’s dad, Martin, constructing a new greenhouse, further up was Barney from the pub, on his knees patting down the soil around his tomatoes and next to him was Annie’s mum and her husband Valter, both in their gardening gloves, arguing over where to plant whatever it was they had in pots on the ground in front of them.

‘Hey, Mum,’ Annie called with a wave.

Her mum looked up and, catching sight of the two of them, pulled her gloves off and came strolling over. ‘Hi, darling,’ she said, giving Annie a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Emily, lovely to have you back! I do love it when you’re around. Always such fun. I hear you’re helping Holly with her plot. Not sure that’s strictly in the rules,’ she laughed.

Emily smiled, noticing the seriousness behind Annie’s mum’s chuckle and had a vague recollection of Holly’s instructions about the competition.

‘They all seem nice, Emily, but they’re not. It’s a front. Like Annie’s mum, for example, lovely but when it comes to gardening – ruthless. She’s got a cabinet full of trophies and she wants more. I think she’s going for a clean sweep. Oh and don’t trust Annie’s brother, no way, he’s just competitive for competitive’s sake. I don’t even think he likes plants, just wants everything to do what he says. You can sort of trust my dad but he still wants to win so may give you some duff advice…maybe not though. That might be unfair. Matt and his son River – they’re untested. Martha – well, she’ll just be watching to see that you don’t mess up. Emily, are you listening? This is important.’

Emily leant forward, plucked a bit of blossom out of Annie’s mum’s hair and said, ‘I don’t think you’ve got much to fear, Mrs B. I think we’re probably more of a hindrance. But pop by anytime, I’ll be the one in the deckchair with the champagne.’

Annie’s mum waved her away with a smile, then said, ‘Oh and how’s the manor? I hear the other couple destroyed the place.’

‘I haven’t been inside yet.’ Emily shrugged. ‘Only seen it on a virtual tour, and from what I can tell—’ But before she could finish she was interrupted by a man’s voice saying, ‘Excuse me…’ And she turned to see a blond guy in a black vest top and jeans trying to push a wheelbarrow past her.

‘Oh, sorry!’ Emily stepped back.

‘No problem, ma’am,’ said the man with a wink and as he walked past added, ‘Nice shoes.’

‘Thanks,’ Emily replied, doing a little pose and then mouthing to Annie and her mum, ‘He’s nice.’

Annie’s mum narrowed her eyes at the retreating figure, ‘He must be new, I don’t know him.’

‘I’ll do a bit of digging,’ said Emily, smiling at her little pun, and Annie’s mum put her hand on her chest and said, ‘Oh it’s just lovely to have you back.’

‘Come on. We’re up here,’ Annie pointed ahead. ‘By that big tree.’

‘It’s a damson, Annie,’ her mum said with a sigh, then added, ‘You girls, I don’t know.’ And went back to Valter and her planting.

All around them people were engrossed in their gardening. Digging, raking and hacking down branches, busying themselves with bonfires and trundling wheelbarrows. In the distance the attractive blond man in a black top was fiddling about in a greenhouse. In the far corner an older woman, Enid’s daughter, Martha, was lifting the slats out of a beehive with no protective clothing – she was clearly as tough as old boots. When they got to the damson tree, Emily saw the plot opposite theirs was being tended by a fierce-looking old guy with a black beard, long brown hair and a hat like Crocodile Dundee. His plot was immaculate. Like he’d built it with a set-square and protractor.

All around there were things that just didn’t crop up ever in Emily’s everyday life. Colourful pinwheels and little gnomes, swing seats and deck chairs. Earth and worms and cages of birds that might be quails.

She pulled a face at Annie, who shrugged as if to say, ‘I know!’

The guy with the Crocodile Dundee hat straightened up from where he was digging, wiped some sweat from his face with his gardening glove, staining his skin with mud in the process, and looking Emily’s way said, ‘All right?’

‘Lovely,’ Emily replied, shielding her eyes with her hand to try and see him clearer.

‘Know what you’re doing?’

‘Oh yes, absolutely,’ Emily nodded. Then looked away, eyebrows raised unsure what to do next.

‘We just need to water it,’ Annie said. ‘That’s all she said, try and water it every day.’

‘OK then,’ Emily nodded, ‘Let’s water it.’ She paused and looked around, ‘What with?’ As she said it, Annie’s annoying brother Jonathan walked past carrying a black plastic bag full rubbish. He cast a look at their wilted plot and said, ‘You girls should quit while you’re ahead,’ and then trundled off with a snigger.

Annie watched him go. ‘We have to win something just to wipe the smile off his face,’ she said. ‘He went on a gardening course last year. Sees himself as a regular Alan Titchmarsh.’

‘I don’t know who that is,’ Emily said, leaning against the corner of the dilapidated shed as Annie went to unravel the hose.

‘He’s on the TV. Mind that shed, Em, it looks a bit wobbly.’

Emily ignored her but then the wood she was leaning against gave a loud creak. She glanced behind her and it wobbled. She went to stand up straight but the shiny sole of her high heel slipped against the mud and she couldn’t get purchase. She reached across to the big plastic water butt next to her to try and get more support but that, supported on just a couple of bricks, also swayed under her grasp. ‘It’s bloody moving, Annie,’ she said. ‘Help me.’

Annie tried to get back to her from where she had started watering but she got caught up in the knot of hose and shouted instead, ‘Just stand up, move away from it.’

‘I’m trying,’ Emily said, her eyes widening as the wooden planks cracked again and then one wall of the shed caved in.

Annie watched, horrified, as Emily fell back with it. Her hand was still hooked on the rim of the unstable water butt so, as she fell, it fell with her like a giant bear. Algae-fied rain water sloshed out the top as it rolled along the fallen wooden wall, over the top of Emily, and then down to the corner of the shed where it hit the earth and rolled to a stop by a small cherry tree, a stream of green water pouring onto the grass.

‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ Emily shouted, flattened to a heap on the broken shed.

‘Are you OK?’ Annie called as she yanked the hose from round her ankles and tried to get over to help her up.

But then suddenly a camera flashed, a shutter clicked maybe a hundred times and a man laughed and said, ‘That’ll do nicely, Ms Hunter-Brown.’

Emily scrabbled her way up to standing as the paparazzo photographer clicked a hundred more shots, his lips hitched up into a smile. She recognised him immediately as the good-looking blond guy with the wheelbarrow. He’d followed her here and been biding his time.

Her hair was dripping with green algae-water, it was in her mouth and her eyes and on her skin. Her ribs felt crushed from the giant water butt, but all she could think was that she didn’t want this guy here. She was used to being papped. Used to seeing a photo of herself just about to take a bite of a massive burger or sunbathing in a bikini – the magazine circling her cellulite in red, but she didn’t want them here. This was her place.

‘Oh god, can you just leave me alone?’ she shouted, pushing her soaking hair back from her face.

‘Just doing my job, Emily,’ he sniggered.

‘Well you’ve got your shot, can you go away now?’

‘Come on, Em,’ the paparazzo shouted, ‘Can’t you give us a quick pose? Be a good sport?’

In the past she knew she would have wiped her face clean of the algae, tied her hair up and blown a kiss for the camera, or maybe turned and given them a quick cheeky wink over her shoulder. Anything so they wouldn’t be horrible about her. She’d found it was the best way to divert any negative press. Give them what they want and they’d support her. But she just couldn’t. She could feel people looking from where they were working on their allotments. She could sense them exchanging looks and thinking about whether to come over. She could almost hear their split-second thoughts – she’s back and she’s trouble.

‘Please?’ she said. ‘Please just go.’

But the guy shook his head and, lifting up his camera, started snapping again, over and over the thrumming sound like a big fat moth caught in a jam jar.

Then, suddenly, there was a hand on the paparazzo’s shoulder and the man with the beard and Crocodile Dundee hat from the allotment next door said, ‘You heard the ladies, this is private property. You’re trespassing.’

‘Get your dirty hands off me,’ said the photographer, twitching out his grasp.

Emily couldn’t really see the man’s face clearly, but she could tell from his arm muscles and the bit of un-muddied skin on his face that he was younger than she’d first thought.

‘I said, this is private property. You have no licence to take photographs on this land.’ The man’s voice was calm and steady.

‘You gonna stop me, cowboy man?’

The man pulled off his gloves and ran his hand across his lips as the paparazzo started firing off more shots in his direction. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘You touch me, mate, and I’ll get my lawyers on you.’

The man laughed and took another step closer. The paparazzo rolled his eyes as if this bearded gardener wouldn’t have the guts. Then, quick as anything, the paparazzo was pinned up against the cherry tree, held in place under the neck by the man’s muddy forearm, his legs squirming an inch or two above the ground. The guy tore the paparazzo’s camera out of his hand and chucked it into the puddle of water where it slowly sank, then he threw him over his shoulder and walked off in the direction of the river.

Emily watched in fascination. The sun beat down like a beast. Annie stood with an open-mouthed smile while the man strode off like a giant, the paparazzo’s legs waggling over his shoulder. Emily looked at Annie. Annie looked back at Emily.

‘Who the hell was that?’ Emily asked.

‘Are you kidding?’ Annie said.

Emily looked blank like she had no idea.

‘Emily!’

‘What?’

‘It was Jack Neil,’ Annie shook her head as she said it. ‘How could you not recognise him? You went out with him for a year!’

Chapter Three

‘No way was that Jack Neil!’

The last time Emily had seen Jack was at what was meant to be the inaugural Cherry Pie Island Festival. Jack and her brother, Wilf, had set it up the year they’d finished school. They’d had the best day of their lives until night fell and the island was swamped with over-eager partygoers with counterfeit tickets that their limited security couldn’t cope with.

In retrospect, the festival had been the peak of Emily’s childhood. They were living at Mont Manor with her mother’s fourth husband – Bernard – a camp, eccentric old make-up artist who had clearly only married for the companionship. Bernard had absolutely no interest in anything remotely parent like, threw wild, lavish parties and was often found lounging by the pool with a neat gin and a cigarette as the sun rose.

It was a well-known fact that Emily’s mother had married men in the same way other people got promoted in their careers. She took them up a notch every marriage in order to give her kids the best start in the life. The problem being that she didn’t often see past the money to the character beneath. But Bernard was nothing like the previous stepfathers – he didn’t shout at Emily or try and be her friend or make her sit at the table in silence until she’d eaten everything on her plate, or sit next to her on the sofa a touch too close, or make them all take their shoes off before they came in, or make the dog sleep in a kennel outside, or get rid of the TV, or take her mum out for dinners and events every night so they never saw her. He didn’t have children of his own who would make comments under their breath about her mother the gold-digger, nor did he stand up at her mother’s birthday party and add something in his speech about how difficult she was to live with, but how most of the men in that room would understand what he was talking about. Instead, Bernard would take whimsical turns around the estate, dressed in a satin smoking jacket while her mother wore white linen and smiled a lot, and Emily would watch from the upstairs bathroom, delighted with her life. These were the years when she’d been expelled from every boarding school in the south and finally been allowed to go to the local comp and live at home in her own bed and wash in her own bath. The bare plaster on the wall and the peeling wallpaper, the Georgian glass windows with the howling draught and the Sellotaped-over cracks were all part of the fairy tale.

And to top that off, there was Jack. Possibly the coolest, most laid-back character on the island. She remembered him lying on a hay bale at the festival, cigarette in one hand, cider in the other, the hazy light of the summer sun burning down as he stretched his arm out for her to come and lie next to him. Both of them squeezed onto the warm, sweet-smelling hay, him holding her tight to his side so she didn’t fall off, laughing because her hair was tickling his face, the smoke on his breath as he kissed her, the sun blinding them into shutting their eyes.

It was perfect. It was as life was meant to be. For Emily it was like the world had paused and said, it’ll be OK.

But then the crowds had come. And then the police had come. And then the rain had come. And the festival was over.

As she stood now, alongside Annie, watching as the guy in the hat dropped the paparazzo with a splash into the river and then turned and started walking back, his hands in the pockets of his black combat trousers, his white T-shirt dirty with mud, she said, ‘That’s not Jack. It can’t be Jack. Jack’s in Peru or somewhere.’