DOWN THE GARDEN PATH

There’s more to life than roses – as Hilary discovered for herself

‘IT WAS just a little white lie, Liz, but I never imagined we’d ever meet face to face! Why on earth did I ever tell him I was 35?”

Hilary hated to be caught out like this. For more than a year, using her usual Twitter handle of PrettyPetal, she’d enjoyed chatting on an internet gardening site with Zac, a witty 30-something aeronautical engineer who’s passionate about gardening. He had a lot of tips when it came to making compost and from the first time they’d exchanged advice about aphids, they’d clicked.

Soon their conversation had widened to cover just about every topic under the sun and they were meeting up online twice a day, just chatting.

“But now things have started to get serious and I’ve got to face the fact he’s 15 years younger than me, Liz!”

“Well, you said he was so funny and well-read and interested in everything going on in the world,” said Liz. “I don’t blame you for wanting to keep writing.”

“And now he tells me he lives 10 km away and wants to meet for a meal at that pasta restaurant on Saturday. What can I do? He’ll be horrified when he sees how old I really am.”

“Nonsense,” said Liz staunchly. “You look pretty good for your age. Why not come to the salon tomorrow and I’ll give you a whole new look. New hairstyle, super facial, everything. And we’ll shop for a killer dress. In the candlelight he’ll be so knocked out by your charm he won’t notice the difference.”

“You really think so?” Hilary was dubious. She didn’t want to be seen as – what did they call it? – a cougar.

Liz was her best friend but she could be a bit way-out sometimes, experimenting on herself with green streaks in her hair and silver nail polish. But she was tempted. She’d love to meet Zac and see if there was a real connection between them. And it was true, she’d taken care of her figure and didn’t look much older than 40. Okay, maybe 45. Her office colleagues couldn’t believe she’d celebrated her 51st birthday the month before.

LATE Saturday afternoon Liz closed her salon doors and gave her undivided attention to Hilary. “A pixie cut, I think,” she said. “And golden streaks. And while those are setting, I’ll do a total skin exfoliation before I start the facial.”

“I’m having second thoughts about the dress I bought,” muttered Hilary. “I think it might be a bit too short and too sparkly.”

“Sparkly is good,” said Liz firmly. “It says you’re young and vibey. And short is fine – you have great legs, girlfriend.”

Three hours later Liz allowed Hilary to look at the results of her hard work.

“Ta-da!” she grinned, removing the cover from the full-length mirror.

A sassy young stranger, with full red lips and creamy, smooth skin, and bright golden hair cropped short and spikey, gazed back at her in horror. Her eyebrows were plucked into sharply defined curves and false eyelashes brushed her cheeks. Her mini dress glittered as she moved and Liz’s borrowed blue stilettos added centimetres to her height.

Hilary was stunned but Liz was thrilled. “Fabulous!” she crowed. “You’ll knock his socks off!”

“This isn’t me. I could scrape this make-up off with a knife,” croaked Hilary in dismay. “And my hair looks terribly bright. Don’t I look a bit . . . well, cheap?”

“Nonsense, you look wonderful. Now hurry up or you’ll be late.”

Too late to change anything. Hilary drove to Viva Italia, dreading the encounter.

Determined not to be the first to arrive, she parked her car around the corner and walked up and down outside, stopping to look through the windows every now and then. The tables were full of customers dining by candlelight, but where was her date? There was no single 30-something man wearing a flower in his lapel as Zac had promised to do.

Liz’s blue stilettos pinched her toes painfully and after half an hour she realised she’d been stood up. Feeling almost relieved, Hilary went home and wiped off all her make-up and had a hot bath.

The next morning during her coffee break, she checked her emails and sure enough, there was one from Zac.

“What happened to you last night? I waited for an hour so I guess you must have had some disaster? Let me know, I was worried.”

Liar, she thought indignantly. He didn’t pitch up and now he’s blaming me. Okay Zac, that’s the end of it.

She deleted the email and all the others he sent during the following days.

“Zac’s history,” she told Liz angrily. “Anyway, it’s a good thing. No more hours wasted on my computer, so I’ve more time for gardening. I’m getting my roses ready for the show next month.”

The garden show was the highlight of Hilary’s gardening year. Her roses had taken second prize for three years running but she could see from the profusion of buds that all the special rose food during winter had paid off. Zac had given her a useful tip about using eggshells as natural fertiliser too, and this had made all the difference.

ON THE day of the show, the hall was filled with the excited babble of voices and the heady perfume of hundreds of colourful roses on the trestle tables. Hilary arranged her three prize blooms in the silver specimen vase provided. One tightly furled bud, tinged with deep red and flashes of orange, one just opened with the petals crinkling beautifully in a tangerine rosette, and one rose fully opened, with the glorious red centre and bright golden petals edged with a frill. She stood back and admired them. “Those look like winners,” said a voice at her shoulder. “That’s the hybrid Lady Emma Hamilton, if I’m not mistaken?”

She swung around to see Herbert, a softly spoken retired accountant and a keen member of the garden club, beaming down at her roses. He was clutching three roses himself, floribunda of the darkest, deepest red she’d ever seen.

“You’ve bred a black rose, Herb?” she gasped. “How lovely.”

“Not quite black, yet,” he said regretfully. “But I’m getting there with every year that passes.”

“These look wonderful. What do you feed them on?”

“No commercial fertiliser for me,” he said. “My own special compost and old manure, that sort of thing. And a few secret ingredients!”

“Oh, you horrible man. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what they are, will you?” He cleared his throat. “I might be persuaded to divulge them over a cup of tea when this shindig is over,” he said. “It’s a date!” she smiled. She couldn’t help humming to herself as she cleaned her table. She’d often wanted to strike up a conversation with Herbert but he’d always been surrounded by eager female members of the club. An eligible single man was hard to find.

‘MILK and sugar?” she asked, pouring the tea.

They beamed happily at each other, their trophies on the table in front of them

“I couldn’t believe my first place!” said Hilary.

“And best on show for you. Congratulations! You deserved it.”

“Thank you. Well, I promised to tell you my secret ingredient for success. Crushed eggshells!”

“That’s odd, I use them too. I was told about those some time ago,” she said.

“But enough about gardening. I’ve been thinking about nothing but roses all year and I’ve started to realise I need to get out of my garden a bit more often and have some sort of social life, like you,” he said.

He smiled at her with such approval and admiration she couldn’t help blushing. He really was a nice man.

“Me? Goodness, I have almost no social life. I seem to spend most of my time in the garden or on my computer.”

“My life exactly. Although . . .” he paused. “I’m not on the computer as often as I was.” “Why’s that?” He grimaced. “I did something pretty silly. I went onto one of those gardening sites to chat to other gardeners. Gave myself a crazy nickname, invented a whole new person that I thought would sound interesting and struck up a friendship with a really cheerful, intelligent woman.

“I thought we were getting on like a house on fire and I took the plunge and invited her to meet for dinner at Pasta Italia. But she stood me up.”

He looked at her ruefully. “I was a silly old fool.”

Hilary looked at him for a long moment, then started to giggle. One of them had got it wrong, but what a good thing he’d waited for her at the other Italian restaurant in town. He probably would have been horrified by the tarted-up woman who’d waited for him outside on the pavement.

She took his hand. “No Zac, Pretty Petal didn’t stand you up. She waited half an hour for you outside Viva Italia. But she’s very happy to meet you now.”

‘This isn’t me. I could scrape this make-up off with a knife'