The curtains twitched as he opened the front gate and, before he had time to ring the bell, a shadowy figure appeared behind the frosted glass and the door swung open to reveal a plump, grey-haired woman.

The procession of camera men, sound engineers and labourers straggled to a halt behind him. Toby Smallsward smiled and held out his hand. "Mrs Lake?"

"Please call me Mollie." The woman’s palms were damp. "It’s ever so good of you to come."

This was Toby’s last stint as presenter of Garden Makeover Live, and he couldn’t wait to leave. It was too exhausting: filming, editing and broadcasting a show all in one weekend. A prime Saturday night spot beckoned him with its glittering future of A-List guests.

Mollie Lake ushered Toby, the labourers and the production crew through the spotless hall-way and kitchen to the back of the house, and out into the garden.

Toby huffed to himself as he stomped around the plot, fingering the immaculate canes of beans and cages of berries, stooping for a closer look at the ranks of potato and marrow plants. Then he looked at the sketch of the way this plot would look in a day and a half: a medley of roses in tubs and raised beds artfully scattered over a concreted expanse of Cotswold slabs.

Alison, the production assistant, flapped anxiously at his side. Yes, Mrs Lake was sure that Mr Lake was tired of his vegetable garden. He had recently retired from a career in sales-marketing, and a change was just what he needed.

"It was ever so lucky," said Mollie Lake, "When he told me he’d arranged to go away on a golfing weekend with an old friend."

"But he’ll definitely be back at seven o’clock tomorrow?"

"Oh, yes. He’s never late for anything."

Toby flashed his whitest smile at her as the cameras began to roll.

"Are we actually on the telly now?"

Toby rolled his eyes, and then hoped he was off camera. "Perhaps the producer should have explained more clearly. Most of the show will be recorded today and tomorrow morning. It’s just the reveal – when your husband sees his lovely new garden for the first time – that’s live."

A volley of loud barking swelled around them. Toby turned to see his assistant attempting to open the garage back-door.

Mrs Lake darted from his side, "Oh, don’t go in there, dear!"

"Sorry," Alison muttered, as the barking was followed by the scrabbling of long doggie nails.

Mrs Lake patted Alison’s arm. "Don’t worry, I’ve locked Victor safely in there. He’s really Mr Lake’s dog, but he couldn’t take him this weekend. The hotel wasn’t keen on a Doberman."

By mid-afternoon, they’d finished with the rotovator, and the beautifully laid-out plot was ripped apart, the soil turned over until it looked like a corduroy cloth.

As Mrs Lake came out with another tray of mugs of tea, fat raindrops started to patter onto the ground, and then the skies opened, and the producer called it a day.

~~

"I’m ever so sorry," said Mrs Lake, the next morning, as they surveyed the muddy, scuffed earth upon which they were to start laying the patio. "I let Victor out to do his business, and before I knew it, he’d made such a mess." She gestured to a spade. "I tried to smooth it down a bit."

Yet, to Toby’s relief, by four in the afternoon they were finished. The roughened ground was tamped down, patio stones were laid, rose tubs placed, an archway constructed and water feature installed. Somehow it always did get done.

The production crew completed their magic with the tape and splicing machine, and they were finally on air. Whilst the tape of the last two days was broadcast, Toby and the crew waited for Mr Lake to return and gasp at his glorious new garden.

Toby looked at his watch. This was cutting it rather too fine for his liking: there were only five minutes until the tape finished and they came to the live feed.

"Oh dear!" Mrs Lake wailed, "I can’t think what’s happened. He said he’d be back at seven on the dot!"

"Phone him up. Find out where he is," Toby hissed at her. "Tell him to get back here."

"Go!" Alison manhandled Mrs Lake bodily through the back door, and then returned less than a minute later. "She’s talking to him now."

Toby caught sight of the producer out of the corner of his eye, making circling motions with his hands, and realised that they were about to go live.

"And welcome this Sunday evening to the Maidstone home of Mollie and John Lake. You’ve seen the amazing transformation of this garden, and we’re still waiting for Mr Lake……"

Suddenly the back door flung open. Mrs Lake staggered out, tears streaming down her face, and clutched at Toby’s arm.

"Ohh, Mr Smallsward, what shall I do?" She dabbed her face ineffectually with a soggy paper tissue. "It’s my husband……. He’s left me!"

Toby reeled backwards. "What?"

"He’s left me!" Her voice rose to a squeak. "He said he’s never coming back! He’s gone off with someone else and he never wants to see me again."

Toby knew he should do something. He settled for putting a comforting arm around her shoulder, and tried not to shudder as she snivelled damply into his chest. The producer was making frantic winding-up signs with his hands.

He smiled into the camera, peeling Mrs Lake’s soggy figure off him "Well, Mr Lake, if you’re watching this, I bet you’re sorry you’ve left now you’ve seen your lovely new garden!"

The producer made a cutting motion across his throat and the credits began to roll – but not before Mrs Mollie Lake had taken a step back and fetched him a hefty right hook to his chiselled jaw.

~~

Much later, Mollie Lake sighed as she settled into the comfort of her new patio lounger. The scent of the roses in their blue-washed tubs mingled with the damp odour of barely-hardened cement. It would all bed down beautifully by next spring, and she would never have to cook another panful of green beans if she didn’t want to. She leaned forward and plucked her half-empty glass of white wine from the new rustic table.

The hardest part, she thought, had been getting the hole dug and John’s body in. That old wheelbarrow had come in pretty useful. Killing him hadn’t been so difficult. She’d just brought to mind all the years of his nagging and complaining, and a quick blow to the head had done the job.

She’d only pretended to phone him and luckily that silly girl Alison hadn’t been watching too closely. And she’d been very pleased with the effect of the onion tears.

No-one would ever come looking for John. Not after they’d seen him desert her and run off with another woman in front of ten million people.

The dog lay, mournful, in the middle of the new patio. She looked round with a sly smile and raised her glass in a toast. "How I love the smell of roses!"

© Steph Davies 2008

Do not reproduce or link to this story without express permission.