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‘A great mood lifter.’ He holds out another bottle and I lean forward to smell it.
A powerful floral scent fills my nose. I inhale then breathe out slowly. ‘Lovely.’
‘Ylang ylang. Good for relieving stress.’
I laugh. ‘Bring it on.’
‘It’s also an aphrodisiac,’ he murmurs and when I look up to see if he’s joking, he winks at me. ‘It’s true.’
Heat rises in my cheeks. Am I imagining the frisson between us? I’m not sure, because Sylvian is already moving on, giving me a comprehensive run-down on the health properties of sandalwood – also great for stress, apparently – and wafting it under my nose.
The woody smell is heavenly, like a forest after it’s been raining. ‘Mmm, that’s my favourite.’
He smiles. ‘That’s the one, then.’ He screws on the cap and hands it to me.
I hold up the bottle with a bemused look. ‘But I can’t …?’
He shrugs. ‘Of course you can. Tip a few drops in your bath or on a handkerchief when you need to relax.’
‘But I need to pay you for it.’
He gives me an amused look and says nothing.
I smile, already knowing there’s little point arguing. ‘Well, thank you, but you’re too generous.’
He brushes it off. ‘Look, I’d invite you in but I’m giving a talk and I have to prepare for it.’
‘Of course. No problem.’ I start beating a retreat. ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’
‘I very much like you holding me up, Holly,’ he says seriously. ‘In fact, I propose you hold me up again while I cook you dinner some time.’
His invitation takes me by surprise. ‘Gosh. Well, maybe …’
‘I’m counting on it,’ he smiles.
I raise a hand and scuttle off around the corner.
I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and already a caring and generous man has offered to cook me dinner! He also happens to be very fit and easy on the eye.
A vision of Sylvian opening the door naked to the waist flashes into my mind, but I tell myself to get a grip. I’m in Appleton to concentrate on Moonbeam Cottage, for goodness’ sake, not a man. Even if that man does have hard abs and a giving nature. Phew, is it me or has the temperature suddenly soared?
Feeling more than a little discombobulated, I glance at the label on the bottle I’m clutching and unscrew the top. Sandalwood essential oil. Known for its calming properties.
A good sniff of this should do the trick …
Back at the cottage, I phone Ivy’s odd job man, Mike, and he says he’ll be round to look at the roof and the damage inside the house as soon as he’s dropped his daughter off at playgroup. He sounds genuinely cut up about Ivy and describes her as ‘bloody marvellous’, which brings a lump to my throat. I love him already!
While I wait, I unpack a few more things then sit in the living room, eating the banana I brought for the train journey and wondering how I’m going to pass the time in the evenings while I’m here. There’s a small digital TV and a DVD player that’s so old, it was probably the original prototype, but nothing fancier than that. Ivy loved reading, so her shelves are full of gardening books and thrillers. A cook book would have come in handy while I’m here – I quite like getting creative in the kitchen – but Ivy hated cooking with a passion, so there aren’t any. I smile, remembering. She preferred to just ignore the scales and throw into the pot whatever she felt like, which was usually a recipe for disaster. (She only made the beetroot and nettle omelette once, thankfully.)
Mike arrives, whistling up the path, and having looked at the roof and the bathroom, says he can fix it no problem, with a little help from a roofer friend of his. I hold my breath and ask what it will cost, and actually, it’s not as bad as I thought. But when he mentions the additional cost of re-tiling and painting, I swallow hard and suggest we just stick with the repair work for now.
I’ve laid bathroom flooring before. And done lots of painting. Surely I can throw a few tiles on the wall? I mean, how hard can it be? It doesn’t have to be perfect. This is the countryside, for goodness’ sake; the land of all things rustic. People round here laugh indulgently when they accidentally tread in a cow pat; and they practically expect whiffy manure smells with their freshly laid chucky eggs in the morning. Ergo, a little ‘rustic tiling’ is sure to be a big hit among potential buyers.
Mike says he has a job to finish but he can start work on Monday. My heart sinks because that’s five whole days away, but I smile and tell him that will be perfect. Actually, I have lots of clearing out to do, so the time will probably fly by. I stand at the door, watching him walk cheerily down the path to his white van.
I have a feeling that with the repairs to do and the cottage to paint, my estimate of a fortnight to get the place on the market was way too optimistic. And then there’s Ivy Garden to sort out. My heart sinks into my boots. It will probably take a month at least …
Mike’s jolly whistle as he climbs into his van attracts the attention of two people locked together just inside the bus shelter over the road. They see me peering over and break apart. It’s that Adonis boy I saw earlier with one of the girls from his group of mates. The one with the extraordinary half-blonde, half-black hair. She stares haughtily back at me as if to say, You shouldn’t be looking – and anyway, it’s perfectly normal to be performing tonsil tennis at a bus stop in full view of the entire village!
Adonis just smirks at me.
I retreat inside and go straight upstairs to start on the job I’ve been dreading the most. Sorting through Ivy’s wardrobe.
By the evening, I’m drained, physically and emotionally – and facing a long night with nothing much to do. I can’t even summon up the energy to start sketching.
It’s been on my mind that I need to contact Ivy’s old school friend, Olive, who she used to meet up with from time to time. She wasn’t at the funeral because I couldn’t track down a contact number for her among Ivy’s belongings or even on her phone. I found Ivy’s old address book today but there’s no Olive in there, either, and I went through it page by page.
I haven’t made as much progress as I’d have liked with Ivy’s clothes, either. Almost every blouse or jacket of Ivy’s that I took out of the wardrobe, I couldn’t bear to part with because of the memories, so the ‘keep’ pile is like a small mountain. The ‘charity’ pile consists of a scarf Ivy never liked and a jumper that still had the tags on it. So basically, it took me all day to move Ivy’s clothes from the wardrobe to the bed, with some tearful reminiscing over old photos in between times.
At this rate, I’ll still be here at Christmas …
I sink on to the sofa, on the verge of tears, and stare at the blackness beyond the windows. Then out of the corner of my eye, I catch something move.
I whip around and the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life comes into view, moving at a fair old speed. Its legs are so long, it literally scampers towards me, before stopping suddenly, changing course and scuttling back through a tiny opening in the skirting board.
My legs are shaking. I’d forgotten about the wildlife that rampages about the countryside. I never see spiders in my modern, second-floor flat.
I eye the skirting board nervously. A book would be a good distraction, but I don’t fancy Ivy’s thrillers – it’s spooky enough just being alone in the countryside at night without wanting to deliberately scare myself. A thick blanket of darkness has descended beyond the window. I can see nothing except impenetrable blackness and my own reflection staring back at me, and I get that panicky feeling you have when you’re driving in a snow storm and suddenly it’s a total white-out.
I keep peering out, determined to see something, but it’s no use.
King Kong could be beating his breast on top of the Empire State Building out there and I’d be absolutely none the wiser …
When Mike arrives on Monday morning, I practically fall on the poor man with the sheer relief of having another human being to talk to. I make him a cup of tea and ask about his family, and it’s only when he starts edging apologetically out of the room that I remember the purpose of his visit is to fix the bathroom. Seconds later, his roofer friend arrives so I leave them to it.
After my false start, I’ve made a determined effort over the past five days to sort through the kitchen, putting all the stuff I want to keep in the spare room ready to be boxed up for removal. Ivy, bless her, was never great at throwing things out, and by the end of the second day, the dustbin was already filled to bursting. The only time I’ve been out is to the village store for groceries. (I always tidy myself up, just in case I happen to bump into Sylvian, but so far there have been no sightings. He’s probably busy with his poetry workshops.)
The best thing about the village store is – pause for effect – you can rent DVDs!
I know. Exciting!
Later, after Mike has gone, I make scrambled eggs and push my latest movie into Ivy’s old but reliable machine. Tonight’s entertainment is Castaway, starring a very young-looking Tom Hanks. It’s all about someone cast adrift miles from anywhere, with no way of getting in touch with the outside world, and who, in fact, makes a friend called Wilson out of a coconut husk just to have someone to talk to.
I don’t think they sell coconuts in the village store.
I keep thinking about Sylvian and wondering what he’s doing. It would be nice to see a friendly face. Looking on the bright side, though, the village store’s collection of movies isn’t bad at all, if a little limited by the shelf space. There’s a few classics I’ve never got round to watching. Of course, there’s also some real dross; several truly awful low-budget horror movies with titles like I Know What You Did Last Hallowe’en, and – my particular favourite – Slasher Santa’s Coming to Town.
I mean, you’d have to be really desperate to resort to that …
FIVE (#ulink_cffa803b-238a-5e27-901d-9699ac2aec0b)
Mike is causing me problems.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s not eyeing up the silver or anything, and he definitely seems to know what he’s doing. He’s done an enormous amount in a week, and the rate at which he’s working, he’ll probably be finished the entire job inside a fortnight.
It’s just he’s so goddamn cheerful all the time.
He never stops whistling. He whistles from first thing in the morning right up until he packs his jolly haversack at five and heads jauntily off down the path to his van. Whistling. And you can tell it’s not embarrassed or awkward whistling. He just whistles because he’s happy! And it’s driving me barmy.
Also, nothing seems to be the least little bit of trouble.
I swear if I asked him to clean out all the hairs and gunk that’s blocking the shower plughole, he’d actually enjoy doing it. He’d pull it all out – every nasty glistening clump – and dispose of it all while whistling a happy tune.
I mean, there’s just no need for it.
He packs up at five on the dot and his face appears round the door. ‘Family night tonight.’ He rolls his eyes cheerfully. ‘Pizza and a movie. Probably Toy Storyagain. Take my advice, pet. Enjoy the single life while you can.’
And he’s off, leaving me to relish my single life with a vast array of enchanting possibilities at my disposal. Embroidery night class in a neighbouring village. Cinema twenty miles away. Or another night in front of the telly.
I settle for the telly.
The spider pops out, clearly tempted by the Coronation Street theme tune, and I nod approvingly. A spider with taste. He has a bit of a scamper around, then he stands stock still, presumably having just clapped eyes on the giant and wondering whether to play dead or make a run for it.
Slowly, slowly, I rise from the sofa and we eye each other. Then, quick as a flash, he streaks back into his hole.
I feel quite disappointed. And definitely not scared.
‘It’s okay, Fred,’ I say out loud. ‘As giants go, I’m pretty harmless.’
Then I laugh at myself for talking to a spider and giving it a name. He probably doesn’t even speak the same language as me. Perhaps the girl at the bus stop was right and I really am going insane, being here all alone with only a friendly arachnid to converse with of an evening.
I picture Mike driving back to the bosom of his family, the kids dancing to the door to greet him. Cherry, his wife, smiling from the kitchen, face flushed from pizza-making, telling him to hurry up and shower because they need to get the film under way if the kids are going to get to bed at a decent time …
I need to get out!
Grabbing my coat, I escape from the cottage, slam the door behind me and start walking briskly towards the shops.
The teenagers are gathered at the bus stop and, as I pass, I can’t help noticing Adonis has his arm around a very pretty girl with long strawberry-blonde hair. The girl with blonde-black hair is nowhere to be seen. He sees me and brazens it out, treating me to a very sarcastic smile.
I frown to myself. Little scumbag! He’s obviously the sort who enjoys spreading his favours around.
The lights of the deli-café up ahead are warm and welcoming and I decide to pop in for a coffee. Passing by the village store on the way, I hear voices in the little alleyway that runs alongside it and turn to look. There are a couple of garages along there, and I spot Miss Blonde-Black leaning against one of them, talking urgently to a man.
I do a double-take.
It’s Sylvian.
Curious, I stop and lurk by the post box, pretending I’m reading the postal times, so I can observe the two of them together. (Boredom makes people act in very weird ways.) They’re deep in conversation and something in the way they’re angled towards each other makes me think they must know each other fairly well.
Sylvian hands the girl a small package. She glances quickly behind her, then she takes it and stuffs it into her shoulder bag. They do a quick thumbs up at each other and she walks away quickly without looking back.
As she passes me, I nod wisely at the post box times then straighten up and smile as if I’ve only just recognised her. She gives me an uncertain look, as if she can’t quite place where she’s seen me before, before marching over the road to join her mates at the bus shelter. As she joins them, I notice Adonis quickly withdraw his arm from Miss Strawberry-Blonde’s waist and shuffle away from her along the rail.
I feel a pang of sympathy for Miss Blonde-Black. She obviously has no idea she has a rival for his affections.
As I approach the deli-café, something in the window catches my eye.
Oh my God, of course! This is where Ivy used to buy her gorgeous chocolate orange cakes. I stop for a moment, smiling wistfully at the single cupcake in the cabinet. There’s only one left and it definitely has my name on it. I slip into the shop and a girl behind the counter with a swingy brown ponytail looks up, smiles and says, ‘Hi. What can I get you?’
‘Can I have a chocolate orange cake, please?’
‘Just the one?’ She glances over. ‘Oh, there is only one.’ She grabs a bag and pops in the luscious-looking sponge cake. ‘Anything else?’
I shake my head. ‘No, just that, thanks.’
She seems familiar somehow, but she can’t be because I hardly know anyone here I must have seen her on one of the rare occasions I came down to spend the weekend with Ivy.
She frowns. ‘Pardon me for asking, but are you all right? You’re as white as a ghostly apparition.’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
She groans. ‘Sorry, have I put my foot in it? You’re probably just naturally pale, are you, with that lovely translucent skin? I’m always putting my foot in it. My mum says I should never, ever get a dog of my own because then my feet would be permanently in the shit, if you get my drift.’
She hands over the paper bag. ‘They’re my mum’s favourite, those chocolate orange cakes. Every time I go home to Cirencester I have to take her half a dozen.’
I try to smile, but tears well up.
‘Oh, what’s wrong?’ She looks horrified. ‘Have I put my foot in it again?’
‘No, no, not at all. It’s me. It’s the cake.’ I stop and force myself to take a slow breath in and out. ‘Memories,’ I say eventually, in a calmer voice.
‘Ah, yes.’ She nods. ‘They can pounce at the most inopportune moment.’ She glances across at the only occupied table, where a dark-haired woman in a gold jumpsuit and heels sits nursing a cup, glancing from time to time at the door. ‘Listen, I’ll be closing up in twenty minutes or so. Why not have a cup of tea? On the house.’ She holds out her hand. ‘I’m Connie, by the way.’
‘Holly.’ We shake hands rather formally then, for some reason, we both laugh.
Frankly, I’m all tea-d out. It’ll probably be a decade from now and we’ll have had five new prime ministers before I have my next real urge for a cuppa. But I’m sensing the tea is not the point.
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ I smile at Connie and she ushers me through a panel on hinges to her side of the counter. ‘Is this your shop?’
She nods. ‘Sort of. It’s a family business that my granddad started up about – ooh, a million years ago.’ She grins. ‘And now my mum and dad manage it. They’ve left me in charge while they tackle the tax return.’
‘Well, I think it’s lovely.’ I glance around, admiring the décor. ‘So cosy and welcoming.’
Connie looks pleased. ‘Thank you. You’ve just moved into Moonbeam Cottage, haven’t you?’ She hands me a cup of tea and a little jug of milk. ‘I’m so sorry about Ivy. She was such a lovely woman.’
‘Thank you. Yes, she was. I’m only staying in the cottage temporarily.’ Then I grin. ‘The grapevine’s certainly alive and well, then. Does the whole village know who I am and when I moved in?’
She laughs. ‘Absolutely everyone.’
