The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

T he party winds down at about nine, which I’m told is considered a late night by Budbury standards. I see Sophie do a double-take at that, and wonder how she’s going to settle here once the novelty wears off. She’s used to the bright lights of Birmingham, and to be honest, even our little suburb has plenty of bars and late-night hang-outs. This will, in the words of Jasmine, be a whole new world for her.

I’ve met about a million people, and they have all been lovely and incredibly welcoming. I’m worried that I won’t remember anybody’s name, never mind their comfort foods, and am glad that the café is closed tomorrow—and every Monday—so I can do my homework.

We wave people goodbye, and they head off in different directions, some to the car park, some to the village, others across the fields. All of them buffeted and battered by the wind, which shows no sign of letting up. Sophie tells us we can expect gusts of up to 90mph, and there are already a few casualties outside: one of the picnic tables has been upended, and a strand of the fairy lights has been dislodged, now snaking its bright trail across the grass, twisting and winding in the air.

Laura’s daughters and Midge have gone home with her husband, Matt, and Sophie and I stay back with her and Cherie to help with the tidying. It’s only a light clear; apparently the day after a party everyone reassembles to do the big stuff, and the café gets a deep clean. Tonight, we mainly walk around with bin bags, throwing in paper plates and uneaten cake.

Once we’re done, Cherie announces that she’s off to bed, hoping to dream of all things Disney.

‘Especially the Beast,’ she adds saucily. ‘I always thought he was strangely sexy… Anyway, goodnight, my loves. Max, Sophie, I’ll see you tomorrow or on Monday, either is fine. I think you’re going to fit right in here. You’re just mad enough.’

She gives us hugs that are so good, so comforting, that I suspect I have now been ruined for hugs forever. Nothing will ever come close to being clasped deep into Cherie’s tie-dye kaftan.

‘Just mad enough,’ repeats Sophie, grinning. ‘I like that. I might get a T-shirt made.’

She yawns, and covers her face with her hand as though she’s embarrassed—a mere nineteen-year-old whipper-snapper, already tired out. It’s contagious, and I immediately join in as I watch Cherie retreat through the café’s kitchen. Apparently she has a little flat upstairs, full of vinyl classics, rock memorabilia and booze. It sounds like quite a party, Cherie’s flat.

‘Come on then,’ says Laura, passing us two fresh bin bags for coats and buttoning up her parka. ‘We better make a run for it!’

Apparently we are going to be staying in a cottage called Hyacinth House, at the Rockery, a holiday complex also owned by Cherie. Because we’re here on a three-month trial, Cherie is insistent that we don’t pay any rent, which seems extremely generous but apparently it’s written in stone.

Laura explains that when she first moved here seven years ago, Hyacinth was her first home, and she had exactly the same deal. Now she lives in Black Rose, another of the cottages, with Matt and the girls, plus her older children when they’re back. Nate is away in Liverpool, studying to be a vet, and Lizzie is working in London as a social media manager for a record label.

‘I miss them both like crazy,’ she tells me. ‘Even though I have Ruby and Rose with me, and they’re quite a handful—mum code for absolute nightmare, that, isn’t it?—I still find myself sometimes sitting in Nate and Lizzie’s rooms, remembering when they were little.’

I completely understand. I was the same when Ben left for college in Manchester. I knew it was good, knew it was part of the natural flow of things. But that didn’t stop me bawling like a baby when he left, and still doesn’t stop me from turning into a full-on overbearing mum when he comes home for the holidays. When we were getting the house ready for the tenants, we packed up our personal stuff and stored it in the attic. Even then, I had a little cry as I took his dartboard down, and put his football trophies into a box.

He’ll be finishing up his semester in December, and I don’t know if he’ll join us here, go to his dad, or stay up north. My heart breaks a little at the thought of the last two options, so I decide not to think about it. It’s hard work, this mothering lark. For so long all you think about is your kids, and then suddenly, as if by magic, they’re gone, on to the next stage of their life without a second glance.

Once we’re wrapped up, we leave together, lights switched off and doors locked, Laura using a torch to guide us back down the path. The wind is behind us now, so we all comedically look as though we are skipping down the hill, the gusts pushing us forward a lot faster than we want to go. The rain is still bucketing down, and I’m looking forward to being warm and cosy in my new bed.

Laura sits in the front to give me directions, and tells us she’ll get Matt to help us unpack the roof box when we’re there. Sophie is in the back seat with Gary, her eyes half-closed.

‘On my first day here,’ Laura says, sounding faraway, caught up in the memory, ‘I couldn’t reach my roof box. I’d packed everything really badly, and when Matt—I didn’t know his name then—came to help us, he opened it and all my underwear fell out. One of my bras—not even one of my nice ones—landed on his head. And then, dear reader, I married him!’

I know from my chats with her that it wasn’t quite that simple, that she was still grieving for the husband she’d lost, that the kids were a mess, that she’d been determined to leave at the end of summer. But here she is, loved up and mummy to twins. Maybe I should start throwing my bras at random men and see what happens. Probably just some funny looks and possibly a restraining order at a guess.

She directs us up through the village, past the still lively pub, and inland towards the Rockery. It takes less than ten minutes, but it’s hairy. A bit like a scene from Twister , with debris flying out in front of us and the rain slashing against the windows. I can only hope a herd of cows doesn’t come crashing from the sky.

As we pull through the gateposts of the complex, Sophie mutters: ‘Hyacinth House. That’s the name of a Doors song, isn’t it?’

Personally I have no clue—I wasn’t into cool music even when I was young. Sophie’s tastes are more eclectic, and she likes anything from Nicki Minaj to Nirvana.

‘It is! Ten points to you, Sophie!’ says Laura, turning around to grin at her. ‘All the cottages at the Rockery are named after bands or songs from the sixties and seventies. As you might have guessed from meeting Cherie, she was quite the girl in her day. Still is. Tomorrow, when Linda has buggered off, you can walk around and see if you spot any more you recognise. It’s like one of those trails they do in art galleries to keep kids interested, but for grown-ups!’

‘Do I get a prize if I get them all right?’ she asks, as I park in the spot Laura indicates.

‘Only if you don’t use your phone, and even then you only get … umm, I don’t know, actually. A free can of Guinness? Matt always has those knocking around, and I hate the stuff.’

Sophie makes an appreciative noise, as she is not fussy when it comes to booze. Even though she’s old enough to drink now, I think she’s still mentally at that stage where she’ll mine-sweep anything at all.

We clamber out of the car, battling doors that want to squash us, and I let Gary have a wee before following Laura through a little archway in the stone wall. It’s dark and wet and cold, but I can still see that this is a very pretty place. There’s an oval-shaped green, and around it are rows of little cottages. Most have their lights on, and I catch glimpses of people inside, living their lives. I always love that—seeing people through their windows, and imagining who they are and what they’re up to. I suppose, like Sophie always says, I’m just a very nosy person.

Our feet crunch on gravel as we walk, and Laura points out the big detached house on the corner, telling us that’s Black Rose—a Thin Lizzy song, apparently. Hyacinth is further back, down a little winding pathway, next to the swimming pool. I didn’t know about the swimming pool, and find myself quite excited about it until I remember I don’t have a costume with me. Still, I suppose there are probably shops somewhere nearby, even in deepest Dorset.

‘So,’ Laura says, chattering on, raising her voice over the gusts of wind, ‘it’s a nice little cottage, and more private because it’s tucked away back here. Three bedrooms, so big enough in case your son comes to stay, and you have your own garden at the back where you can see the best sunsets. Obviously this isn’t ideal weather, but it’s only September, and there’ll be plenty of nice days left once the storm passes. You can sit out and have a glass of wine and watch the birds; it’s really lovely. Plus it’s the perfect size, you know—you won’t feel crowded, but it’s also really cosy, and?—’

She halts abruptly as we turn the corner, and stops dead in her tracks. I walk right into the back of her, and Sophie walks into the back of me. Gary looks up at us with his wise golden eyes like we’re all idiots.

I follow her gaze, my hair whipping in the wind, and see that Hyacinth House does not look cosy at all. In fact it barely looks like a house. Something has gone badly wrong, and the ground in front of it is strewn with smashed tiles and broken masonry and chunks of plaster.

More tiles are still falling, some catching on the wind and flying, and it looks like the tall brick chimney stack has collapsed, smashing open the roof on its way down. The little planter trough outside the door has been broken in two, pottery and squashed flowers mashed up by the falling roof tiles, and one of the windows has been broken, the lights shining from inside illuminating the wreckage.

‘Oh no! Oh no!’ mutters Laura, her hand going to her face, tears in her eyes. ‘What’s happened?’

She looks utterly devastated, and I suppose she is seeing a little piece of her personal history falling to pieces before her eyes. I move us all back a bit, not wanting to get caught by a flying brick, and stare at the scene in front of us. I can see, through that broken window, how lovely it is inside—or at least how lovely it was.

Fresh flowers had been placed on the table, but the wind has blown the vase over, and water is dripping onto the floor. A bottle of wine has fallen onto its side, and the chintzy sofa nearest the window is covered in rain and bits of rubble that have been blown inside.

If I ignore all of that, and focus on the wood-burning fire and the basket full of logs, I can see that it would have been the perfect cosy refuge for us. That effect is ruined by the disintegrating roof, and the fact that the floral curtains are twisting around in the wind, as though they’re trying to warn us off.

‘I think, um, maybe there’s been an accident?’ I say, lamely. Sophie gives me a ‘you think?’ look, and I shake my head at her. This is bad—no getting away from it—but for us it’s just an inconvenience. We can find a hotel, or at worst sleep in the car. For Laura, this is something more.

An especially powerful gust of wind howls around us, and more tiles slip from the top of the building, shattering into pieces when they crash to the ground. I put my arm around Laura, and steer her away from the cottage, back towards the path. She barely resists, and I can feel her body trembling beneath my hands.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, voice weak with emotion. ‘I wanted it to be perfect for you, just like it was for me. I wanted everything to be right.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, leading her back around to the lawn, heading towards Black Rose. ‘It can all be fixed, I’m sure. Everything looks worse at night. Come on, let’s get you home now.’

She seems to pull herself together a bit, either because of my words or because she doesn’t want to risk her girls seeing her so upset. She nods, and manages to reply: ‘You’re right. I’m sure it’ll be okay with a glue gun and a bit of TLC.’

Sophie and I share a look at this, because there’s no way that roof is going back on with a glue gun. This isn’t the time to mention that, though, as Laura is just about holding all her pieces in.

When we walk through the door to Black Rose, Midegbo greets us with a woof and an excited gambol towards Gary. Our poor little fella is a soggy doggy again, and I know exactly how he feels. As the warmth of Laura’s home hits me, I realise exactly how cold I am. I glance at Sophie, and see that her teeth are chattering. I usher her towards the fire that is roaring away in the living room just as Matt walks in, barefoot in pyjamas. He does a bit of a double-take when he sees us all standing in front of the fire warming our extremities, which is understandable.

I only met him very briefly earlier, and he spoke maybe four words to me. It’s not that he was rude, just quiet. Probably that works well for him in Budbury, because everyone else seems to talk all the time. He nods at me, quickly covering up his confusion, his eyes going straight to his wife.

She runs towards him and into his arms, and despite the fact that she is soaked wet through, he simply wraps her up in an embrace. He drops a kiss on her curls, and murmurs comforting words, even though he presumably has no idea what’s wrong. As I watch her cling to him, see him offer such sweet consolation, I feel a flutter of envy. It’s not my proudest moment, and obviously it’s not that I don’t want Laura and Matt to be happy… I suppose it’s just that I miss having that myself. It’s only when you’re single that you realise the world is full of couples.

Sophie and I stand by the fire, looking away from them, because it somehow seems like an intrusion to watch. After a few more moments, I hear him ask: ‘Okay, so is somebody going to tell me what’s wrong?’

‘It’s Hyacinth!’ Laura says. ‘She’s fallen down!’

Hyacinth is a girl, apparently.

‘It’s not that bad, I don’t think,’ I chip in. ‘Looks like the chimney stack has been blown down, and it’s taken most of the roof with it. Lots of loose tiles, some damage downstairs. Might be a bit of a mess upstairs, I’d imagine, but it’s still standing! It’ll be all right, Laura.’

Somehow, I realise that I feel guilty. Like it’s my fault that her favourite building in the whole world collapsed on the night we were supposed to move in.

She swipes tears away from her eyes, and comes over to give me a hug.

‘I know, I know,’ she says. ‘I’m just being a drama queen because I love it so much. And thank you for reacting like you have. This was supposed to be your fresh start, your first night in your new home, and I can’t imagine how it must have felt seeing that instead. Don’t worry. We’ll sort you out.’

Even as she says this, I see a flicker of doubt cross her face. She’d be terrible at poker, I think, because she’s clearly not good at hiding what’s worrying her.

Matt has listened to all of this while getting a big waxed jacket from the hallway and putting it on, along with a pair of wellies.

‘The girls are asleep,’ he says, gesturing upstairs. ‘I’m going to go and check out the damage, and I’ll call Gabriel and see if he can come round. We might need to try and get a tarp up, or at least fence it all off so nobody tries to use the pool in the morning.’

‘But it’s so late!’ Laura replies, looking aghast.

‘It’s only just gone ten, and you know what he’s like. He won’t be asleep anyway. Neither will Cherie if you want to call her. You stay here, and get some hot drinks and snacks going, okay?’

That is exactly the right thing to say to Laura, and evidence of how well Matt knows his wife. As soon as he mentions catering, she seems to transform into a different person: suddenly steady and calm, because now she knows what she has to do, and she is perfectly capable of doing it.

She gives Matt a kiss and tells him to be careful, blocking Midgebo from the door as he tries to follow him, and tells us she’ll be back in a jiffy.

As she bustles around in the kitchen, and we sit close to the fire, I look around properly for the first time. It’s a big room, but also a full room—five-year-old twins will do that to a place. But behind the clutter, I see good proportions, a nice high ceiling, a big bay window that looks out to the green. Nothing matches—the curtains, the wallpaper, the furniture—but somehow that adds to its charm. It’d be called ‘eclectic’ on one of the shows I watch.

If I was doing it up, I’d get some shelving built in to the alcoves—something nice, high quality crafts, dark wood—and then the random books and games and photo albums would have somewhere to call home. I’d probably paint it all, maybe a rich deep burgundy, and an old leather Chesterfield would look fabulous in here. At the moment there’s a carpet, and a couple of rugs that I suspect have been strategically positioned to hide the signs of wear that young kids and lively Labradors tend to leave. I’d get rid of that, sand down the floorboards, and varnish them.

Laura and Matt’s house is, of course, gorgeous the way it is; it is a lived-in family home drenched in comfort and familiarity, a place full of laughter and love and belonging. My little mental survey of ‘what I’d do’ isn’t to criticise them; it’s to calm my own mind. It’s a thing I enjoy doing wherever I go, to distract myself. During my lowest moments, I’ve actually been known to browse the Rightmove website, looking for dilapidated houses and imagining how I’d redesign them. Sad but true.

Right now, I need that distraction, because I am starting to feel the aftereffects of seeing our alleged new home collapsing before my eyes.

I’d focused on Laura right then, because she was a mess, but now I feel a low-level tremble spreading through my body. It’s mainly internal, a kind of hum of anxiety, but as Laura passes me a huge mug of tea, I see that my hands are shaking slightly. Sophie has crashed out in a big armchair and has her eyes closed, her skin pale and wisps of dark hair glued to the side of her face. She’s almost asleep; I can tell from her breathing.

Laura seems fully recovered from her shock, just in time for me to start experiencing my own. We’re like a tag team. I sip my tea, and after a few moments I ask: ‘Who’s Gabriel?’

‘Oh! Well, he’s relatively new here—by which I mean he’s been around for a year or so. He inherited a little smallholding a few miles outside the village, from Mr Pumpwell.’

I bite my lip and try not to laugh at the name. Pumpwell? That’s so funny, and now I know Sophie is definitely asleep, or she’d be on that straight away. I remind myself that if Gabriel inherited a property, then Mr Pumpwell is sadly no longer with us, and I need to show some respect. Still, though.

‘We were all a bit surprised, because none of us even knew he had relatives—he was a bit of a loner, Mr Pumpwell. Pumpwell, Pumpwell, Pumpwell. Yes, I see you there, Maxine Connolly, trying not to giggle! Anyway, Auburn, Willow’s sister—redhead, sang “A Whole New World”—was pretty close to him. She used to take him his prescriptions and have a chat, and … well, I don’t suppose that matters. He was in his late eighties, so it wasn’t exactly a shock when he died, but it’s never nice, is it? Everyone stepped in to re-home most of his animals, and take care of the one that was left, and the farmhouse was mothballed.

‘Then one day—this was high drama in Budbury, as you can imagine—a mysterious stranger drove into town…’

‘Are you sure he drove? Didn’t he actually ride in on a piebald pony, then walk into the local saloon and ask for a sarsaparilla?’

‘Hush now! And kind of. He was driving an old-fashioned Land Rover and came into the café and asked for a coffee. Turns out he was Mr Pumpwell’s great-nephew, and he’d been living abroad. Nobody really knows, there are all kinds of rumours about him. Like he was in the SAS, or M15, or the French Foreign Legion.’

‘Why? Is he soldier-y?’

‘Well, not really, not to look at. But there’s something about him that’s a bit different, I suppose. He’s very private !’

She says this as though it is the worst thing that has happened, ever, in the entire universe. I get the feeling that although the Budbury ladies are absolutely adorable, they make my levels of nosiness look like disinterest. I can only imagine how much of a torment it’s been to have this man so close, and for him to remain a mystery—and that’s resulted in them creating a mythical history that casts him as Jack Reacher. It’s funny, and I can’t keep the smile off my face.

‘Right. I feel your pain. So why is Matt calling him now?’

‘Because he’s also single-handedly renovated Mr Pumpwell’s place, and also done some other building jobs around the village, and he’s just one of those blokes, you know? The ones who always know which wall is a structural wall, and who has ladders that go to the moon, and can just fix anything?’

‘You sound like you’re in love with him, Laura. Or at least like he could be the star of one of those rude movies where a hot man comes around to fix the washing machine, and ends up taking a spin cycle in the bedroom…’

She laughs, blushes slightly, and replies: ‘I know what you mean. Though to be honest, I’d prefer a man who just fixed the washing machine and left. But what can I say? I’m only flesh and blood … and he is easy on the eye. Like a combination of Poldark and the guy out of The Last Kingdom . Did you ever watch that?’

She sounds a little dreamy as she asks, and I second that emotion. There’s not a boxed set out there I haven’t watched, and I spent a delightful few months lost in the world of the Vikings and Anglo-Saxon England not so long ago.

‘Oh yes. Uhtred of Bebbanburg. I wouldn’t mind him fixing my washer.’

We both giggle like schoolgirls, and I’m glad Sophie is asleep. She is but young, and she doesn’t quite understand that just because women hit their later years, they don’t magically grow up. Inside, our teenaged selves are always lurking, waiting for the chance to escape.

It’s a pleasant distraction, and one that I needed. I’m exhausted now, and the creeping doubts that I’d only just started to shed are sneaking back into my mind. Has this all been a terrible mistake? Is it too late to cancel the tenants? Am I the world’s unluckiest woman?

Some of this must show on my face, because Laura reaches out to pat my hand, and says, ‘It’ll all be okay. What’s life without a few challenges?’

‘I don’t know. Easy?’

‘Easy is overrated. Look, you guys can stay here tonight, Lizzie and Nate’s rooms are free. And longer term, we’ll sort something, all right? This is Budbury. There’s always a solution. Don’t sit there fretting, wondering if you’ve cocked up, because you haven’t. It’s just a storm, not a cosmic message. I know I overreacted when I saw what had happened, but I’m made entirely of mush. Everything will be good in the end. I need to make a few calls, and maybe have a hot shower. Are you okay down here for a bit? The kitchen’s just through there if you want anything, and there’s a fresh Victoria sponge on the counter. Help yourself, but just make sure you don’t leave anything within Midgebo reach, okay?’

The dog, who is lying with Gary in front of the fire, looks up at the mention of his name. One ear twitches, and his eyes seem to say ‘who me?’

I nod, and assure her that we will be fine. I finish my tea, and feel comfy enough here to put my feet up on the sofa. That is my last memory for an unspecified amount of time, as I seem to defy all the odds and drift off to sleep. It could have been for a minute, or it could have been for hours, but when I wake up my eyes are crusted together and I have drool on my chin. Nice.

I glance over to Sophie, see that she is still in the land of nod, and begin the process of stretching out my limbs and reacquainting myself with reality. I can hear quiet voices coming from the nearby kitchen, and listen in.

‘All the cottages at the Rockery are booked,’ Laura says. ‘I checked with Cherie, and we’d only blocked out Hyacinth. She called Cal, but the farmhouse is full—Frank’s grandson is over from Australia, Martha’s back, and they’ve hired some new hands for the season.’

‘What about Tom’s place? Briarwood?’ Matt asks.

‘Also full. Apparently they just got a fresh batch of residents in. Edie has a spare bedroom, but only the one, and nowhere else in the village is empty. There’s Tom’s motorhome, but that’s only got one bed too. What are we going to do? I feel so bad for them!’

I hate being the source of this whispered debate, and get to my feet to join them. Gary comes over and gives my hand a lick, fulfilling his role as my moral support dog.

A new voice chips in, deep and male and unrecognised as I make my way to the kitchen.

‘She can stay at mine if she wants to. It’s not luxurious, but there are bedrooms that are just about usable. I don’t have beds, or blankets, or any of that stuff, though.’

I presume this is the mysterious Gabriel, and I pause a few feet away to listen in. He sounds grumpy, and the offer he’s just made doesn’t sound enticing.

‘Beds or blankets or that stuff’—he says this as though it’s a spa bath and underfloor heating, not a basic necessity. More than that, though, I am taken aback by the reluctance I hear in his tone. Everyone I’ve met here so far has been so welcoming, so friendly, and this man speaks as though he’s just offered himself up to be injected with a live dose of ebola. But what do I know? Maybe he sounds like that even when he’s opening his Christmas presents.

‘Well, we could get the furniture, that wouldn’t be an issue,’ Laura replies, and I can almost hear her brain working. ‘That’s a manageable hurdle. But are you sure? I know you, erm, like your own space … and she does have a dog, too?’

There’s a pause before he replies, and when it comes it’s a humdinger: ‘The dog isn’t a problem. And yes, I do like my own space … but the house is big enough that I can avoid them. They just need to try and stay out of my way. I’m not a nanny.’

Wow. I feel a flush of anger, and am considering marching in there and telling him he’s more than welcome to his solitude. I think I’d rather go back to Birmingham than be such an inconvenience.

‘Okay, well, maybe that could work,’ says Laura, sounding relieved. ‘I really want it to work. She’s so nice, and so is Sophie, and I’m … well, let’s just say that I’m emotionally invested! I want this to work out, for them and for us—we do need the help at the café now Willow’s leaving, and Cherie likes her too. She’s not been herself since Frank died last year, and I think having someone new around will be good for her. She really perked up once she started chatting to Max on video call. Like it gave her something different to think about. She’s not been firing on all cylinders for a while now.’

This new information stops me in my tracks. Who was Frank? Cherie’s husband, son, brother? And if the Cherie I’ve met is missing some cylinders, what on earth is she like with them all in working order? She already seems like a force of nature.

Whoever Frank was, I am sad for Cherie—I know how much the life sapped out of me after I lost my mum. Grief is sneaky, and ambushes you at the most inconvenient of times. But Laura, I suspect, is overestimating my importance. I’m just a temp, and I’m sure she can find another one from an agency.

Gabriel makes a kind of growly ‘humph’ noise, and answers: ‘I don’t know Cherie well enough to comment on that, but she’s been good to me—you all have—and if I can help, I will.’

His words are nice, but he is still using that same gruff tone. I wonder if he’s even aware of the disconnect?

‘Oh Gabe, that’s wonderful. And she’s only small, you’ll barely notice her!’

‘Huh,’ he retorts. ‘She didn’t look that small to me, and there’s two of them … but I’ll do it if it’ll help you and Cherie.’

Laura gushes her thanks, and I quiver a few feet away, feeling a mortified blush blossom on my cheeks.

‘It might not be for too long anyway,’ he adds. ‘If the weather cooperates and you can get the labour in, you could have Hyacinth back in working order in a couple of weeks. It’s a mess and you should try and get experts in, but if you can’t find anyone, I’ll do what I can.

‘The roof will need completely replacing, and the upstairs is a disaster zone. The whole chimney crashed right through into the bedroom, and part of the roof came in on the bathroom. I’ve tarped it up the best I could, but in this weather, I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest comes off overnight. I turned off the utilities just in case. I’ll come back tomorrow in daylight and have another look, but for now I’ve done as much as I could. Let me know.’

I realise they are maybe about to start making goodbye noises, and suddenly I feel embarrassed to be lurking by the door and earwigging. I don’t know why—I’m not twelve, and it’s me they’re discussing after all. If I had any backbone, I’d walk my un-small self right in there and own the situation.

Except I’m not doing especially well for backbone these days. In fact I’m practically an invertebrate. I dash quickly back over to the sofa, and drape myself back down on it. As the three of them walk through into the living room, I make a show of waking up and stretching my arms, yawning as though I’ve just come back to consciousness. And the Oscar goes to…

‘Max!’ says Laura, grinning at me. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. You can stay at Gabriel’s for a bit, until we sort Hyacinth! It’s a few miles out of the village, but you have a car, and you’ll be working anyway, and … um, is that okay?’

Maybe I’m not getting that Oscar after all, because I find that I can’t quite forget the words I overheard. I can’t quite get over the fact that the man hovering behind her made his kind offer in such a blatantly reluctant way.

It doesn’t help that he is, to put it frankly, drop-dead gorgeous. He’s over six foot, broad-shouldered but lean, with the kind of dark good looks that immediately make me think of Heathcliff. His hair is dark, thick, wavy, touching his shoulders, wild and damp from the weather. His eyes are a deep shade of shining brown, and his features are strong and imposing: high cheekbones, a slightly Roman nose, a wide mouth. He’d be an absolutely breathtaking specimen of manhood if it wasn’t for the glower, and the way his expression seems carved from stone. If he smiled, I suspect his face might crack in two.

He’s made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t really want us around, and the feeling is entirely mutual—the thought of spending time with this buttoned-up, arrogant arsehole doesn’t exactly fill me with joy either.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply slowly, feeling my way through the next few thoughts. ‘I mean, I don’t know Gabriel at all, do I? It’s not just me I have to think about either; it’s Sophie as well. She might not be happy with staying with a strange man.’

At this exact point, Sophie rouses and stares at us all in confusion, obviously having that weird sensation when you wake up somewhere new and wonder where the hell you are.

Gabriel’s nostrils have flared at my comment, and I wonder if I’ve offended him. If I have, I decide, then that’s fine, because it’s also a valid point. Laura herself has said she barely knows anything about him. I see Laura’s gaze flicker between me and Gabriel, and Matt looking uncomfortable behind them.

‘Well,’ announces Gabriel, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat and staring at me. ‘Please yourself. Laura knows where I am if you change your mind.’

He strides out of the room without a backward glance, and I hear the door slam. Sophie rubs her eyes, and says blearily: ‘Who was that?’