Rules for a Perfect Life

by Niamh Greene

  I’m just getting ready to launch myself under the tractor when I spot the gate to the churchyard. Of course! I’ll hide in there – there’ll be no chance of Odette seeing me then. Ducking through the shabby little gate, I walk quickly down a gravel path and find myself in a small graveyard. I’m just about to hide behind a headstone when I see Edward sitting by a grave, deep in thought, his head bowed. I stop stock still at the unexpected sight of him. Of course: this must be where June is buried. He’s paying his respects to his dead wife and I’ve just walked in on a very private moment.

  I try to figure out what to do. Should I call out, let him know I’ve seen him? Or should I get the hell out of here before he spots me?

  I’m frozen by indecision when he turns his head a fraction and I see his face. God, he looks absolutely devastated – he’s ghostly white and raw grief is etched on his features. There’s no way I want him to know I’ve seen him. I have to get out of here, fast.

  Holding my breath, I start to tiptoe backwards, praying he doesn’t see me inching my way out. This is obviously an intensely painful moment for him and I don’t want him to think I’m spying, or being disrespectful. Crunching backwards across the gravel, I anxiously keep my eyes fixed on his face, willing him not to hear me. But I needn’t worry – he doesn’t notice a thing: he’s so preoccupied he may as well be on another planet. As I watch, he lays a bouquet of red roses on the grave. Then he says something – I can’t be sure what, but it sounds like a muffled ‘I love you.’

  Far from being over her, like Odette said, Edward is clearly still very much in love with his dead wife. Of course he is – it makes sense. People don’t just forget their wives, especially when they were as wonderful as everyone says June was. Edward is obviously still pining for her. It’s only natural he still loves and misses her – you can’t forget someone you’ve shared your life with. Someone you’ve had two children with. He will probably love and miss her for the rest of his life. No one will ever really fill the void she left when she died – not for him, or Matilda and Polly. Not Odette, not anyone.

  I shake my head to clear it – why am I even thinking about this? It’s not like it has anything to do with me. But seeing Edward looking so lost and vulnerable has brought home to me the enormity of the situation. He’s still a grieving widower and there won’t be another woman in his life for a long time. Not properly. This realization hits me like a tidal wave and I feel physically winded. What’s wrong with me? Why do I feel so rattled? Why has seeing Edward like that unsettled me so much? And what is this strange feeling I can’t seem to shake?

  Stumbling from the graveyard, my mind reeling, I try to make sense of it all. Why am I so affected by a man I couldn’t care less about?

  Rule Twenty-one: Two heads are better than one

  ‘Can I have an espresso, please?’

  I’ve slipped into Matty’s pub to catch my breath. Seeing Edward in the graveyard has flustered me, although I’m still not sure why.

  Matty has a really good coffee menu – it’s a pity I didn’t stick to it the night I polished off all the rare red wine and the cocktails and made a total drunken fool of myself. He even has my favourite brand of espresso – the one that’s so difficult to find in town.

  ‘No problem, Maggie.’ Matty smiles at me. ‘Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll drop it over to you? The one by the window is nice and sunny.’

  I murmur my thanks, pleasantly surprised that Matty remembers my name – it’s really nice to have someone know who you are. In the city everyone is so anonymous. I’ve been getting my espresso in the same Coast Coffee for two years now and the staff still don’t recognize me or remember what I like to order. I’ve always wanted to swan into a place and say, ‘I’ll have my usual, please!’ You’d get laughed at for saying something like that in the city, but here you can get away with it. If I lived here permanently, this would be my local. I don’t have a local in town, just a series of bars and nightclubs full of strangers.

  This pub is different: it’s so full of character. The worn old pine floorboards are a mellowed ochre colour and the light streaming through the stained-glass windows dapples beautifully on the pale cream walls. There are delightful watercolours dotted around in groups of two or three, adding some interest to the simple scheme. They look like originals of local scenes – I recognize the village church, the pretty bridge and even Peg and Ted’s shop front.

  I settle into my seat and lean back, closing my eyes almost involuntarily, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face. Matty was right – this is a lovely, sunny spot. It really is very restful in here.

  ‘It looks like you need this,’ a man’s voice says, just as I’m drifting off, and I jolt upright. It’s Edward, holding a coffee cup.

  For a second I think I must be asleep. It can’t be him – he isn’t really standing in front of me. I’m just dreaming. Then I come to and realize it’s not a hallucination – Edward is right here. ‘Oh,’ I redden, ‘I wasn’t asleep, I was just …’

  ‘Resting your eyes?’

  ‘Exactly.’ I smooth my hair behind my ears and try to stop blushing. What’s he doing here? And why is my heart suddenly hammering in my chest?

  ‘Matty asked me to give you your espresso.’

  I take the cup from him and gulp the hot liquid, scalding the back of my throat. I can’t believe I was almost asleep in a pub in the middle of the day. Edward must think I’m a complete idiot. And, God, his eyes are so blue – and the way they twinkle when he smiles … I take another gulp of my coffee. Why am I thinking like this? What’s wrong with me today?

  ‘It’s nice in here,’ I mumble, for something to say.

  ‘Yes, it’s a good spot to get away from the madding crowd,’ Edward replies, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  We both glance out of the window, where a solitary person wanders up the street.

  ‘Hardly the madding crowd.’ I raise an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Well, the maddening crowd, then.’ He laughs. ‘I was going to have a coffee myself. Would you mind if I join you or would you prefer to be alone?’

  I hesitate. For some reason, I feel stupidly pleased that he’s suggested joining me but I can’t pinpoint why. It’s definitely a bad idea: Odette wouldn’t like us to be having a drink together – she made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want me spending any time at all with Edward. Then again, it’s not like we’re doing anything wrong: a landlord and his tenant having a coffee is a completely innocent scenario.

  Besides, even if Edward wasn’t seeing Odette, which he is, he still has the ghost of his dead wife in his life – very much in his life if his display in the graveyard was anything to go by. There’s absolutely nothing between us. Not that I want there to be.

  All these thoughts race through my mind as Edward stands before me, waiting to hear my verdict. Why am I making such a big deal of it? If I don’t answer him soon, he’ll think I’m a proper weirdo. It’s not like he’s just asked me to marry him! God, what made me make that comparison? What is wrong with me today?

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug, trying to sound casual. I need to hang on to some shred of self-respect – he did find me practically snoring in broad daylight after all.

  ‘Great,’ he says. ‘I could do with a caffeine shot – Matty does the best coffee, don’t you think?’

  I nod: it’s wonderful – miles better than anything I’ve ever had in Coast Coffee, that’s for sure.

  Pulling up a stool to the table, he calls across to Matty for another espresso. ‘So, I hear there’s going to be another meeting about the supermarket.’

  ‘Bloody hell, word travels fast here!’ I gasp. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Ted texted me. He and Peg are pretty excited about your PR campaign.’

  ‘What PR campaign is that?’ I ask, my hammering heart now sinking to my toes. This doesn’t sound good.

  ‘Apparently they’re going to start a PR campaign to get the press onside. Peg’s already planning the go
odie-bags. She’s pretty sure her prize-winning organic tomatoes will impress the journalists.’

  I feel faint. ‘Goodie-bags?’

  ‘Yes, you know, “like at the Oscars”,’ he says seriously, repeating what Peg said earlier, word for word.

  ‘I didn’t say anything about goodie-bags,’ I protest. ‘Well, I may have mentioned them, but only as an example of the things PRs do sometimes. I didn’t mean we need to do the same …’

  He must think I’m on drugs – making up press goodie-bags with organic tomatoes is an insane idea.

  ‘That’s funny.’ He looks puzzled. ‘Ted definitely said something about goodie-bags. He was talking about putting cabbages in there too.’

  ‘Cabbages?’ He can’t be serious.

  ‘Yes. And turnips. Although I tried to put him off those – turnips aren’t everyone’s cup of tea.’ His eyes dance and suddenly I know he’s teasing me again.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Well, I am about the cabbages and turnips, yes, but Peg is very keen about the organic tomatoes.’

  Oh, crap. Peg really thinks that giving journalists soggy tomatoes will make a difference to the supermarket outcome. And that’s my fault. I never should have mentioned those damn goodie-bags in the first place.

  ‘Peg has a heart of gold,’ Edward says, evidently seeing the horror on my face, ‘but she can get a little carried away sometimes. We’ll talk her out of it, don’t worry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ he stirs the coffee that Matty has carefully placed in front of him, ‘she feels very strongly about the supermarket so it stands to reason she’s fairly emotional about it. She’s grasping at straws.’

  ‘The goodie-bags?’

  ‘Exactly. She wants to stop the development, but to her, it’s more than just about corporate greed or the loss of village life. It’s about family.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Yes. The shop that she and Ted run has been in Peg’s family for generations. She feels a huge responsibility to keep it going.’

  ‘But businesses fold all the time,’ I say. ‘It won’t be her fault if she can’t stop the supermarket. The Xanta Group is very powerful – they have hundreds of stores all over Europe already.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he agrees. ‘It won’t be her fault. But Peg won’t see it that way. She’ll blame herself for destroying her father’s legacy. That’s the way she views it. Her whole world is tied up in that little shop, and if she has to close it, she feels she’ll lose part of her own identity. And because she and Ted have no children, this means everything to her. Do you see what I mean?’

  I’m beginning to understand Peg’s passion for stopping the supermarket. It’s not just about money or keeping her little village shop profitable, it’s about her past.

  ‘That’s why she resisted the estate agents for so long too,’ Edward adds. ‘She wouldn’t sell out, no matter what they offered her.’ The tone of his voice has changed and his twinkling eyes are now like flint.

  ‘Estate agents?’ I repeat. Why does he look so irate suddenly?

  ‘Yes, they came sniffing round the village, saying they had a cash buyer for the shop. Xanta was behind it, of course. Peg and Ted weren’t the only ones approached.’

  ‘The supermarket group wanted to buy up property in the village?’ This is a common enough ploy – corporations often try to buy out dissenters in order to push a planning application through.

  ‘Yeah, but it didn’t work.’ Edward’s face twists. ‘Peg and Ted wouldn’t play ball. That’s been the one good thing about the property crash. Finally those good-for-nothing crooks are getting their comeuppance.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I squeak, suddenly very nervous. Why does he sound so bitter?

  ‘All those low-life scumbags are the same – selfish, greedy criminals, only out for their own good.’ His voice is shaking with anger.

  ‘You’re not a fan of estate agents, I take it?’ I ask, my hand suddenly trembling. I put down my coffee cup so he won’t notice.

  ‘I hope they all rot in hell.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ I ask numbly. Why do I feel so sick? So what if he hates estate agents? Why should I take it personally or even care? It’s nothing to do with me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Maggie, you must think I’m insane,’ he says now, his expression wretched.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I reply, my insides churning.

  He looks at his hands, as if trying to decide whether to continue. ‘The morning that my wife was killed, we had an argument about the manor house,’ he says quietly. ‘She’d had an estate agent over to value the place and he’d given her the hard sell – said we’d make millions if we put it on the market, that sort of thing.’

  ‘I see.’ That sounds familiar. ‘But you didn’t want to sell?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. And neither did her mother. We both thought it was important to try to hold on to the house if we could. It’s the children’s heritage – it’s up to us to safeguard it for them.’

  ‘But your wife didn’t feel the same?’

  ‘No,’ Edward says, his voice bleak. ‘Even though she grew up here, she always wanted to escape. She wanted a different kind of life – one where she didn’t have to work so hard all the time. Maybe she was right. I could be passing on a millstone for the kids.’

  ‘Country living certainly isn’t easy,’ I say. I’ve never worked so hard in my life, that’s for sure.

  ‘You’re right. Matilda will probably leave Glacken the minute she turns eighteen. She already hates it here. Sometimes I think she blames me for what happened.’

  ‘How could she?’ I ask, shocked. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘You haven’t heard the whole story yet,’ he says, his face pale. ‘After the estate agent’s visit, we had a dreadful argument. June felt we should take the money and run. I disagreed and she took off into Glacken Woods on Drya and … well, I’m sure you heard what happened then.’

  ‘Sort of,’ I mumble.

  ‘We never should have argued, of course, I blame myself for that, but if the estate agent hadn’t come, then …’

  The rest hangs in the air, but the meaning is clear: he blames a greedy estate agent for the death of his wife.

  ‘Anyway,’ Edward shakes his head as if to clear it, ‘enough about that. Let’s change the subject. How do you think the supermarket thing is going to pan out?’

  I take another sip of coffee to try to steady myself. Edward hates estate agents. What would he say if he knew I’d been one? ‘Well,’ I start, ‘if I’m brutally honest, I think that Peg and Ted don’t have a rat’s chance of stopping a huge conglomerate like Xanta. The supermarket will be pushed through. It’s just a question of when.’ There – I’ve admitted it. It might be the first truthful thing I’ve said since I came here.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Edward says, nodding. ‘But if the development is going to happen anyway, there must be a way to use it to our advantage – don’t you think so?’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Well, maybe we can make it work for us in some way.’

  ‘Go on.’

  I crunch into one of the oatmeal cookies that Matty placed on the saucer. It’s delicious. I make a mental note to ask him which brand they are. It’s the perfect blend of crunchy and chewy, not too sweet, not too salty.

  ‘OK, let’s think this through rationally.’ Edward leans forward, placing both elbows on the table as he does so. The scent of horse wafts across to me. For once it doesn’t smell that bad, in fact it smells almost … inviting. That can’t be right.

  ‘If this cheap supermarket opens on the outskirts of the village, people will travel to it,’ he says.

  ‘Definitely.’ I’m trying to concentrate on what he’s saying, not the way his lips move when he speaks. ‘Those supermarkets are really popular. People want value, especially now.’

  ‘But even if people do travel to the supermarket, that doesn’t mean t
hey’ll come into the village itself,’ he goes on.

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So, the village won’t necessarily benefit from the development.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘In fact, it could make things even worse – just like Peg thinks it will. There would be no passing trade any more.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So, what do you propose?’ I’m really curious now.

  ‘I think we need a regeneration plan for the village, one that can improve our profile and encourage people to visit. We need a unique selling point.’

  ‘A USP.’

  ‘A USP. Right.’ He smiles at me.

  ‘And what do you think this USP is?’ I smile back. It’s impossible not to – his enthusiasm is infectious. And his eyes – a person could melt into them.

  ‘I think we should try to market the village as an area of cultural significance. That’s our USP. What do you think?’

  Cultural significance? This place? Is he joking? ‘Well, Glacken isn’t exactly a cultural hotspot,’ I say.

  ‘Not now – but we could develop it. Make it a destination of choice for artists round the country, maybe even the world. We’ll need buy-in from Xanta, of course, get them to fund some sort of cultural-development plan on the back of the supermarket. They won’t refuse if we agree not to oppose the build.’

  ‘They scratch our back, we scratch theirs?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  It’s a very interesting idea – he’s right. If we could tie Xanta into providing funding, the village could benefit from a new lease of life. There are snags, though. Has he thought it all through? ‘But why do you think artists would be interested in coming here?’ I ask.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Eh?’ I look at him blankly.

  ‘You’re an artist, right? Why did you come here?’