Over the years, changes have been few among the grey stone houses, surrounded by sloping hills of thick unkempt woodland to the west and rich open farmland to the east. The single road running through Cottinghale, fenced by tumbling stone walls covered with yellow moss, twisted and turned through the countryside with no particular destination in mind, making visitors to the community a rarity. In fact, even people in the surrounding villages often forget its whereabouts.
If it had not been for the sale of the Jules’ house, the owner of the estate agents in Cheltenham would have been none the wiser to Cottinghale’s existence, and more importantly, he would not have mentioned the unsellable property to his cousin in Reading, who, in turn, would not have passed the details on to Jules. It was a strange turn of events that had led Jules to hear about the under-priced property in Cottinghale, which, in its position 200 metres further up the road from the other homes in the hamlet, was a chance for her to make it alone as a property developer, to start a new life far away from DIY superstores and heavily stocked supermarkets. The life of contented solitude she continued to look for but never seemed to fine.
But it seemed in an equally absurd turn of events that Jules found herself shivering under a worn and itchy blanket sipping a bright green sticky and out-of-date crème de menthe from Mrs Beckwith’s alcohol shelf.
The fifth long and sickly swig caused two thin trickles of liquid to fall from the tiny china mug and down the sides of Jules’ mouth. The alcohol finally defrosted the ice blocks of her feet from beneath the bed spread.
Did out-of-date crème de menthe increase the alcohol content or reduce it? Jules wondered. At least the arctic temperatures outside the bedroom kept the disgusting drink too cold for her taste buds to protest. It was alcohol after all – alcohol she so desperately needed. Jules let her eyelids close for a moment as she felt her thoughts drift to the hidden crevices of her mind.
‘How could he do this to me?’ Jules whispered to the empty room, the hit of alcohol finally allowing her to unleash the thoughts that had been bubbling under the surface of her consciousness since she seen the newspaper that now lay across her lap. It should have been another layer of warmth, but each time her eyes scanned the wretched article it chilled her to the bone.
It was dated yesterday, Valentine’s Day. Her picture had been plastered across the front page of a trashy tabloid for twenty-four hours and no one had contacted her. How could that be? But even as Jules asked the question, she knew the answer.
Each new project meant, among other things, a new location and a mobile upgrade. She had replaced the number this time too, not bothering to tell anyone but her parents of the change, and they were two people as unlikely to read the tabloids as she was to keep in touch with old friends. Her eyes flicked back to the headline.
‘Bastard.’ The involuntary sound startled her as it slipped out from somewhere inside. A sense of déjà vu spread through her. She had been here before: a newspaper open in front of her; Guy’s face staring back. But this time it was her grinning face next to his. The photograph, like a hundred others that had been taken throughout the years of their relationship, showed her and Guy arm in arm on a night out, grinning at the camera without a care in the world. Had she really ever been that happy, she wondered suddenly, staring at the young girl with the smile so wide it seemed to stretch across the entire length of her face.
Five years without a single word and then this, Jules thought, cutting off the memories from invading her mind. She had vanquished Guy from her head a long time ago and had no plans to let him back in now. Why, after all this time, would he be trying drag her back into his life? It was the most impersonal form of communication, yet the worst possible intrusion.
It had to be a publicity stunt, she realised. Nevertheless, it was another slap in the face to the truth of how wrong she’d been about him (and herself for that matter).
With each sweet sip of the green alcohol Jules melted closer to numbness. She forgot if it was anger or hurt that she was supposed to feel at Guy’s pathetic attempt to boost his career and stomp over her private life in the process. Then, without warning, the déjà vu probed again at the doors of her mind: the flash of another cold bedroom, another lifetime, and the other newspaper spread in front of her; the familiar feeling of alcohol coursing through her, the haze luring her into a dark nothingness.
A bitter taste of bile rose to the back of Jules’ throat as she recalled the empty bottle of vodka and the crippling sadness that had hounded her. Just the thought of that time in her life was enough to start the hammering in her chest. How close had she been? Always the same question, never the same answer. But she was a different person now, her own person, she reminded herself, pushing the cup out of reach on the bedside table. She shuffled further under the covers as she pushed the images and the questions back to their hiding place until her mind stopped churning and sleep took her away.
Three
The constant early morning drizzle soothed Jules’ hot face as she pounded her legs harder into the hillside. Her limbs seemed to move on mechanical autopilot as she fought for one cold breath after another. The wispy shrubs of winter scratched against the bottom of her calves in the space where her leggings stopped and the cold started. Woodland stretched before her; the leaves from summer still spread across the floor, crunching like orange and brown cornflakes beneath her feet.
Jules liked running. She liked the power it gave her and the way it kept her body lean, but most of all she liked the healing force of running, the way it never failed to clear the remnants of a bad day.
With each mile of ground she covered Jules began to feel herself again. In fact, as she threaded her way up the valley, she felt almost normal. The betrayal of Guy’s lies meant nothing. One newspaper, one headline, one very old and unrecognisable photograph, it would all be forgotten. She had been the victim of a cruel publicity stunt and a slow news day. Nothing more.
Jules felt as if she could run forever with her head down against the cutting February wind, her mind pushing away the anger and hurt of Guy’s betrayal, and the fear and frustration she felt towards the mess of her new house. But as her feet fell upon the flat grassy hilltop Jules stopped. A sudden break in the clouds unleashed a weak beam of sunshine, causing a momentary brush of light to touch her face.
As she turned slowly on her heels her eyes absorbed the view. Tangled branches sprouted out from the woodland covering the slopes before her. Beyond the hills, scattered beams of light dropped from the thick cloud like spotlights on the dark and empty farmland. The sweet smell of fresh morning dew filled Jules’ senses. It felt like a different world compared to the bleak cement of the bedsit in Nottingham, the flat in Slough, and the townhouse in Reading. Their images deteriorated into one grey block in Jules’ mind compared to the landscape before her.
Not for the first time Jules wondered how she’d come to own a property in such an unusual place as Cottinghale. There had been none of her normal meetings with the property management companies she’d worked for; no renovation cost calculations or profit analysis completed; and none of the methodical planning she’d applied to her life and her work over the past five years.
Within a matter of hours from setting eyes on the detached stone house at the top of the hamlet, Jules had found herself making an offer and beginning the extraction of her small life in Reading. She still recalled the lure from that first showing. The late autumn sunshine had shone through every window, illuminating the stretching high ceilings and huge rooms.
She had felt a pull towards it, as if something in the house had called to her that day. It needed so much more than a new coat of paint and a laminate floor: it needed her love; something she felt unqualified to give to anyone or anything.
Whatever it was that had made her ignore the moulding wallpaper, the fraying carpets, the desperate creaks of the stairs under her feet, she had responded to it. It seemed she had finally found the solitude she’d been craving for so long.
As her breath slowed, Jules felt the first tingle of cool air penetrate through the thin layer of sweat cloaking her skin. Time to head back, she decided, lifting her shoulders in a shrug as if apologising to the beauty that lay before her – except that, in the few short moments Jules had been standing on the hilltop, each pathway leading back into the wood looked exactly the same. She had no idea which twisting path led back to Cottinghale, Jules realised on the verge of panic. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t bothered to keep track of her route and now she really was lost.
It was early on a Sunday morning in the middle of nowhere. She could keep running for miles in the wrong direction and find nothing but pneumonia and exhaustion. Then, out of nowhere, a rustle sounded from the undergrowth directly in front of her. Shit! Do they have wolves in the English countryside? No of course not, she silently answered her own fear, but what about the panther sightings she’d heard about a few months ago? Had that been near here? Where was here?
Just as Jules prepared herself for a diving sprint to the cover of the woodland behind her, the creature revealed itself. Galloping out from its hiding place, a brown and white Springer spaniel, not much older than a puppy, bounded full pelt towards her with his bright pink tongue flapping in the air at the same rate as his giant floppy ears. Hardly the vicious creature she had feared, Jules realised with relief.
‘Hello there,’ she cooed as the dog sniffed her outstretched hands. His stubby white tail wagging so hard that the whole back half of his body wiggled from side to side. Jules ran her hands over the dog’s hot, damp back as she crouched down to his level, leaving her hands covered in white and brown hairs.
‘I hope you’ve come to show me the way home.’
At the sound of her voice, the dog wriggled with even more fury as he shoved his cold nose towards her; the force causing Jules to topple back onto the damp grass as he flapped his hot wet tongue across her face. A sudden smell of rotting fish overtook the fresh morning dew.
‘Yes, yes, I’ve said hello,’ she grinned, pushing the dog back so she could sit up.
‘I hope that’s how you greet everyone up here,’ a man’s voice said from behind her as a pair of green wellingtons stepped into view beside her.
‘Oh, sorry I was saying hello and your dog pushed me over,’ she replied, her eyes widening at the sight of the rugged, immensely tall blond towering over her.
‘I can see that,’ he replied with a broad smile, brushing a tassel of windswept hair away from his face. ‘Now Maximus,’ he said, turning his attention to the dog, ‘how many times do I have to tell you, it’s customary to take a girl on a date before you slobber on her.’
The unfamiliar sound of a laugh escaped from inside Jules as the dog barked his response. Taking advantage of the dog’s wavering attention, Jules scrambled to her feet, pretending not to notice the outstretched hand of the man offering to help her up from the cold ground.
‘Well you’ve already met Maximus, Max for short, and I’m Rich, and guessing by the look of you, you’re lost.’
‘Jules,’ she replied, wiping Max’s saliva from her face and looking up towards the dog owner. Even standing, Jules couldn’t help but feel taken aback by his height. She barely reached his chest and she was hardly short herself at five-foot ten-inches.
‘And I’m not lost; I was just taking a breather,’ she replied, the lie falling from her lips before she had a chance to consider why.
‘Really?’ Rich raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes,’ she said, a little more hotly than she intended.
‘Well, I’ll let you get on with your run then.’ Rich took a step back allowing Jules to choose her direction, his gaze on her face unfaltering.
But she couldn’t leave; she still had no idea which way led back to Cottinghale. Damn, why hadn’t she just admitted that she was lost?
‘Everything alright?’ he asked.
‘Yes thanks, I’m just deciding which route to take back,’ she lied again.
‘And where is back?’
‘Cottinghale.’
Before Rich could reply, Max let out a loud piecing bark.
‘It looks like we’re heading back together then if you don’t mind? Max wants his breakfast.’
‘Sure,’ she replied, feeling a mixture of relief and embarrassment.
‘It’s beautiful isn’t it,’ Rich said, looking out across the valley, but making no move to begin the journey home. ‘Be careful round here though, the ruins of the Cottinghale estate are dotted all over the place, it’s easy to lose your footing, especially after all the rain we’ve had this year.’
‘Right,’ she replied, brushing aside his warning without a second thought. Her independence always seemed to bring out the protective side in some men, as if they couldn’t quite believe she was happy on her own. ‘Shall we go then?’
Another bark from Max mirrored her impatience.
‘Lead the way.’ Rich waved his hand in the direction of the woods, the edges of his mouth twitched with a smile.
‘Sorry?’
An unfamiliar sensation wound its way into Jules’ stomach. The mischievous twinkle in his smiling blue eyes combined with his broad physique unsettled her.
‘I thought you were deciding the route back? Me and Max don’t mind, do we Max?’
The dog barked his agreement.
With no other options available to her, Jules stepped in the direction of Max; hoping the dog would lead the way for her.
‘Um—’
‘Something wrong?’ Jules asked, frowning at the amused expression on Rich’s face.
‘Nothing. I’m just surprised you want to go this way,’ he said, falling in step next to her. ‘Don’t mind getting your feet wet crossing the river, I guess.’
‘No, I was just—’
‘About to admit that you are actually lost and ask the friendly dog walker for assistance,’ he cut in.
‘Fine. I’m lost, but in my defence I only moved here yesterday.’
Rich’s deep laugh reverberated in her ears.
‘Now that wasn’t so hard was it?’ he said, shrugging off his waist-length black coat to reveal a fraying grey jumper, complete with what looked to Jules to be a Bolognese sauce stain spread down the front.
‘Here, take this.’
‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’
As if she hadn’t spoken, Rich placed the coat over her shoulders.
‘Take it, if for no other reason it saves me having to carry you home when you collapse from hypothermia, which by the look of your blue lips is any moment now,’ he explained, eyeing her lips and creating another wave of unsettlement to dance inside her.
‘Thank you,’ she muttered, feeling as small as a doll as she slipped her arms into the enormous sleeves still warm from Rich’s body.
‘Good, now come on then, Max, this way.’ Rich clapped his hands at the dog, striding towards the same path Jules had chosen moments earlier.
‘Hey, what about the river?’ she quizzed, half running to keep pace with his long strides.
‘Oh, there’s no river. I just wanted you to admit you were lost.’
‘Well thanks again then.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I was being sarcastic.’
‘Really? I didn’t notice. Us local folk don’t know much about sarcasm,’ he replied, the amusement never leaving his voice.
They walked in silence for a moment, following a zigzag path down through the woodland. Max galloped around them, dividing his attention between the delights of the undergrowth and the ear scratches from his new friend.
‘So how is Mrs Beckwith treating you?’
‘What?’
‘Mrs Beckwith, the landlady of the B&B.’
‘Yes I know who she is, but how did you know I’m staying there?’
‘Ever lived in a small place like Cottinghale before Jules?’ Rich asked.
‘No, but—’
‘Didn’t think so. Let me tell you ex
actly what it took me a month to realise. Everyone knows everything.’
‘Really?’ she replied in a mocking tone.
Rich grinned at her. ‘Your name is Jules Stewart, you’ve just bought the old Mayor House, and you’re staying at Mrs Beckwith’s because the house isn’t safe. Oh, and apparently you don’t like being called Juliet. Did I miss anything out?’
‘Or “lovey”,’ she replied, hiding her discomfort at how much he seemed to know about her. ‘I don’t like being called “lovey” either.’
‘What about darling?’
‘Nope.’
‘Peach?’
‘Definitely not.’ The unfamiliar sensation of a smile began to form on her lips.
In what felt like no time at all, Jules found herself standing outside the blue front door of Mrs Beckwith’s guesthouse.
‘Here we are then,’ Rich said.
‘Well thanks for … err … keeping me company on the way home.’
‘You mean thanks for saving you from hypothermia and certain death?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but thanks,’ she smiled.
‘You’re welcome, Jules.’
Seconds passed between them as Rich’s smiling eyes never left hers. He stepped towards her. ‘Any chance I could have my coat back then?’
‘Of course. Sorry.’ Jules felt her cheeks colour as she shrugged the cosy layer from her body and handed it back to Rich. A shiver travelled across her skin at the chilly void it left behind.
‘Say goodbye, Max,’ Rich said.
‘Goodbye Max,’ she responded without thinking.
‘I was talking to him,’ Rich corrected with another amused grin, nodding his head towards Max’s panting body.
‘Right, bye then.’ Jules turned towards the guesthouse to hide her flaming cheeks.
As she stepped into the quiet house Jules caught sight of her appearance in the brass hallway mirror and gasped in horror. Max had left more than just mud and drool on her already red face. She had what appeared to be clumps of dried green snot on either cheek. With that and the frizzy damp hair and yesterday’s smudged mascara she looked liked she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards and sneezed on by Shrek. What must Rich have thought? Jules cringed.
The Reluctant Celebrity Page 2
