by Alice Ross
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Alice Ross
New Arrivals
on
Lovelace Lane
Cover by Sal McD
Enquiries: [email protected] Twitter: @SalMcD1
Contents
About the Author
Also by Alice Ross
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Also in the Lovelace Lane series
About the Author
Alice Ross used to work in the financial services industry where she wrote riveting, enthralling brochures about pensions and ISAs that everyone read avidly and no one ever put straight into the bin.
One day, when nobody was looking, she managed to escape. Dragging her personal chef (aka her husband) along with her, she headed to Spain, where she began writing witty, sexy, romps designed to amuse slightly more than pension brochures.
Missing Blighty (including the weather - but don't tell anyone), she returned five years later and now works part-time in the tourism industry.
When not writing, she can be found scratching out a tune on her violin, walking her dog, or standing on her head in a yoga pose.
You can follow her on Twitter @aliceross22
Also by Alice Ross
The Trouble with Great Aunt Milly
Forty Things To Do Before You’re Forty
Lovelace Lane Series
The Little Cottage on Lovelace Lane
The Big House on Lovelace Lane
The Wedding on Lovelace Lane
Christmas on Lovelace Lane
The Cotswolds Cookery Club Series
A Taste of Italy
A Taste of Spain
A Taste of France
Countryside Dreams Series
An Autumn Affair
A Summer of Secrets
A Winter’s Wish
Regency
The Very Unaccomplished Lady Eleanor
Under the Willow Tree
Chapter One
Hovering outside the Arrivals Hall at Newcastle airport, Chrissie Collins made a snap decision: from now on she was going to employ the word ‘No’ much more frequently than she had so far in her thirty-five years. In fact, considering the matter further, as folk began trickling through the sliding doors, some sporting suntans and pushing trollies, others in crumpled suits clutching laptops, she couldn’t comprehend why she hadn’t made more use of the word before. ‘No’ actually made rather a nice sound: all round and plump and satisfying – like a steaming squidgy dumpling. With immediate effect she vowed to vocalise that sound:
To herself the next time the biscuit barrel called;
To son, Harry, the next time he suggested setting up another worm world on the kitchen table;
And absolutely definitely to daughter, Jess, the next time she asked if she could take part in a cultural exchange programme with a school in Brazil.
Brazil!
In Chrissie’s day you were lucky if you made it to France or Germany. But evidently those destinations failed to offer the edifying experience sought by today’s teenage contingent.
As the drip of newly-arrived passengers morphed into a steady flow, Chrissie hauled her attention back to the matter in hand and held up her piece of cardboard – the hastily torn off back of a cereal box – a little higher. It bore the name Valentina: the Brazilian half of the British/Latin American exchange. She hadn’t attempted to add the girl’s surname, it being far too complicated and containing at least one hyphen and very possibly two acute accents.
The other exchange students had arrived a couple of days earlier. But Valentina, for whatever reason, hadn’t been able to make that flight, nor, consequently, the mini-bus pick-up arranged by Jess’s school. A polite request from the academic establishment had therefore followed, asking Chrissie if she’d mind collecting her house guest today. Chrissie’s reply of ‘No problem’, had been followed by a pang of apprehension that this lone arrival didn’t signify a rebellious streak, meaning Valentina was going to be a problem.
Unsurprisingly, Jess had presented several arguments on the importance of her accompanying her mother on this trusted mission. It being a school day, however, Chrissie had presented one of her own: namely that Jess toddle off to her studies as normal, leaving her to meet their visitor. A magazine of reasons had been fired back as to why that could possibly rank as the most terrible, crass, idiotic idea ever suggested by a member of the human race. But Chrissie had stuck to her guns, batting back ‘GCSEs next year’.
That phrase was, she’d noticed, rapidly becoming her mantra, despite her finding it incredibly hard to believe. It didn’t seem two minutes ago since she’d been ferrying her first-born to nursery. And now, here they were, in the blink of an eye, with the end of the girl’s compulsory education within touching distance.
‘Hello.’
A husky female voice, tinged with a foreign accent, jolted her out of her musings.
‘I am Valentina,’ it said.
Chrissie’s astounded synapses took a moment to process this information. The… young woman in front of her couldn’t possibly be the Valentina of ridiculously-long-surname notoriety. That one was sixteen years old. This one looked a decade older – at least. Well, there was an obvious explanation: there must be two Valentinas arriving in Newcastle today. Not such a remarkable coincidence after all. Swiftly banishing all traces of bemusement from her countenance, she mustered an apologetic smile.
‘Sorry. The Valentina I’m expecting is an exchange student from Rio de Janeiro.’
The girl shook back her mane of long dark hair, pouted her full glossy lips, and regarded Chrissie as though she were a few peas short of a casserole. ‘I am exchange student from Rio de Janeiro.’
Chrissie furrowed her forehead, bemusement returning with a vengeance. Still, the fact that there were two Valentinas from Rio on the London to Newcastle mid-afternoon flight, also wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. This girl must be part of a university exchange, rather than a secondary school. Mustn’t she?
‘The girl I’m waiting for is sixteen,’ she ventured.
‘I am sixteen,’ replied the evidently sixteen-year-old - in an ‘isn’t it bloody obvious and can’t we just get a move on’ tone.
The furrow on Chrissie’s brow deepened to a ravine. Aided on its transformation by the flirty looks exchanged between the Brazilian and a guy of the creased suit brigade - most definitely in his third decade – as he ambled past and shot her a wink.
Blimey. This wasn’t what she’d been expecting at all.
Valentina appeared equally unimpressed. After returning the man’s wink with a dazzling smile and a spectacular flick of hair, she swivelled back round to Chrissie and heaved an exasperated sigh, before wrestling a packet of gum from the pocket of her tight white jeans and deftly popping a piece into her mouth.
‘You have car?’ she asked, chewing slowly whi
le viewing Chrissie through enormous brown eyes lined with thick kohl.
As panic began nibbling her toes, Chrissie could do nothing but nod.
Valentina tossed her a meaningful look, chewed some more, then began pushing her trolley towards the exit, her pert rear – upholding the reputation of her native country – attracting the attention of every male within a half-mile radius.
Panic now chomping away at every one of her extremities, Chrissie briefly considered scuttling off in the opposite direction. But she couldn’t. If this girl really was sixteen, then she was a minor. And although Chrissie suspected she might be more streetwise than a road map, she couldn’t abandon her. For one thing, what would she tell Jess if she turned up empty-handed? The notion of conjuring up some tale about cancelled flights, the Bermuda triangle and unidentified flying objects made a brief foray into her head but, just as quickly, executed a U-turn. She was supposed to be the responsible adult here. Valentina might appear older than her years, but she was officially still a child; one her family had entrusted into Chrissie’s care. And as tempting as it might be to do a runner, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she shirked her responsibilities. Nor would she be able to live with Jess if their guest failed to materialise. So, taking all the above into account, she sucked in a deep breath, tugged down her jacket to cover her size twelve, significantly less pert rear, and scurried after the new arrival.
In the car ten minutes later, Valentina’s - many - bags squashed into the boot, Chrissie had calmed down slightly. After all, she’d reasoned, it wasn’t the girl’s fault she was what the male of the species would undoubtedly refer to as ‘a total babe’. For all Chrissie knew, Valentina might consider her looks a curse rather than a blessing. She might have spent her entire life trying to be taken seriously, when all anyone saw was that lustrous hair and those enormous eyes. She might be incredibly diligent and studious. But then again, she pondered, as she stopped at a junction and Valentina wriggled out of her red leather jacket to reveal a dangerously low-cut T-shirt and an impressive cleavage, she might not.
In an attempt to discover which of the two scenarios applied, Chrissie made a stab at polite conversation, wading her way through all the usual stuff: how was the flight? What was the weather like in Rio? Had she been to England before?
The Brazilian’s bored mono-syllabic replies as she stared out of the window, led Chrissie to conclude that she must be tired from the journey. And the last thing she likely needed was her babbling on about nothing. She therefore nudged the “chat” onto more pertinent matters. Like the state of the dwelling in which Valentina would be spending her three-week sojourn.
‘We had hoped to move in before Christmas and have most of the structural renovations completed by now,’ Chrissie explained, swinging the car onto Lovelace Lane and pulling up outside Yew Tree House. ‘But things didn’t go quite to plan, which means we’re living in a bit of a building site. As you can see, it’s a very old property and in need of a lot of work to bring it into the twenty-first century. The previous owner lived here for over ninety years before she died in the summer.’
Valentina pivoted round in her seat, showing, for the first time since her arrival, a flicker of interest. ‘She die in house?’
‘Yes, I believe she did.’
‘Cool,’ puffed the visitor.
Chrissie had no idea what was cool about that fact, but whatever it was that had tickled Valentina’s fancy, all fancy-tickling promptly ceased the moment the girl entered the house, her huge eyes narrowing to slits as she viewed her temporary lodgings sceptically.
Chrissie couldn’t blame her - the place was a tip. When she’d reluctantly agreed to the Brazilian’s visit, she’d anticipated having all the walls earmarked for removal knocked out by now, the new kitchen installed and at least one bathroom fully refurbished. But, due to a technical hitch with the mortgage, plus the seasonal holiday, the move had been delayed several weeks.
Eventually, on the first of February, Chrissie, Jess and thirteen-year-old son, Harry, had become Yew Tree House’s newest occupants. Over the intervening three weeks the property had almost been stripped bare, obliterating all trace of its previous owner, Maisie Smythe, who’d passed away in August, shortly before her ninety-fourth birthday. The result was an empty shell containing just enough facilities to enable the continuation of everyday life. But certainly not enough to properly entertain guests.
Having been in the property development game for some five years now, this was the first of Chrissie’s projects where she’d lived on the premises. A huge change from her usual working strategy, but one she was nevertheless enjoying every bit as much as the seven she’d completed so far. She doubted there were many people on the planet who loved their work as much as she did. A fact for which she considered herself extremely lucky. It was just a pity it had taken such a tragic event to catapult her into her new career…
Just after her thirtieth birthday her dad had suffered a massive heart attack which had killed him instantly. It had taken Chrissie months to recover from the shock. He’d only been in his late fifties and had been training for his tenth half marathon. His impromptu demise had made her realise that life was ephemeral; that it could be snatched away in the blink of an eye. Which meant it should be grabbed by the horns and lived to the max. Following meticulous scrutiny of her own existence, though, Chrissie realised she was doing neither.
The first thing subjected to analysis had been her job – on the counter at a local DIY store. Her original career plan of becoming an interior designer had fallen by the wayside at precisely the time she’d unintentionally fallen pregnant with Jess at nineteen. Needing something to fit around childcare, the post had suited her fine at first, and she’d learned masses about property maintenance. As the faces popping into the store became increasingly familiar, she’d formed friendships with the tradesmen. And hearing them talk about their work had given her itchy feet – and hands. She no longer wanted to be stuck behind the counter, she wanted to be out there, doing stuff, getting stuck in and getting her mitts dirty.
So, six months after her dad’s departure from the mortal coil, she had.
Biting a very hard bullet, she’d handed in her notice and, one month later, left her job armed with a mountain of business cards for the various trades, a farewell present of a shiny new toolbox, and a wheelbarrow overflowing with excitement. She’d trotted straight along to a property auction and, utilising the money her dad had left her, had marched out the proud owner of a little terraced house in a respectable area on the edge of Newcastle. The property had been well and truly lodged in the 1980s. But, making the most of her contacts, plus her own natural flair for design, it had been painlessly dragged into the modern world and, to Chrissie’s immense delight, been snapped up by the first couple who’d viewed it – pocketing her a tidy profit.
That money had been ploughed into her second project, and the profit from that, into her third. She became a regular at auctions, never so much as considering a bid until she’d thoroughly researched the area and carefully calculated her costs. She’d treated it like a full-time job, sticking to office hours, shutting the door on the empty house at the end of each working day and returning to her well-ordered, three-storey abode on the city’s quayside. Her tried-and-tested strategy had served her and her family well. But one day, when passing a sleek estate agent’s office in town where a huge, glossy picture of Yew Tree House shone from the window, Chrissie’s interest had been piqued and she hadn’t been able to resist popping in.
‘It’s a beautiful house on a fantastic street,’ Stu, the very nice estate agent, had informed her. ‘It desperately needs some TLC but the potential to transform it into a spectacular home is huge, which is why there’s been so much interest in it. So much, the family have requested it go to sealed bids.’
Chrissie’s initial reaction to that statement was that he was doling out the patter, making her think she’d have to offer silly money, attempting to squeeze
every last penny out of her. But the moment she’d set eyes on Lovelace Lane, it had become abundantly clear he wasn’t. The street was like nothing she’d ever seen before: the left-hand side completely open to fields, the right consisting of a row of twenty or so gorgeous Victorian properties – each one unique, occupying its own grounds, and bearing shiny brass plaques with tantalising names like Mulberry Lodge, The Granary, and…Yew Tree House. And what a house! Despite its seriously dated décor, dodgy electrics and squeaky floorboards, it had not only knocked her socks off, but had batted them somewhere across the North Sea.
‘Like it?’ Stu had asked at the end of the viewing.
‘Bloody love it,’ Chrissie had almost replied. But she hadn’t. Far too well versed in the rules of the game, she knew that to slap her entire hand face up on the table at this stage would be rash and inadvisable. Instead, she’d wrinkled her nose, murmured something about it needing more work than she’d envisaged, and informed him that she’d think about it.
She had thought about it.
In fact, she’d thought about little else.
Chrissie wasn’t normally one for emotion where buildings were concerned - they were her business, nothing more - but there’d been something magical about Yew Tree House: it had sparked a feeling in her that she’d never before experienced, almost as if, as whimsical as it sounded, it had been speaking to her, willing her to return.
So she had.
Without the nice estate agent.
One afternoon, unable to resist a minute longer, she’d driven out to Lovelace Lane, parked outside the empty dwelling and, with no idea what to do next, had remained in the car observing the various comings and goings. She’d watched a Jack Russell piddling on a rhododendron bush, before crossing the road and heading into the fields with its smart lady owner; and an attractive couple of thirty-somethings jump out of their car and saunter up the drive of Mulberry Lodge. After half an hour, concluding she probably looked a bit suspect loitering with absolutely zero intent, she’d been about to re-start the engine and head off, when someone had rattled on the car window.
