by Alice Ross
Realising she wouldn’t accomplish a thing until she’d settled her mind, she began rifling through the house in search of the pack. Thirty minutes later she found it stuffed in a carrier bag in the hall cupboard. Taking it through to the kitchen, she sat at the table with a mug of coffee and began scrutinising every document, the mug almost slipping from her hand when she spotted one detail she hadn’t noticed on first reading: that Valentina lived with her dad.
A fact which did nothing at all to ease Chrissie’s increasingly frazzled nerves.
Chapter Four
Chrissie was tucking into a bowl of muesli at the kitchen table the following morning when Jess sailed in, wearing her school uniform.
Plopping down on the wonky chair opposite that of her mother, she heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘Do you know what the temperature is in Rio today? Twenty-seven degrees! Twenty-seven! And we think we’re lucky if it reaches seventeen in our rubbish summers.’
Chrissie didn’t reply, far too occupied with another matter much closer to home. So close, it stared across the decrepit old table at her. ‘What’s that on your face?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ retorted Jess, avoiding eye contact and feigning great interest in a spoon she’d swiped up.
‘It doesn’t look like nothing.’
‘It’s just make-up, Mum.’
‘But you’re not allowed to wear make-up to school.’
‘I know. But it’s not like it’s obvious or anything. It’s just a bit of eyeliner and stuff. Valentina did it. She says it makes me look three years older.’
Chrissie wrinkled her nose. ‘What on earth do you want to look three years older for? Go and wash it off.’
‘But Muuuuum—’
‘No buts. You’re not going to school like that. You can wash it off after you’ve eaten.’
‘I’m not hungry.’ Jess slammed down the spoon, sprung to her feet and stalked out of the room, almost barrelling into her brother en route.
‘What’s up with her?’ asked Harry, diving out of the way just in time to avoid a full-on collision.
‘You don’t want to know,’ replied Chrissie. ‘Have you combed your hair?’
‘Nah. Couldn’t find the comb.’
‘Did you look for it?’
‘Yes. I left it on the bathroom windowsill but someone’s moved it. Has Valentina had her breakfast yet?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Chrissie, muttering, under her breath, ‘We are still awaiting that pleasure’.
Valentina made her entrance ten minutes later, wearing her ripped jeans and a top that resembled a yellow bandage. When Chrissie once again enquired if she had any warmer clothes, the look fired in her direction could have toasted the entire loaf of wholemeal on the bench.
Jess – face scrubbed clean - trailed in after her, plonked herself down at the table and, completely ignoring her mother, struck up a monologue obviously designed to make Chrissie feel like the most boring failure of a parent on the planet.
‘Do you know, Harry,’ she began, ‘that Valentina lives in a massive house in Rio. With a pool and everything.’
‘Cool,’ gushed Harry, shovelling cereal into his mouth.
‘And she has a maid, so she doesn’t even have to tidy her room. Like some of us.’ The last sentence was accompanied by a brief but meaningful glower in Chrissie’s direction.
‘Awesome,’ replied Harry – between shovels.
‘Her dad gives her an allowance every month and she’s allowed to buy whatever she wants with it. He’s a banker or something, half-American, and totally minted.’
‘Wicked,’ puffed Harry. Then, to Valentina, ‘Will he buy you a car the day you pass your test?’
‘Probably,’ sniffed their guest.
As two lots of meaningful looks were now hurled at Chrissie, she ignored the bait. A task made easier by Valentina enquiring, ‘Do you have any organic honey?’
‘No, we bloody don’t,’ she wanted to reply. But instead, she affected her sweetest smile and said, ‘I’ll pick some up next time I’m at the supermarket.’
Waving them all off twenty minutes later – and receiving only a wave from Harry in return – Chrissie concluded that Valentina’s dad might be a half-American, minted banker, but, judging by the way he was bringing up his daughter, she’d be sorely tempted to call him something else that rhymed with his lofty profession.
Not in the best of moods following breakfast, Chrissie had decided to make a start on the attic walls and was in the process of marking out the area to be removed when the call of ‘Yoo-hoo! Only me,’ drifted up the stairs.
It was Gwen Lomax from next door, who, just as Chrissie had imagined the first day she’d met her when loitering in her car outside the then-empty Yew Tree House, had turned out to be the world’s best neighbour, always on hand to help, and frequently plying her with culinary delights. Indeed, were it not for Gwen’s culinary delights, Chrissie suspected many a lunchtime would pass when she’d be so wrapped up in what she was doing, she wouldn’t eat at all.
‘I’m not stopping,’ Gwen informed her, as Chrissie walked down the stairs. ‘Gerry’s made a tortilla and insisted I bring you a couple of slices. Between you and me, I think it needs a bit more onion.’
Chrissie laughed as she accepted the box from her neighbour. ‘Thank you. I’m sure it’s delicious.’
‘It would be more delicious with a bit more onion,’ tittered Gwen. Then, ‘Ooh, have you heard Carl and Sally’s news? They’re having a baby. I’m so excited I’ve started knitting it a little cardi. I’ve already made twelve for my unborn grandchild. Even though Evie gave me strict instructions not to get too carried aw—’ She broke off and gave a couple of sniffs. ‘What’s that smell?’
Chrissie puckered her nose and gave a little sniff of her own. ‘I don’t know. Parma violets?’
Gwen’s blue eyes grew wide and a wave of something Chrissie didn’t recognise swept over her powdered features. ‘Oh.’
‘What?’
Gwen rearranged her face, shook her head, and tucked a strand of curly blonde hair behind her tiny ear. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. You enjoy your lunch. Must get on. See you later.’
How odd, mused Chrissie, as her neighbour scuttled off. She’d never known Gwen hang around for anything less than twenty minutes. And then only once, when she’d had to dash into town for a meeting at her amateur dramatics society. Still, at least the early departure meant she could crack on with her work. Which she planned to do much more of before stopping for lunch.
Back upstairs, Chrissie had just tossed a load of rubble down the chute, when her mobile rang.
‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs Collins,’ began Mrs Hardman, Head of Jess and Harry’s school. ‘But I’m phoning on quite a delicate matter.’
Chrissie’s heart sank. If this was about Harry’s unkempt hair, she’d die of embarrassment. She really should have helped him look for the comb this morning.
‘It’s about Valentina, your exchange student.’
Chrissie’s heart rate picked up pace as she suspected this would be much more serious than a messy mop.
It was.
‘We thought you should know that we caught her smoking in the school yard at morning break.’
Chrissie’s phone almost tumbled to the floor. ‘Smoking?’ she squeaked.
Mrs Hardman’s tone remained impressively professional. ‘I’m afraid so. Not particularly original but very serious, nonetheless. I’ve spoken to her, of course. Although my words did appear to float directly over her head. She does seem very… mature for her years.’
‘Tell me about it,’ murmured Chrissie, now feeling slightly sick.
‘And as for her school attire. It’s not really what we’d encourage. Particularly at this time of year. I hate to ask, Mrs Collins, but we wondered if you might have a word with her about her behaviour and her sartorial choices.’
Oh God. “Having a word with Valentina” came a close second to sticking fifty-six drawing pins into her feet
on Chrissie’s list of favourite ways to spend an evening.
‘The delicate nature of the matter isn’t helped at all by the fact that this is the first year our school has exchanged with Brazil,’ rattled on the Head. ‘And, as I’m sure you can appreciate, an inordinate amount of work has gone into the planning and arrangements. It would be such a shame for one student to ruin it for all the others. So, I’m sure you can imagine my predicament.’
Chrissie couldn’t. She was too busy worrying about her own predicament. And Jess’s predicament when she flitted off to Rio. If she flitted off to Rio. ‘Um, while you’re on the phone,’ she tentatively uttered, not at all sure she wanted to hear the answer, ‘could you tell me anything about Valentina’s family? I know she lives with her father.’
‘She does. A very successful and well-respected man, who makes regular donations to his daughter’s school apparently.’
Hmm. Most likely so they don’t kick her out, mused Chrissie.
‘So, if I could leave that with you,’ continued Mrs Hardman, her headmistress-y tone leaving little doubt the call was now over, ‘I’d be most grateful. As will all those involved in the exchange.’
Apart from the delivery of the tortilla earlier – which she was still to devour - Chrissie concluded that today was not a good day. Not only had her daughter left the house with a – make-up-free – face tripping her up, but Gwen had acted completely out of character, and now the school had dumped a ton of pressure on her to sort out Valentina. A task she didn’t have the first idea how to tackle. Her thoughts veered to Paul. She’d love to call him right now; fill him in on developments and listen to his wise counsel. But she couldn’t. He was in Antigua with Meg and she wanted them to enjoy every minute of their time there. A call from her would not only set him worrying, but would make him feel guilty for going away. The last thing she wanted. No, she was perfectly capable of coping on her own, she concluded, just as the stanley knife she was using to mark out the section of the second wall she was about to remove, slipped, slicing into her finger.
Bollocks! Just what she needed, she seethed, watching the blood drip onto the floorboards. Well, she couldn’t just stand there. She’d have to do something. Snatching up the old pair of Harry’s boxers that served as a rag, she wrapped them around the affected digit and was scurrying down the stairs to the kitchen where she kept the sticking plasters, when the doorbell chimed. Heaving a weary sigh at the lousy timing, and desperately hoping it wasn’t the guy from the window company who could talk for hours about his rugby injuries, she yanked open the door with her uninjured hand, to discover Olly-the-respected-in-his-field birdwatcher on the step.
With his duffel coat, beanie hat, preppy scarf and binoculars.
After her mortifying encounter with him the day before, Chrissie’s initial reaction that it wasn’t the guy from the window company, bounced like an in-play tennis ball between relief and embarrassment. So much so that, ‘Oh. Hi,’ was all she could manage.
Whether at her dusty, blood-stained appearance, or dubious tone, Olly seemed equally unsure how to react. ‘Um, sorry to bother you,’ he began, cheeks flaming crimson. ‘But I… I wanted to apologise. For yesterday.’
Her mind too preoccupied with all the strange happenings of the present day so far, Chrissie couldn’t for the life of her think what he might be apologising for. Best just to pretend then. ‘Right. Thank you.’
Her tone evidently being far from convincing, Olly added, ‘For trespassing on your land. And the confusion. About the bird.’
Duh! Of course. ‘Ah. Well, it’s… good of you to come round,’ she bumbled, thinking it really was. ‘Thanks again.’
Wondering if her day could possibly get any weirder, Chrissie hoped he might scuttle off now. He didn’t. Taking his lack of departure as a sign he must be waiting for her to wrap things up, she scrabbled about in her mind for something appropriate to say.
Olly, though, forestalled her.
‘Oh. You’ve hurt your hand.’
Chrissie glanced down at the blue boxers around her finger, which were slowly turning blood-red. Affecting a stoic smile, she breezed, ‘It’s just a little cut. I’m about to stick a plaster on it.’
From behind his trendy specs, Olly’s eyes narrowed. ‘It might need more than that. Would you like me to look at it?’ His expression turned sheepish. ‘I trained as a doctor for two years before switching to birds.’
Chrissie gave an incredulous snort. ‘Really? Your CV must be impressive.’
The corners of his lips curved upwards. ‘It wouldn’t do me much good if I applied for a job as a mechanic. Seriously, though, you might need a couple of stitches.’
Chrissie puffed out a breath. ‘Great. That would really top off the lovely day I’m having. I’d be grateful if you would look at it, if you don’t mind. Come on in.’
Olly did as she bid, following her down the hall to the kitchen, where, to her amazement, he banished all signs of nerves and immediately assumed control of the situation. Unhooking his binoculars from his neck, he set them down on the table, before taking hold of her wrist with hands that were paradoxically gentle and firm, and surprisingly warm given the cool outside temperature. The unexpected combination caught Chrissie off-guard, as did the woody undertones of his aftershave, all of which made her realise that it had been a long time since a man had held her hand. Heavens! She really was a desperate case if she had to resort to injuring herself to garner attention from the opposite sex.
Thankfully, seemingly unaware of her ridiculous musings, Olly tenderly unwound her makeshift bandage and examined the wound.
‘I think you might just get away without stitches,’ he concluded, raising his brown eyes to hers. Through the lenses of his specs, Chrissie noticed they were flecked with lilac. Yet another surprising – and not unpleasant – revelation. ‘But it’ll need a good clean and a proper dressing,’ he continued. ‘Do you have a first-aid kit?’
Plummeting back to earth with an almighty bang, Chrissie grimaced. ‘Does a box of sticking plasters and half a bottle of TCP count?’
Olly laughed as he rolled up a clean white handkerchief he’d produced from his coat pocket. ‘Unfortunately not.’ He passed the hanky to her. ‘Hold your finger up and keep this pressed on it. I’ll nip back to my house for a minute. Won’t be long.’
True to his word, he returned shortly afterwards, bearing a handful of sterile dressings in protective wrappers.
‘Right,’ he said, placing them on the table, before tugging off his hat, shrugging off his coat and unwinding his scarf - all in one swift manoeuvre. ‘Do you want to come over to the sink and we’ll get that finger cleaned up.’
At that announcement, Chrissie could barely muster a nod, the sight of Olly – minus his student-y outer garments - temporarily rendering her speechless. The removal of his hat had revealed a head of light brown hair, so thick it bore no trace of having been covered up, and the stripping off of the duffel coat had exposed an impressive set of broad shoulders. The overall effect was incredibly masculine, making him appear much nearer his forty years. And startled Chrissie so much that, when he took hold of her wrist this time – with his gentle, firm hands – she felt a little light-headed.
Oh my God!
Did she fancy him?
No, of course she didn’t, she chided herself. She hadn’t fancied anyone since… Well, so long ago, she couldn’t even remember. No. Her ridiculous cogitations were undoubtedly part of the backlash of Paul and Meg’s wedding. That development must have affected her more than she’d thought. But she could handle it. And without pouncing on the first man who came along.
Dragging in a deep breath, she pulled herself together and, in an attempt to distract her attention from Olly’s strong, capable hands – and the thought of what else they might be capable of – she cleared her throat and made a stab at conversation. ‘So, um, how come you have an abundance of sterile dressings at hand?’ Ugh! Did her voice sound eighty-seven octaves higher than normal
?
If it did, Olly was tactful enough not to comment.
‘Part of my survival kit from South America,’ he explained, holding her wound under the running tap. Chrissie rather thought she’d benefit from dousing her entire self under the tap. ‘I’m the designated first aider. And you wouldn’t believe the places insects bite you out there.’
She pulled a face as he turned off the tap and patted the cut dry with another clean handkerchief. ‘I can imagine. Although it’s probably best if I don’t. I may not sleep tonight. So how come you switched from medicine to birds?’
Now wrapping one of the sterile dressings around the wound, Olly said, ‘In spite of the insects, I decided I preferred the great outdoors to being stuck in a hospital. I’m actually a zoologist. Specialising in conservation. And talking of conservation, I think there’s a fair chance you’ll keep your finger now.’ He deftly tied off the dressing, then released his hold of her hand.
Chrissie puffed out a silent breath of relief. ‘Thank you.’ Then, to her astonishment, she heard herself asking, ‘Can I offer you some tortilla as a gesture of my gratitude? I have two hefty slices courtesy of my neighbour.’
The invitation obviously taking Olly unawares, he suddenly looked awkward again. ‘Oh. I—’
‘I was just about to heat it up,’ she announced. Even though she hadn’t been. She hadn’t, in fact, felt remotely hungry since her mishap. So why, then, had she blurted that out?
Because she wanted him to stay, she realised. Not because she fancied him or anything, but simply because he seemed like an interesting guy and she’d like to find out more about him.
Was the feeling mutual, though? Probably not, judging by his reaction. Which shouldn’t come as any great surprise. He was a renowned scientist, probably with a string of letters after his name, while a couple of average-grade A-levels and a certificate in plastering graced Chrissie’s CV. She’d obviously put him on the spot with her invitation. And now he was frantically cobbling together an excuse as to why he had to shoot off. She was about to save him the trouble and suddenly “recall” something very important she had to do, when she heard him say, ‘I’d love to stay. If you’re sure that’s okay.’
