Raffle whined and nudged his nose into her neck as she reached for her phone on the bedside table. There were lots of notifications on the screen, but she unlocked it quickly, wanting to read everything in order.
Her first message had been sent at 11.54 p.m.
I miss you Jack. Xx
She relaxed slightly. That was entirely true and not at all embarrassing. His reply had arrived four minutes later.
I miss you too. London feels bleak compared to Meadowgreen. I’m sorry for everything. JW x
Her heart ached at his response. She wished she could reach out and hug him, tell him about Penelope, nurse her hangover in his arms instead of at the reserve where, despite all her efforts, she was failing. She moved on to her next message.
Meadowgren is bleak without youo. Come back! Sorry, I now you cant. Peneloppe is going to fire me. xxxxxxxx
Fuck. Abby closed her eyes. She hadn’t wanted him to know that, hadn’t wanted to send him a drunken message riddled with mistakes. The next few texts were all from him, but there was no response from her – she must have fallen asleep.
Abby, pick up.
Please pick up, are you OK?
The last one was sent at ten past two in the morning, and her nausea deepened as she thought of him in his flat, dragging his hands through his hair, unable to sleep because of her stupid text messages.
Abby I’m worried about you. Why is Penelope going to fire you? Please let me know you’re OK. x
When she closed her messages, she saw that she had five missed calls from him. ‘Bollocks bollocks bollocks.’ She climbed into the shower, trying and failing to cleanse away her hangover, her stupidity and her self-pity.
She needed to stop being such an idiot and get her life back on track. Jack was in London, and there was nothing she could do about that, but he wasn’t gone from her life entirely. He cared about her, and whatever the circumstances, she could hold onto that. But she had to focus on the things she could change, the difference she could make.
Clad only in a towel, she constructed a message to him, rewriting it umpteen times.
I’m SO sorry about last night – Rosa and the others took me to the pub. I had friendship, but no chips. Penelope doesn’t think I’ve been working hard enough, so I have to prove it to her. She’s definitely selling The House of Birds and Butterflies, which must be heartbreaking. L Hope you’re OK – sorry if I worried you. PS. What I said about missing you was true. xx
She read it over, wondered whether to add a last bit, and decided she couldn’t leave it off.
PPS. How well does Leo know Penelope? xx
She pressed send, flung on her work outfit, forced a piece of toast down her throat, washed down with a large cup of tea, then took Raffle for his walk before heading into work. Hangover or not, she had a Summer Spectacular to plan.
The mood at the visitor centre that morning was understandably subdued, Stephan, Rosa and Abby exchanging weary, guilty smiles as they got their heads down, hoping to look busy while hiding their hangovers from Penelope. The cups of tea arrived at Abby’s desk at regular intervals, and she put on her most welcoming expression for the visitors who, encouraged by the sunny weather, flocked to her desk to show their membership cards or ask for day passes.
She wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that Jack was no longer only a few hundred yards away, the pact she had made to herself that morning, or the drunken brainstorming session the night before, but her mind was on overdrive, and in between helping with customer queries, she had managed to come up with three pages of ideas for Meadowsweet’s most ambitious event yet.
Could they launch a hot air balloon from the field behind the reserve, the prize in a draw for everyone who signed up for a membership between now and the beginning of August? What about sessions to show families how to encourage wildlife into their gardens, creating their own nature-focused spaces? She could include talks on the butterflies in the meadow, and, she thought – inspired by Jack’s words on the doorstep of Peacock Cottage as they had said goodbye – set a challenge for young enthusiasts like Evan, a sort of detective badge with some grand award awaiting them at the end of the weekend.
Depending on Penelope’s budget, which she was sure would be limited now the fortunes of the reserve had worsened, she would love to get some large photos of the reserve and its star species printed on canvas and put them up in the visitor centre to showcase Meadowsweet throughout the seasons. Having hundreds of visitors in for a weekend was all well and good but, as Penelope had been reminding her, the trick was to make sure they came back.
Her new shoots and winter warmer walks, even her hangover walks – about which she felt like an expert today – had been well attended, none cancelled recently due to lack of interest. When she thought of all the effort she had put into the reserve over the last nine months, she felt a surge of anger. She had worked hard, in spite of Jack.
‘Excuse me,’ a voice said, just as she was about to add another bullet point to her list. ‘Is this where Wild Wonders is being filmed? I was told it was along here somewhere.’ It was a man in his late thirties or early forties, dressed entirely in camouflage, with a camera around his neck and thick-rimmed glasses on his nose.
‘This is Meadowsweet reserve,’ she said. ‘Wild Wonders is being filmed at Reston Marsh, which is …’ She hesitated. ‘Well, it’s near here. But we have just as much wildlife, probably more, because we’re a bit quieter.’
‘Excellent.’ He leaned over the desk as she got out a map and started explaining the different trails to him.
‘If you’re feeling energetic you can start with the meadow trail, which joins the path along the lagoon here, then wends its way back round to the woodland trail, and the heron hide.’ She followed the lines with her biro, enjoying the simple pleasure of showing someone how to navigate the reserve.
‘Thanks, that’s really helpful.’ He took the map, nodding gratefully.
‘My pleasure. And don’t forget about the café and the shop on your way back. We’ve got a great selection of cakes and lunches, as well as bird books, gifts and birdwatching equipment, which my colleague Rosa can tell you about.’
‘Cheers. I’ll keep that in mind.’ He waved his map, still hovering at the desk.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ she asked, her smile faltering.
‘Are you Abby?’
‘What?’
‘You’re Abby Field, aren’t you? Only—’
‘I’d like you to leave now.’ Penelope’s voice made Abby jump. It was at its most intimidating, clear as a bell, steely, with no room for manoeuvre.
The man raised his camera, and Abby quickly turned her head away. Then Penelope was shepherding him outside and to the car park, as if he was an unruly sheep. When she returned, her cheeks were pink, and Abby resisted the urge to cower behind her computer as she waited for another barrage.
‘Would you come into my office, please, Abby?’
‘Sure,’ she whispered.
Penelope sat behind the desk and indicated for Abby to sit in the chair opposite.
The older woman sighed, her cold expression morphing into a sympathetic frown. ‘I need to apologize to you,’ she said, her voice unexpectedly soft. ‘What I said yesterday was … too strong. I was hurting from the realization that, despite all my best intentions, I was going to have to sell Swallowtail House. I came down on you unfairly. You have worked hard for this reserve, your passion is evident, and I was being crueller than necessary to try and inspire you into upping your game. I also appreciate that you didn’t bring the publicity on yourself. Jack Westcoat has a lot to answer for.’
‘No, Penelope, it isn’t—’ She was stopped by a raised hand.
‘And when I see him again, I will ask him, politely, not to fall in love with any more of my employees.’
Abby blinked, replaying the words in her head.
Penelope’s eyes glinted with amusement. ‘One is enough, don’t you think? And,’ she
added quietly, ‘he’s in good hands.’
‘Leo,’ Abby managed. ‘You know him well, don’t you? You asked if he had anyone who could move into Peacock Cottage. He didn’t just find it listed on a website somewhere, did he?’
For what must have been the first time, Abby thought Penelope looked distinctly uncomfortable, colour rising fully to her cheeks.
Abby’s tired, aching brain tried to fit it all together; the connection between Penelope and Leo, their use of the same, unusual phrase, and Penelope’s words, only moments earlier. Did she know Jack that well, or was she just surmising how close Abby had got to him? She didn’t like the word love being bandied about by Octavia and her boss, or the way it sent a shiver over her skin, her mind firing memories at her, of Jack’s touch, his blue eyes, his hands in her hair and his breath on her face.
‘Leo is an acquaintance,’ Penelope said haughtily. ‘I told him about Peacock Cottage and my desire to rent it out, yes. I thought he might have someone suitable.’
‘How long have you known him?’
Penelope opened her mouth to reply, but the door barged open and Gavin came into the room, followed closely by Rosa and Stephan.
‘What on earth is this?’ Penelope asked, her voice rising.
‘Sorry, boss,’ Gavin said. ‘But I didn’t think this could wait. Fuck me, Abby, you look worse than I do! Penelope, we had a session in the Skylark last night. The creative juices were flowing after pint number four, weren’t they Abs? Whatever she pitches to you next, remember it’s a collaboration. We all came up with the slice of genius she’s putting on this summer.’
‘All our events are a collaboration,’ Abby said quickly, flushing as Penelope raised an eyebrow at her.
‘What is so important that you had to come screaming in here?’ Penelope asked, indicating the newspaper Gavin was holding.
Abby froze. She had been too embarrassed by him laying bare their drunken night to notice it.
‘Jack Westcoat,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have known about it, except Jenna’s a fan of a broadsheet. She found this.’ He put the paper on the desk and turned to the page he’d been marking with his finger. Rosa and Stephan looked over his shoulder, and even Penelope was peering closely at the newsprint.
‘Come on,’ she said impatiently. ‘Read it out to us. Chop chop.’
Gavin looked shocked for a second then, grinning, leaned over the desk.
‘Righty-ho. This is what it says: The critically acclaimed author, Jack Westcoat, today released a statement in answer to stories published by the Daily Mirror and Daily Star newspapers, regarding fellow author Eddie Markham, who last year very publicly accused him of helping to conceal an alleged plagiarism claim.
“The recent allegations, supposedly validated by photographic evidence, that Eddie Markham and I are both engaged in a relationship with the same woman is entirely false. I attended the Page Turner Foundation Gala with a close friend, and Mr Markham, for reasons known only to him, staged the photograph that appeared in several newspapers the following day. Before that moment, the two of them had never spoken. Firstly, I would like to offer my sincerest apologies to my friend, who I do not wish to name, for her unwitting involvement in this, and secondly, I can confirm that I will be addressing all of Mr Markham’s claims about me, both current and past, over the coming weeks.” The article goes on to say,’ Gavin continued, ‘Jack’s new thriller, The Hidden Field, will be published at the beginning of August, and his public spat aside, it is undoubtedly one of the most hotly anticipated releases of the summer.’
He closed the paper triumphantly.
‘Wow,’ Rosa said. ‘That’s super-gallant.’
‘It’s very bold,’ Stephan agreed. ‘And he’s going to address the other accusations too? Golly. I thought he was the strong, silent type.’
‘I would suggest that this latest move of Eddie Markham’s is a step too far,’ Penelope said, turning her gaze on Abby. ‘Some things, evidently, are not to be messed with, and Jack’s come to his senses at last.’
‘Guys, did you not hear?’ Gavin asked. ‘His new book is called The fucking Hidden Field.’
‘The fucking Hidden Field, Gavin?’ Rosa said, giving him a cheeky grin. ‘That’s a pretty perplexing title.’
Gavin huffed. ‘The Hidden Field. The. Hidden. Field. Don’t you get it? He’s writing about Abby.’
Abby’s heart leapt, even though what Gavin was suggesting was ridiculous. ‘If I’m in it,’ she said, ‘I’ll probably end up as a dead body rotting slowly away in a tributary.’
‘Nah.’ Gavin shook his head. ‘He couldn’t kill you off, not even in fiction. He’s too besotted with you for that.’
‘Perhaps he allowed Meadowsweet to inspire him after all,’ Penelope suggested, ‘after his first, inauspicious comments about his surroundings. Maybe the title is a nod to that? Now everyone, that seems to me to be enough excitement for one day. Shall we all get back to work? I find three spoonfuls of sugar in my tea works wonders for a hangover. Stephan, if you’d like to oblige? News from Jack, defending the honour of our star event coordinator, is a good omen. So, chin up, everyone!’
‘Smile, and you’re halfway there, right, Penelope?’ Abby said as she stood. She couldn’t help it – she was on the verge of discovering something momentous.
Penelope nodded once, her brows knitted into a frown as she waited for them all to leave.
Gavin gave Abby his copy of the newspaper and she read Jack’s piece again, unable to hide the elation that, for a few moments, made her headache disappear.
‘Do you love him?’ Rosa asked, when it was just the two of them.
Abby shrugged, her palms suddenly hot. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, and hoped Rosa would accept the lie.
The clock dragged its way round to five o’clock, and Abby stepped out into the balmy evening. She looked at her phone and saw that she had three missed calls and a message from Tessa that read: ????, which meant she had seen a newspaper or the photo online. She also had two messages from Jack, which had been sent that morning, not long after she’d stowed her bag in the storeroom.
She set off for home, and soon found herself sitting against the wall of Swallowtail House, next to the side gate and Jack’s padlock. She hadn’t yet accepted that Penelope had made the decision to sell it, that it would soon no longer be the abandoned, mysterious building that she had come to love, that held precious memories of her day with Jack. And if it was this hard for her, then how hard must it be for Penelope, who had spent years of her life there with Al?
She pulled her phone back out of her bag as a bumblebee flew lazily by, his buzz a mini-chainsaw against the forest background. A blue tit chirruped from a tree above her, and the ground felt dry and dusty beneath her jeans.
She read Jack’s first message:
I’m so glad you’re OK! You don’t need to apologize, but next time don’t forget the chips. How’s your head? Sorry about the house of birds & butterflies, but if Penelope’s being forced to let it go, maybe it can have a new lease of life? Also, she won’t fire you. However angry she is, she believes in you, like I do. Have faith in yourself. Don’t know re. Leo and Penelope, though he’d mentioned her and Meadowsweet to me long before he suggested Peacock Cottage, so they must go back a fair way. Why? I’m missing you more with every passing day. JW xx
His second message read.
I put something in The Times today. It doesn’t make up for what happened, but hopefully goes some way towards it. You were right about Eddie, and I should have accepted it long before now. JW xx
She lifted her face up to the sun, soaked up the calm and quiet of the woods, and took time over her reply, luxuriating in this contact with Jack, even though he was no longer around the corner. She could call him, could FaceTime or Skype him, but she knew that he was dealing with a lot, busy with the final stages of his book, upcoming interviews, and sorting out what he was going to say about Eddie. That last one, she knew, he would find particularly t
ough. Jack was obviously a loyal person, and all that Eddie had done couldn’t completely wipe out the memories of their childhood friendship.
And she couldn’t be distracted from her task. Penelope might be losing Swallowtail House, but Abby would not allow the reserve to follow. Her plans – along with the ideas of Rosa, Jonny, Gavin, Stephan and Octavia – were ambitious, but they needed to be. They needed to reach towards the stars if they had any chance of getting things back on track. And, she realized, as she pressed send on her reply to Jack and took out her notebook, it was as much about Meadowsweet saving her, as it was about her rescuing Meadowsweet.
Chapter Four
Goldfinches are an unlikely success story, their numbers growing despite all the threats they face. They’re unmistakable gold-and-black birds with red faces – though they have nothing to be embarrassed about. They have a liquid, twittering song, and the sight or sound of them can brighten up even the greyest day.
— Note from Abby’s notebook.
Over the next two months, Abby lived and breathed Meadowsweet Nature Reserve and the Summer Spectacular. She woke with the sun, walked Raffle over dewy fields, listening to the warblers, wrens and goldcrests chorusing in the trees, and was often at the visitor centre long before opening, sending emails, revising her map, rejigging her programme of activities, talks and walks. She was planning on using the field behind the meadow again, as it had worked so well for the camping event and would leave the reserve itself free for exploring in smaller groups, making the most of the wildlife without disturbing it.
One of Meadowsweet’s best features in the summer months was the meadow trail, with its wild flowers and butterflies; peacocks and red admirals, orange-tips and meadow browns. She wondered if, with the warm weather continuing, they would spot a swallowtail – either a visitor from the continent, or an interloper from the Norfolk broads – taking the reserve’s all-time sightings up to three.
She sometimes wished she could control the wildlife, and had felt almost powerful when, on the evening of her murmuration event, the starlings had flocked and dived just as she’d hoped they would. But that was part of the joy of nature – the anticipation, and then delight, of seeing something rare or remarkable, and not provided to order. Zoos held a certain appeal, but for Abby, they couldn’t come close to the wild beauty of the reserve.
Birds of a Feather Page 4
