‘Me too,’ Owen said, shaking his hand.
Lance straightened up and smiled at them both. ‘My pleasure, Hattie. And Owen – you’d better not leave it so long next time. Better still, come and see me without the need for an excuse.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Owen said, and although Hattie had found that in full journalist mode he could be a bit glib, she did believe the sincere look he wore now.
They left the Willow Tree, Lance and Mark waving them off, and Owen led Hattie to his car.
‘It’s a nice afternoon for toe dipping,’ Hattie said.
‘It’s a nice afternoon for anything dipping,’ Owen replied with a wicked grin. He unlocked the car and Hattie got in. She watched Owen get in beside her and wondered what other sort of dipping he might mean. Skinny dipping? She could imagine him doing that. Maybe by moonlight with a skinful of wine. She couldn’t deny there was something about the idea that was appealing. She was attracted to wild streaks – it was why she’d been drawn to Bertrand – and she was almost certain Owen had the same unpredictability running through him. But as she looked at Owen she also felt that she’d got a fairly good measure of him, and she thought that he might just be the sort of man who was bound to bring trouble with him, no matter how charming or funny he seemed.
He turned to her and she tore away her gaze.
‘You’ll have to direct me,’ he said, a note of amusement in his voice. She guessed that he’d noticed her looking. Considering how handsome he was, he was probably used to women looking at him.
‘It’s not that far,’ Hattie said, trying not to look like she’d noticed that he’d noticed her looking. In fact, as he started the engine and pulled away from the Willow Tree, Hattie made an effort to stare very deliberately out of the window. When she dared to take a peek, his concentration was on the road ahead, but he was smiling to himself.
Jo was nowhere in the house when they got back to Sweet Briar. She was either up at the field where they were heading or in the orchard with the hens – not for a minute did Hattie consider that she might actually be out away from the farm, because it happened so rarely it was hardly likely at all. Hattie would have preferred to warn Jo that she was bringing Owen back to take photos, but as Jo didn’t have a mobile phone (or if she did, Hattie had never seen any evidence of it), and she hadn’t picked up on the landline when Hattie had tried to call on the journey back, it hadn’t been possible. If she was up at the top field when Hattie and Owen arrived, there was a strong possibility she wouldn’t like the unexpected visitor, but Hattie would just have to try and smooth things over as best she could. Who knew, maybe Owen’s charm would persuade her to agree to a photo. Miracles did happen, or so they said.
After her fruitless search of the house, Hattie came back out to Owen, who was waiting with his car on the stones of the courtyard.
‘No sign of her,’ she said.
‘Do you still want to go up?’
‘Yeah, I think it would be OK. Want to walk it?’ she asked, looking towards the path that wound up to the top field.
Owen followed her gaze. ‘Is it far?’
‘It’s steep but it’s not far. You look pretty fit to me.’
‘So do you,’ he said, and Hattie turned sharply to face him. He looked away, his face a picture of innocence which was far from convincing.
Hattie bit back a grin. She was fast learning that he was cocky, irritating, so obviously trouble… but he was frustratingly attractive. And he seemed a lot more interested than Seth, though, after their last meeting, she’d more or less given up on him anyway.
‘Come on.’ Hattie began to walk and he fell into step beside her. The afternoon was hazy and it felt as if the evening might bring rain, but it was still sultry right now. Hattie hoped that the changing weather wouldn’t obscure the incredible view from the cliff top because she really wanted Owen to see that. The fields that bordered the path were strewn with daisies like sugar scattered over a cake, so many that they were almost more daisy than grass. Jo never brought the donkeys this far to graze so they were always filled with wildflowers but, even so, there still seemed to be more than the usual.
‘It’s funny,’ Hattie said as they walked, ‘I’ve spent the afternoon telling you all about my life but now that you’re not writing it down I don’t know what to say.’
‘That’s because I’m not prompting you. Told you I was good at my job – I was making you talk and you didn’t even know it.’
Hattie gave him a sideways look. ‘I can have a conversation with someone without prompts, you know.’
‘Let’s just say I take pride in my work and my ability to get people talking. Don’t take that away from me.’
‘You’re not getting me to talk now.’
‘What are you doing then?’
‘Telling you that I don’t know what to say.’
‘Well,’ he said, looking ahead and grinning, ‘I’m off duty now, that’s why.’
‘You’ve got an answer for everything.’
‘That’s what Lance always says.’
‘Why don’t you tell me some stuff about you instead? I’ll just listen.’
‘Believe me, there’s no story there.’
‘There must be something. Tell me about your family, where you come from, what made you choose journalism…’
‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘I have one brother – Rhodri.’
‘Another good Welsh name.’
‘Thank you. No other siblings. The usual assortment of uncles and aunts and stuff. You know Lance, of course, second cousin on my mum’s side.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s it.’
Hattie nudged him. ‘No it isn’t.’
‘God, you’re so bossy! Are you sure it’s Jo who’s the tyrant and not you?’
‘And that won’t get you out of it.’
He grinned again. ‘OK, journalism. I wanted to be a sports reporter and I wasn’t really interested in anything else. Turns out the country only needs about ten sports reporters and they already have eleven, so I went into regular journalism.’
‘And you like it?’
‘Love it. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I’m lucky I get to work on a national too – no two days are the same.’
‘I’ll bet they are at the Gillypuddle Newsletter. One year they ran a regular feature on the frequency of bin collections. For the whole year!’
Owen laughed. ‘I don’t suppose much happens here. I bet it’s nice though. I know Lance loves it.’
‘Trust me, you’d hate it.’
‘Probably. Is it much further?’
‘Tired already?’
‘Hey, I’m a city boy – as you’ve just gone to great pains to remind me. It’s not my fault there are no cliffs to climb in London.’
‘There are gyms.’
‘Nope… no clue what that word means.’
Hattie laughed.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m just going to come straight out with it.’
‘With what?’
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘Um…’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed my interest; I thought I’d been obvious enough.’
Hattie smiled. ‘I like it – the direct method. Everyone knows where they stand.’
‘What’s the point in being any other way? I see what I like and I go for it.’
Hattie flushed. It could have been the damp heat on the path making her face suddenly burn – at least she wanted to pretend it was. She reached for something witty to say in return but her mind had gone blank.
‘Oh!’ she cried, far more excited than she ought to be, ‘there’s Jo!’
The owner of Sweet Briar Farm was striding down the path towards them.
‘She must have just been to the field,’ Hattie added. She waved, but Jo didn’t wave back. ‘Probably hasn’t noticed us yet,’ Hattie excused, although it was very obvious that she had.
Another minute saw their paths cross.
‘You’re bac
k then,’ Jo said to Hattie. Then she looked at Owen with the utmost suspicion. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Oh, this is Owen. He’s doing a story about the sanctuary for the paper.’
‘What paper?’ Jo asked.
‘The Daily Voice,’ Owen replied, seemingly unconcerned by Jo’s cold manner. Perhaps he’d seen it all before – Hattie supposed he wasn’t always welcomed everywhere he went, given his line of work.
Jo shook her head. ‘Not happening.’
Hattie stared at her. ‘Why not?’
‘I said no adverts.’
‘But this isn’t an advert!’
‘Sounds like it.’
‘It’s a personal-interest story!’
‘To be honest,’ Owen cut in, ‘and I hope you don’t mind this, but it’s more about Hattie than the farm per se.’
Jo viewed him now with even deeper suspicion. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘she’s got quite a past and I think our readers would be interested in how she ended up here.’
Hattie noted that the distrust in Jo’s expression cleared a little. Owen was good at his job. He’d been listening very closely to everything Hattie had told him about Jo and clearly taken it on board, and he’d played a blinder here by taking the spotlight off Jo when it was so obvious that she wouldn’t want it. Maybe they’d get their story after all. Hattie couldn’t help but notice that, as Jo looked back at her, there was also a measure of surprise on her face, as if she was somehow thrown by the idea that Hattie might have a past. Jo had never been inclined to ask about Hattie’s life before she arrived at Sweet Briar and Hattie had taken that as a sign that she wasn’t interested.
‘I want to see it before you print,’ Jo said finally.
‘That means we can go ahead?’ Hattie asked.
‘No – it means I want to see it.’
Hattie was just about to repeat what Owen had told her about tight turnarounds and how difficult that might be when he spoke.
‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
Hattie glanced at him but he didn’t return her gaze. That was it – she had no choice but to go along with it now.
Jo gave a stiff nod. ‘Where are you going now?’
‘I want to get a couple of photos of Hattie with the donkeys,’ Owen said.
Instead of addressing Owen, Jo looked at Hattie. ‘Don’t be long. Chicken coop doesn’t clean itself.’
‘Right.’
‘Wow,’ Owen said in a low voice as they watched her march off. ‘That’s some charisma there.’
‘Thanks,’ Hattie said.
‘For what?’
‘For not being put off by her.’
‘Hey, I’ve done the death knock. It’s going to take a lot more than someone like your boss to throw me off the scent of a story.’
‘What’s the death knock?’ Hattie asked as they started to walk again.
‘Don’t ask. Let’s just say it’s one of the less pleasant aspects of the job.’
‘Oh. So what are the more pleasant aspects then?’
He turned to her with a smile that made her knees want to buckle. It was sweet but bad, innocent but naughty, chaste but filthy, all at the same time, but most of all, it sparked something inside her that she knew probably shouldn’t be there.
‘Getting to meet girls like you.’
Hattie was sitting under a tree in the orchard. The only space in the house that was hers alone was her bedroom, and sometimes her bedroom, despite the efforts she’d made to brighten it up, still looked like a room where an old person had died. This evening felt like one of those times, so she’d wrapped herself in a big cardigan and found a quiet spot beneath the plum trees. She could hear the hens pecking and complaining in their coop and a chill breeze rolled across her, setting the hairs on her arms on end.
She looked at the business card in her hand. ‘Call me,’ Owen had said, and he’d looked like he meant it. He’d given her the special one, he’d told her, the one with the hotline to his desk printed on it, but also with his personal number listed too, and he said he didn’t give that one to just anyone. Hattie couldn’t decide if she believed him or even if she trusted him, but she couldn’t deny that in a strange way it added to the attraction. He looked like he might be fun, and even though she’d been quite content to live up at Sweet Briar with the dour Jo, sometimes a girl needed a little fun.
She picked up her phone and dialled Melinda’s number.
‘Hey!’ Melinda’s voice was bright on the line. ‘Where have you been hiding – I haven’t heard from you in days. I was beginning to think Medusa had locked you up in her basement or turned you into pig feed or something.’
‘We don’t have any pigs.’
‘Oh, don’t be so clever. She could sell your remains for other people’s pigs then. Perhaps she thought nobody would notice you were gone.’
‘You’re painting a lovely picture. Did I ever tell you that I wonder why I’m friends with you sometimes? I think now might be one of those times.’
‘You shouldn’t leave me for days on end without calling me then. You know my imagination goes crazy.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you but I’ve been doing nothing more interesting than trying to get all this visitor stuff sorted.’
‘Oh, of course. How’s that going?’
‘Good. I mean, we haven’t actually had any visitors yet but Lance introduced me to his second cousin—’
‘The journalist? He told me about that. How did it go? Is he going to run a story? Are you going to be famous? Can I tell people I know you or will I have to sign some sort of secrecy contract?’
‘I’m pretty sure that won’t be necessary.’
‘Famous for fifteen minutes, eh?’
‘More like fifteen seconds.’
‘Lance said you seemed to get on well with his cousin,’ Melinda said. Her tone was all innocence but Hattie knew her better than that. She couldn’t help a smile as she looked down at Owen’s business card.
‘We did.’
‘Ooooh. Do tell. Any developments in your relationship status I should know about?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, I’m interested but something tells me he’s trouble.’
‘Aren’t they your favourite type?’
‘Maybe even more than I can handle.’
‘So you like him?’
‘I do.’
‘More than our scrumptious vet?’
‘I get the feeling he’s not all that interested in me. I don’t suppose you’ve heard any more about that girlfriend situation?’
‘Would it make a difference if I had?’
‘Maybe not. I’m just curious.’
‘Well, I haven’t. You want to know what I think?’
‘Go on.’
‘You say you like Lance’s cousin…’
‘Yes. I like him a little. I think I could get to like him a lot.’
‘And he seems interested in you?’
‘I think so. Unless he flirts like that with everyone he meets.’
‘And you get more signals than you do from Seth?’
‘It’s hard to tell.’
‘Hard to tell if there are more signals or whether Seth likes you at all?’
‘Mel, you’re tying me up in knots here!’
Melinda laughed. ‘I don’t really think there’s an issue here. Go out with your journalist. He’s related to Lance – he’s bound to be a blast.’
‘What if he’s another Bertrand?’
‘Does he seem like that?’
‘I don’t know. Bertrand didn’t seem like that – if he had, maybe I wouldn’t have gone to Paris with him.’
‘Well, he might be but you’re older and wiser now. You’d be able to spot the signs of another Bertrand and you’d be able to do the right thing now. Just don’t let him take you to Paris.’
‘I don’t see him doing that to be honest,’ Hattie said with a laugh. ‘He seems more like the type to ask me to run away to Cardiff
with him or something.’
‘Oh, that’s not nearly as sexy.’
‘I know, but at least there are plenty of trains home.’
Melinda giggled. ‘So, you’re alright?’
‘I’m fine. Busy.’
‘The kids are asking about you non-stop.’
‘Me specifically? Or the donkeys and the chickens?’
‘A bit of all three honestly. They want to know when they can come again.’
‘I’ll have a word with Jo and let you know. Will that be OK?’
‘Surely if you’re open for business now I can come any time?’
‘That’s for paying customers. And they still can’t come any time.’
‘I’ll pay.’
‘No you won’t. It’s for other people to pay – you’re my friend. Let me clear it with Jo and keep your money.’
Melinda clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth to make a noise of disapproval. ‘That’s no way to run a business.’
‘It’s probably why we’ll always be poor.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘Everything OK your end?’
‘Apart from the fact I’m trying to drag up four kids?’ Melinda laughed. ‘Everything’s absolutely fine. I’m going to hang up now.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you’re on the phone to me then you can’t be on the phone to your journalist guy making plans for a hot date.’
‘What makes you so sure I’m going to call him?’
‘Oh, Hattie! You say you want this quiet life of do-gooding but I know you. From time to time you need a little adventure to keep you sane, and he sounds like he could be it.’
Hattie grinned. ‘You do know me!’
Chapter Seventeen
Hattie had expected a meal in a nice restaurant, perhaps a trip to the cinema or a play if he was cultured – typical first-date territory. What she hadn’t expected was a beer festival in a muddy field complete with naff tribute bands and speed-eating competitions. It was just another unexpected thing that made her suspect Owen had a wild, unpredictable streak, one that she knew she shouldn’t like but did all the same.
She watched him amble across the damp, fusty tent from the bar with two bottles. The place had that peculiar smell of grass and sweat that always reminded her of summer fetes in the village when a sharp shower of unexpected rain would beat on the canvas and everyone would huddle inside, chatting until it stopped. He grinned at her, setting little fireworks of anticipation off in her tummy.
Hattie's Home for Broken Hearts: A heartwarming laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 15
