by Katie Fforde
‘Which are?'
‘It's none of your—'
‘It is my business, you know. Slightly more mine than yours, actually.’
Thunderclouds gathered in his dark, thick eyebrows. 'I don't think I can discuss these things without Annabelle being present.'
‘Oh? I didn't realise she was a shareholder already,' Flora said innocently.
‘She's not! But she's - she's been involved in the business for a little while now and it wouldn't be right for me to discuss things with you behind her back,' he said tightly.
‘OK, seems fair enough. Tell me,' she went on, 'has Geoffrey . . . what is it?'
‘Whiteread.'
‘Oh yes. Has he worked for you long?'
‘Not that long. But his father used to be a partner in my grandfather's time.'
‘But he isn't now? I mean, Geoffrey didn't inherit from his father?'
‘No. Geoffrey's father lost his share playing cards, but out of kindness, the family gave Geoffrey a job when he came back to the area.'
‘And you'll keep him on until he retires?'
‘If he ever does retire it would be a miracle. Here we are,' he said, which didn't answer her question. He turned down a track. 'As you'll see, if the weather changes, you'd find the road almost impossible to negotiate. You'll regret ever coming here.’
If this was a barely veiled invitation to go back home, she wasn't going to accept it. 'If I'm not happy here, I'm sure I can find somewhere else to stay.'
‘Not that easy with a pregnant cat.'
‘But not impossible, either. Anyway, my little car is very solid, when it's not being banged into. And it was not that close to the corner,' she reiterated, to avoid a repeat of their earlier argument.
‘Yes, but it's also quite low to the ground. It might bottom on some of the rocks in the road.'
‘Is that one of the reasons you haven't let the cottage this year?' she asked, when they had bumped their way down a few yards.
‘Yup. It needs money spending on it.'
‘You might be better to sell it, perhaps?'
‘It's not mine to sell.'
‘I'd forgotten.' She hadn't, actually, but she was aware of an undercurrent that she didn't understand. Charles obviously disliked her, and not just because she was butting into his family business.
He sighed, possibly aware that his hostility was visible. 'There are a lot of things you will need to know if you stay around, but I don't want to explain everything if you're just a fly-by-night. It's complicated.'
‘It always is. Oh, is that it? It's delightful!’
Isolated, the cottage was set against woodland and faced rolling hills. The late afternoon sun shone on to it, making the windows golden. It had a front door, a window on either side, and three windows on the storey above. A small shed leant against the side of the house, and a rambling rose scrambled up the porch and on to the roof.
‘It is very charming to look at, yes,' said Charles, pulling on the handbrake. 'Not quite so easy to live in, as you'll no doubt discover. It was a gamekeeper's cottage. You'll find it very lonely.’
Determined not to rise to the bait, Flora took a deep breath, got out of the car, and walked towards her new home.
Chapter Three
When he had let them both in, and gone back to the Land-Rover to start unloading, Flora allowed herself a few moments to settle Imelda in the kitchen and have a look around before helping him.
The door opened straight into the only living room, which contained a fireplace, a staircase and a lingering smell of wood smoke. That could mean two things, she thought, either the fire smokes unbearably and the whole place is impregnated with it, or someone's had a fire quite recently.
She checked the kitchen, a lean-to at the back of the original cottage, was secure for Imelda, let her out of her box, and then went to get her litter tray.
‘It's a dear little cottage,' she said to Charles, who was carrying a box of saucepans, a toaster, an electric kettle, and other things Annabelle thought necessary. 'Don't let Imelda out. She's in the kitchen.'
‘I'm sure she'll be safe there. I hope you will be too.’
As Flora couldn't decide if this remark was meant kindly, sarcastically or threateningly, she ignored it, and dragged a suitcase out of the back of the vehicle. It was impossibly heavy, but she wasn't going to let Charles see it defeat her.
‘Well, I'm here now,' she declared, perspiring freely and hardly able to speak, dumping the suitcase in the sitting room. 'And you're just going to have to get used to me.’
He turned and stared down at her in a way calculated to make her aware of the sweat between her breasts, her wildly curling hair, the smear of mascara beneath her lashes. She stared back serenely. It would take more than being hot and smudged to put her out.
`I'm sure we'll find that a pleasure,' he said in a way that told her he felt there wasn't a cat in hell's chance he'd do anything of the kind.
Flora sighed. What was wrong with the man? Why couldn't he be more human and friendly? 'I'm not a brainless bimbo, whatever I look like,' she told him. 'Once you've accepted that, we'll get on much better.'
‘My dear Flora . . .' His patronising tone affected her like nails down a blackboard. 'Flora,' he began again, possibly seeing her reaction to his first effort. 'I'm sure you're not brainless, and I don't know why you should assume I thought you were.' Lying so-and-so, she thought. 'But I do think it will be difficult for you to find a meaningful place as part of Stanza and Stanza.’
She regarded him, her head on one side. 'You know, if you hadn't said the name, my name, I might have been convinced. But you did. Stanza is my name as much as yours, and for that reason, even if it was the only reason, I feel I have to do what I can for the business.’
Charles sighed and Flora could see he was reining in his temper. 'The best you could do for the business is to go back to London and let Annabelle and me get on with running it. But as you're obviously not that keen on the company's welfare,' he continued sharply, 'we'd better get the rest of your gear unpacked.’
Flora made her way up the twisting staircase with handfuls of carrier bags. Charles seemed to have some other problem. It wasn't only his dippy cousin coming to mess with his favourite toy he was bothered about. But what on earth that problem could be, she couldn't think. She decided to ignore it, dumped her carrier bags on the bed and looked around at the bedroom. It was nearly filled by a large four-poster bed. It was an extremely pretty bed, but it meant that the chest of drawers had to go on the landing, as did the cupboard which did duty as a wardrobe.
The bathroom, when she went to inspect it, was a reasonable size, possibly because it had clearly once been a bedroom. It definitely needed brightening up: some plants, bright towels, or something, but it was fine. The second bedroom had two single beds in it, which meant that if Emma and Dave came to stay, Flora would have to give them her bed.
But it was very pretty, in a quaint, cottagey way. There was a fine layer of dust over everything, but basically it was clean and Flora felt she could be very comfortable there, once she'd got used to it being the only house for miles. And downstairs, there was a corkscrew. Flora checked this while Charles was lugging her case up the stairs. And later, when everything was unpacked, Charles said, 'Oh. There's something I've forgotten.’
He stalked back to the car stiff with irritation and came back with a bottle wearing a plastic sleeve, to chill it. 'Annabelle sent this. She feels guilty about your car, I suppose.'
‘That's really kind of her!' And so unexpected, she added silently. 'Shall we open it?’
He shrugged. 'If you like. I can only have one glass, though.'
‘I'll find some glasses,' said Flora, thinking that perhaps this was her last chance to get him to lighten up a little. She could have another glass on her own, later, and really relax.
The glasses were very dusty and didn't match. Hastily she washed them and dried them on one of Annabelle's clean tea towels.
&nbs
p; ‘Shall I open it for you?'
‘No, thank you,' said Flora, seeing him twitch with the desire to snatch the bottle of fizz out of her hand and open it himself.
‘What will you do with the rest of the bottle?' Even watching her pour seemed to be agony for him, and she concentrated very hard on not over-filling the glasses.
‘Put a spoon in the neck and drink it over the next few days.' She didn't think it would take her more than two days, actually, but didn't want him to get the impression she had a drink problem as well as everything else that was wrong with her. 'Here's to us, all like us, gae few and we're all dead,' she said.
Charles frowned and picked up his glass and sipped.
Casting desperately around for something for them to talk about, Flora said, 'So, you and Justin were at school together?'
‘Yes.'
‘And you've kept in touch all these years?'
‘Well, no. He found out where I lived through Friends Reunited, and we met up.'
‘Oh.' Flora nearly found herself asking, 'And what did you talk about?' just to keep the conversation going, but it really was none of her business. 'OK, here's another toast,' she said instead. 'To you and Annabelle getting the most out of my visit that you possibly can.’
Charles frowned at her. 'I think I've made it clear that we'd get on far better without you, Flora.'
‘And I think I've made it clear that you're not chasing me back to London just yet.' She smiled brightly. 'You must come round for dinner as soon as I'm settled. Oh.' She lowered her glass. 'There's no table.’
They both regarded the four chairs, which sat, as if placed, round a table-sized space.
‘Damn,' said Charles. 'I'd forgotten. We sold it.’
Flora laughed, and Charles looked at her, confused. Not having a dining table was not something to be taken lightly, obviously.
‘It'll have to be a barbecue then, when you come for dinner with Annabelle,' said Flora, hating the idea. Barbecues were very informal things, not suited to the likes of Charles and Annabelle. Paraffin-flavoured sausages and burnt lamb chops were only fun with people you could relax with.
Charles possibly hated the idea of a barbecue too. 'It's all right, I'll bring you another table. Now, is there anything else you're likely to need?’
Flora was tempted to ask for champagne flutes, an ice bucket and a silver salver, but knew he'd just frown and not realise she was joking. 'I don't suppose there's a telephone?' she said instead.
‘It's a holiday cottage,' he said, for what seemed the fifteenth time. 'And you've got a mobile.'
‘I'll just see if I've got reception.' Flora's insouciance about living in a cottage miles from anywhere all on her own faded suddenly. If you can't ring the police, or your mate, in the middle of the night when you hear something go bump, things are all a lot more scary.
‘On the other hand, it would be a good idea to have one,' Charles conceded, as Flora burrowed about in her bag. 'I'll see to it.'
‘That would be kind.' Flora's words were more heartfelt than they sounded, so she smiled, to emphasise that she meant them. She found her phone, switched it on and peered at it. 'Not much of a signal. It'll probably be better outside.' She moved out of the front door, still studying her phone.
‘No good if it's raining, or you're in bed,' said Charles.
The signal was a little better out of the house but it was still hardly functional. 'Annabelle won't want you to put a phone in here. It's a lot of hassle for a short-term thing.'
‘I thought you were determined to stay.’
Flora frowned. 'I am. I was just thinking about it from Annabelle's point of view.'
‘I'm sure Annabelle would like you to be as comfortable as possible for the duration of your stay,' he said evenly.
Flora grinned. 'Gosh. I didn't know people really used expressions like the "the duration of your stay" in real life.’
He raised his eyebrows. 'And I didn't know people still said "gosh".’
Flora bit her lip to moderate her smile. 'I bet Annabelle does.’
‘She doesn't come from London.’
Flora wanted to say that she didn't either, but as she didn't really know where she did come from, she decided not to.
‘I'd better go,' said Charles. 'Let me know what's missing - you'll probably find out as you go along.’
‘Will you collect me tomorrow?'
‘Why?'
‘To take me to work?'
‘Oh, don't worry about that. You don't have to start until Monday, and your car should be fixed by then.’
Flora opened her mouth to say, 'But you can't just abandon me here in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do,' but didn't, in case Charles suggested she take up gardening, like Annabelle had. 'Fine. I'll amuse myself until Monday then.’
Charles frowned, and Flora realised just what a nuisance her presence was for him. His sense of cousinly duty, a powerful force, was fighting with his extreme irritation at her presence. 'I could come and see how you're getting on, tomorrow,' he said reluctantly. 'And give you an update on your car.'
‘It's all right. There's no need. I'll be fine.’
‘Annabelle was devastated about the car, you know.’
‘Yes, I know. I could see that she was. Even if you hadn't told me about fifteen times.'
‘But you had parked it in quite a stupid place.’
Flora sighed. 'You can't make it my fault that Annabelle ran into me, however hard you try. But I admire you for trying. It's very loyal of you.’
He seemed to be confused. 'What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. It wasn't my fault, it was Annabelle's, but it's nice of you to stick up for your fiancée like that.'
‘Oh.’
Flora suppressed another sigh. 'Could you please ring Geoffrey and explain I won't be able to come to choir tonight. I don't want to let him down.'
‘Choir? You? Do you sing?'
‘Of course. Doesn't everyone?'
‘Yes, but Geoffrey's choir is very good. It has a reputation - oh, sorry, that must have sounded very rude.’
‘Don't apologise. I'm quite used to it by now.’
‘I'm sure I don't know what you mean.'
‘I don't see why. I do speak English, most of the time.' He shook his head. 'I must go. But you think you'll be all right?'
‘Yes. I'll be fine.' She opened the door. 'Thank you very much for driving me here.'
‘It really was the least I could do.' He regarded her for a few moments and then said, 'Goodbye,' and stalked out of the door.
Flora watched through the window as he drove away. Emma had once declared there wasn't a man in the world Flora couldn't charm if she really set her mind to it. Emma hadn't met Charles. Her mind went to the man who had run over her foot in the supermarket. If only Charles was a bit more like him, even a tiny bit, it would make life so much easier.
As she closed the front door and went to the kitchen to let Imelda out, Flora felt suddenly daunted. If she and Charles, and presumably Annabelle, were going to get on as business partners, it would be easier if they liked her. Charles would obviously turn into granite before he did any such thing, so she'd have to try and get Annabelle on her side. Otherwise she'd die of loneliness and despair.
If only Charles was remotely normal, she could have won him over with a little judicious flirting. Flirting worked with almost everyone and Flora did it almost as she breathed. Once, when faced with a particularly tedious job application form, she put it down as one of her hobbies. She got the job.
When Imelda was settled, Flora unearthed her radio from her overnight bag and switched it on. When her breathing and mutterings to Imelda were no longer the only sounds, she felt better. She would make this little house her home. And ask Charles for a television. A television was a perfectly normal thing to have in a holiday cottage, after all.
She had just begun to get bored with unpacking and sorting out her things and was wondering if putting butter on cats' paws t
o stop them roaming was really a good idea, or just an old wives' tale which would end up getting greasy marks everywhere, when she heard a car.
It was Geoffrey, and Flora met him at the front door. He was carrying something covered with a cloth.
‘Edie's sent a cottage pie over for your supper, and when you've eaten it, I'm taking you to choir.'
‘This is so kind!' said Flora, opening the door wider, forgetting about Imelda for a moment. Imelda, seeing the countryside in all its summer glory, shot out.
‘Oh no!' Flora shrieked. 'What if she doesn't come back?'
‘She will.' Geoffrey came into the house and set the dish down on a small table. 'Where is she going to go? She won't spend the night outside, not if she's not used to it.' Geoffrey was very soothing. Flora found herself believing what he was saying, as if for Geoffrey to say something automatically made it true. 'You eat your supper, let her have a run around, and then we'll call her.’
They left the door open while Flora ate the still warm combination of tasty mince and mashed potato straight out of the Pyrex dish. Imelda could be seen, picking her way through the grasses, sniffing occasionally. When Flora was full, she put her plate down on the floor and called her cat.
Imelda, possibly hearing the sound of the dish landing on the floor, looked up and ambled back towards the house, her pregnant body almost triangular.
‘That must seem awfully rude, but she always comes if she thinks I've put something down for her.’
He chuckled. 'That's all right. She might as well have what's left now. She's expecting, after all.'
‘Are you sure it's all right to leave her?'
‘I'm sure she'll be fine. Cats mostly like to get on and have their kittens on their own, anyway. Have you made a nice bed for her? They like cupboards, dark places. What about under the stairs?’
Together they made a space for Imelda, having first moved aside a pair of wellington boots. Then Flora fetched a pillow from the spare bed, checking first that it wasn't full of goose-down and therefore expensive to replace. A cardigan, that until that moment Flora hadn't considered old, went on top to make it smell familiar. And when Flora considered it comfortable enough for her cat she called her.
