She’d brought an apron – a chalky white linen apron, the kind like a pinafore. An apron. She unfolded it, slipped her arms through the straps and smoothed it down. ‘If you want to do something, maybe you could make us all a nice cuppa.’ It sounded odd in her accent. Very Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.
Scott coughed. Laura wasn’t sure which one of them was getting a warning.
She took a deep breath and picked up the kettle, wonderfully uncrowded by cereal boxes. ‘Great idea.’
It might be a very long ten days.
In the late afternoon, groceries put away, Laura took a long bath, which she never did at home. She hadn’t been very good at keeping still lately. Buzzed around like a demented fly. She tried to read a book but couldn’t concentrate. An interiors magazine she’d found downstairs in the sitting room didn’t interest her either. Her attention span was pathetically short. She threw it onto the bath mat and lay back in the hot water, her eyes closed, concentrating on breathing slowly in and out. Not engaging with the thoughts.
The water had been too hot, and the air outside was still very warm. She couldn’t be bothered to dress up. She ran a brush through her hair, and pulled on a linen shift that she should have hung up when she unpacked, but she didn’t bother with makeup or jewellery, although she would undoubtedly feel dowdy next to Heather. And old next to Hayley. She didn’t really care.
Ethan was in his room at the top of the house. She’d tried to coax him out, but he said he’d come down when the food was ready, and his face was set in a way she knew made it pointless to argue. Poor angry, lost kid. She wanted to hug him. All the time. And she had to stop herself.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, Charlie was pouring gin and tonic, taking the business of slicing lemons and adding a sprig of rosemary to the glass very seriously. He held up the bottle. It was Homebrew 2. Laura smiled, and put her arm around his shoulders briefly.
‘Mixologist!’
‘Trust me – they taste great. I meant to bring some juniper berries too.’ They clinked glasses and Laura sipped.
‘Where is everyone?’
Charlie shushed and pointed at the sitting room. Laura stuck her head around the door and saw Nick’s kids sprawled across Meredith, thumbs in, in front of the television, watching Frozen.
‘I think Heather and Hayley are still on the tennis court.’
‘God. So keen.’ But she tried not to sound judgemental. She didn’t want to rock any boats.
‘And your brothers are having a testosterone-off at the barbecue. Why do you think I’m making so busy with the gin?’
Outside, too many cooks were definitely spoiling the broth. Or, at least, worrying the fire. They’d always been this way, her brothers. She’d been born almost exactly between the two of them, and had played referee over and over throughout their childhood. Scott was clever, Nick dogged and determined. They both seemed pretty certain they knew best about the damn barbecue, although the bickering sounded more good-natured than snarky.
She left them to it and came back inside. Then, having made her contribution by artfully pouring gourmet salad from a plastic bag into a large glass bowl, searching out a breadboard and a serrated knife for the four French sticks, she poured herself a second large gin and tonic, which might or might not have been a good idea, and snuck away. She walked past the climbing frame to the bottom of the garden, where there was a gate. The pool and the tennis court were the other way, so no one had explored in this direction. She could hear tennis balls being thwacked, and Heather offering enthusiastic encouragement. She looked back to see if she’d been missed, but she hadn’t. Before she’d wandered outside, Charlie had taken his gin to the sofa, where Bea was earnestly explaining to him who Olaf and Anna were looking for. Opening the gate, she wandered through and, skirting the edge of a small field, made her way to what was obviously the vegetable garden the brochure had boasted of. There was an old-style greenhouse, and a load of neat raised beds formed from railway sleepers. It was all very Marie Antoinette, and she wondered who ate the produce. Maybe they were supposed to, and the bagged salad from the supermarket was an affront.
There was a mossy Lutyens bench bathed in the last of the apricot evening sunshine. Laura plonked herself down in the middle of it, drew her legs up underneath her dress to sit comfortably cross-legged, and rested her cool glass against her sternum, letting the sun warm her face, her eyes closed. Being still.
When she opened them again, it was because she had sensed that someone else was there. She saw the shadow of a man, at first, and then he came fully into view. He was smiling. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. You look very peaceful.’
She uncrossed her legs, and sat upright, feeling self-conscious. ‘It’s fine.’ She hadn’t meant to sound so brittle. She forced a smile.
‘Are you staying at the house?’
She wondered if she wasn’t supposed to be there. ‘Yes. Sorry. I arrived earlier. I’m with the Chamberlain family.’ She sounded foolishly formal.
He walked towards her with his hand outstretched. She moved forward to shake it. Just before she took it, he looked at it, wiped it against the shorts he was wearing. ‘Sorry. Sorry. I’m filthy.’
‘It’s fine.’ She smiled, and they shook hands.
‘That’s two fines and two sorrys so far. We must both be English.’
He was laughing at her, his voice full of amusement. ‘Sorry.’ Now they both laughed.
‘I’m Joe.’
He was nice-looking. Handsome. Mel might even have said he was a ‘phwoar out of ten’, which was a favourite expression of hers. Not crazily younger than her, but a bit, maybe. It was harder to tell with blokes. Life was a bit less cruel to them on the looks front. He had a deep tan, but white lines around his eyes – from squinting without sunglasses on, or maybe from smiling. There was blond hair on his chest – it was sprouting out from the V of his T-shirt. He was good-looking enough, she realized, to make her very slightly regret not blow-drying her hair and slicking on mascara.
‘Laura.’
‘It’s good to meet you, Laura. Enjoying everything so far?’
She nodded enthusiastically, endlessly polite. ‘Absolutely. It’s a beautiful place.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Do you …?’ She didn’t want to ask him if he worked there. Which was ridiculous. God, she was bad at small-talk. Casual conversation. It wasn’t rocket science. She felt awkward.
‘Do I work here? Yes. Among other things.’ He apparently didn’t find it a strange question at all.
She nodded. That was a bit enigmatic. But he wasn’t weird – if her radar was still at all reliable. He was one of those quietly confident people she rather envied. Daphne would have described him as comfortable in his skin. You could just tell, right away.
‘I live over there,’ He gestured behind him. ‘On the farm. Looking after this garden is a sideline, really. I do it because I enjoy it.’
‘I can tell. It’s great.’
‘You’re a gardener?’
She shook her head. ‘I kill stuff. Houseplants, mainly.’ She shrugged ruefully. ‘But I like to see a beautiful garden. My dad grew a few veggies, when we were kids, but nothing like this. It’s fantastic.’