‘So, that’s the basics,’ said Daniel. ‘Have you thought about themes for the rooms?’
‘Do you think it’s a bit twee to call them after flowers?’
‘Yes,’ replied Daniel, making her laugh. He grinned, longing to close his lips over hers. ‘You need something that links with the area. What’s the Cotswolds most renowned for?’
‘Its honey-coloured stone?’
‘Yes, and its textile – the wool merchants built churches and manor houses with their fortunes, encouraging the Arts and Crafts Movement. I think we should home in on that. Also, it’s got strong literary connections.’
‘Ah yes, Laurie Lee,’ Christie reminisced about reading Cider With Rosie at school.
‘Exactly! Talking of which it’s also well known for its cider houses and old-world real-ale pubs, just like yours.’ This made Christie tingle with pride. Daniel’s enthusiasm was infectious. Then an idea suddenly hit her.
‘Let’s go to the antique centre! There could be pieces in there that would really add finishing touches.’
‘Excellent, you’re getting the idea.’ Daniel patted her back, then let his arm slide round her side, pulling her into him. Christie felt happy and relaxed and snuggled into him as they made their way into the heart of the ancient city.
As predicted, the antique centre proved a worthwhile visit. Their eyes darted round the various shops, picking out period items that would blend in perfectly with the themed rooms; from a charming Georgian writing bureau, to rustic cider pots and lambs-wool rugs. Christie bought various prints of the Cotswolds, depicting its historic villages, landscape and ancient honey-stoned architecture. Daniel collected a few old vintage signs taken from alehouses, shops and cafés, which would look quirky on the room walls. All in all, it had been a very productive day.
After three hours of solid shopping and having heaved all their goods back into the car, they were more than ready for a sit-down.
‘Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.’ Daniel directed them into a quaint-looking tea shop. Inside the cosy tea room, they sat in a corner and talked animatedly about their purchases. It had been a long time since either of them had felt so buoyant, well apart from yesterday when Daniel had been promised Keeper’s Cottage. Happiness exuded from his face. His pale blue eyes were gleaming, Christie noticed. She so didn’t want the day to end.
‘Let’s go and visit the cathedral after lunch,’ she suggested. Anything to prolong her time in his company; she felt so chilled just being with him. Today’s shopping trip proved they were very alike, always thinking along the same lines. He certainly had a creative mind, and style, not to mention being easy on the eye.
*
‘The cathedral is one of the finest medieval buildings in the country,’ boasted the guide, ‘and traces a thousand years of architectural styles from Norman to the present day, where our team of stonemasons are still carving and casting.’ Daniel and Christie absorbed all the impressive history of the cathedral, wandering through the decorative arched cloisters and into the Lady Chapel, which housed some of the finest Arts and Crafts glass in the country, as the tour guide told them. They climbed to the top of the tower to see the bells and the stunning rooftop views. Daniel looked sideways to see Christie in awe of the panoramic vista. He leant forward and kissed her cheek. She turned to face him and smiled.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘Helping me.’ Those two words were simple, but loaded.
‘It’s a two-way thing,’ he replied.
29
Marcus was deep in concentration, staring at the screens in front of him. He’d had his cellar renovated into a studio to enable him to work from home. Here he could do almost everything that hiring a studio in London would provide, only on a smaller scale. It suited him perfectly, having all the equipment to hand, but in a tranquil environment that made his creative juices flow. Being an award-winning TV producer meant Marcus had a reputation to uphold, and his latest documentary, A Green and Pleasant Land?, in his opinion, would be every bit as cutting and dynamic as the others he was renowned for.
Marcus had a real talent for hitting home a message, invoking real emotion. From the horrific, cold truth of sex trafficking, to the heart-breaking compassion of organ donation. Marcus had taken real risks, filming in dangerous territory, interviewing victims and exposing the ruthless, powerful gangs that terrorised and controlled the vulnerable. He had followed the plight of a child desperately needing a heart transplant, covering the emotional scenes before his operation and the joyful ones at its success.
On the face of it, his latest documentary may not seem as hard-hitting as his previous ones. However, Marcus wanted it to be the catalyst that highlighted the glaring inequalities between the rich flourishing in their country estates, to the poor families living off food banks. Poverty was on the up. Homelessness was rising. Marcus was determined to emphasise the stark contrast of the two, as well as depicting Treweham village’s quintessential charm. He had his work cut out, but Marcus revelled in the whole process of documentary making.
Finula tentatively poked her head round the cellar door. She, more than anyone, knew not to disturb Marcus when he was working, but he had been at it since early morning and she was bringing him down some lunch.
‘Can I come in?’
Marcus turned away from the screens to face her. The sight of her made a welcome break. ‘Course you can.’
Finula handed him a coffee and a sandwich.
‘Thanks, darlin’.’ It was good having her live with him. Normally he would work well into the evening without stopping and give himself a splitting headache. Now he’d learnt to expect Finula bobbing in with refreshment throughout his day, not to mention a scrumptious dinner of an evening, where they’d relax and share a bottle of wine by the wood burner. Life was good, very good, and it was all down to this gorgeous, fiery redhead who he had thankfully stumbled across whilst visiting Treweham.
‘How’s it going?’ Finula pointed to the screens.
‘Good. I’m on schedule.’ Marcus bit into his tuna crunch sandwich and realised how hungry he was, but then he hadn’t eaten since 6am. When he was in the thick of producing, he totally lost track of time. He was lucky to have Finula.
She looked at him with concern. ‘Marcus, you look tired.’
‘I am tired.’
‘Then take a rest!’
‘I will, soon. Let me just finish the fine cut.’
Marcus’ talents lay in the selection and sequence of each scene, from its proportions, structures, rhythms and emphasis. The fine cut would pay attention to the details of each and every shot. Once that was agreed between himself and the editor, the sound designer and music composer would join them. Sound effects and music would be created and added to the final cut, which, according to the schedule, would mean the documentary would be aired in the autumn.
‘Marcus, we get married in three weeks’ time.’ She looked pointedly at him.
‘I’m well aware of that, Finula.’ He gulped his coffee back. ‘All the more reason to get the fine cut out of the way, then I can relax and enjoy the honeymoon.’
Finula eyed him with affection. He really was a handsome devil, she thought. He might be tired, but his rakish, dark stubble and twinkling, green eyes made her melt, together with his soft, Irish accent.