Chapter Nine

In the morning sunshine, my parents' garden was a completely different place to the night before. The long shadows had been replaced with a children's paintbox full of colour; green grass, blue sky and every colour of flower you could think of, red, pink, purple, orange, pansies, petunias, delphiniums, geraniums, hollyhocks. The scent of honeysuckle, rose and an ever expanding lavender bush at the bottom of the garden filled the air with the kind of perfume I spent a fortune on trying to replicate in candle form, and the tall, elegant silver birches towered above me, nodding in a breeze that was too high in the sky to bother me and my pyjamas. It was the kind of garden that transported you back to a time when people could be easily tricked into thinking fairies existed and the worst thing that could happen to you was having your sleeve nibbled on by a passing sheep from the neighbouring farm. But I could survive a bit of sleeve nibbling. What I couldn't see myself surviving was this weekend.

Leaving the house and its inhabitants behind, I ventured down the garden and curled up on a bench hidden between a rhododendron bush and a sycamore tree, cursing myself for leaving my phone inside. William could be trying to call me to let me know about my bag. For all I knew he was at the train depot right now with my perfect little laptop in his hot sweaty hands. He might already have the manuscript, covered in slashes of scarlet pen with the words ‘fix this – it's shit' scrawled in the margins of every other page.

Above me, I saw the tree twitch and a pair of bright green eyes peeked out from the branches of the sycamore. A tiny grey tabby cat with a white bib and paws shuffled into view and miaowed.

‘Hello there,' I said. ‘Cute whiskers.'

The cat did not return the compliment. Instead, it gave me a dismissive once-over before it began the very serious business of grooming. I couldn't help but feel a little bit judged.

‘Just so you know, some of us haven't had a chance for self-care this morning,' I grumbled. ‘Some of us have been very busy trying to make it to—' Pausing, I checked the time on my watch. ‘Is it really only half-past ten?'

The cat blinked once then stuck its back leg straight up into the air.

‘Show-off.'

I buried my chin in my chest and slumped back until my spine curled, shoulders hunched and my tailbone teetering dangerously close to the edge of the bench. The internationally recognised sulking position.

Three days.

I was stuck here for three long days.

All I had to do was not kill my sister, pray that William was able to locate my bag with the manuscript before someone published the sequel on Reddit, avoid my ex, survive the rest of the family, keep my secret identity a secret, come up with a better ending for my book and never, ever let myself be alone with Joe bloody Walsh. How hard could it be?

‘Morning.'

It could be impossible.

There he was, same smug grin on his face, same thick thighs and bulging arms stressing the seams of his jeans and T-shirt. What was wrong with this man, could he not buy clothes that fit?

‘Fuck off,' I said, primly straightening the collar of my pyjama top.

‘Spoken like the daughter of two literary luminaries.'

Joe raked a hand through his dark hair like something out of a shampoo ad but made absolutely no move to fuck off.

‘Did you want something?' I asked, eyes on the ground. It wasn't safe to look at him, like the Ark of the Covenant or the sun or the sell-by date on a bag of Mini Eggs you find in November when you're on your period. There were some things we were better off not knowing.

‘Yes,' Joe said. ‘A fresh start.'

I considered his request for a second.

‘No. Fuck off.'

‘As much as I'd love to, that's going to be tricky since I'm here for the whole weekend.'

‘That doesn't mean I have to talk to you,' I replied as his hulking frame moved directly in front of me and blocked out the sun. ‘I think we both made our feelings perfectly clear yesterday, I can't see any need to antagonise each other further.'

He dug his hands deep into his pockets and shrugged.

‘I'm willing to let bygones be bygones.'

‘And I'm willing to shove those bygones right up your—' I stopped myself before I could finish the sentence. I would not give him the satisfaction.

‘Look, we clearly got off on the wrong foot,' Joe said, digging the toe of his brown suede desert boot into the ground. ‘We both had a drink, we both got carried away, I can't see any reason why we can't forget yesterday happened and try to be friends.'

He was unbearable. I looked up to see his mouth curved up into an insufferable half-smile.

‘If you wanted to be friends then maybe you shouldn't have gone for a full-on character assassination during Pat Benatar yesterday,' I suggested as his eyes flared with annoyance.

‘Me? You're the one who flew off the handle about nothing!'

‘And you're the one who didn't mention you were coming to my dad's birthday party, you total psycho!'

‘I didn't know!' Joe protested, sliding one hand across his chest to the tense muscles in his neck. ‘I really didn't, it was a last-minute thing.'

Risking a glance into his eyes, I searched for the truth. How could they be so blue?

‘After you ran out, without paying your half I might add, I had dinner with my dad and he mentioned he was coming up for the party,' he added. ‘He asked if I wanted to come, I said yes.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I can't say no to a sixtieth birthday party?'

‘I bet old people love you,' I guessed. ‘They're probably the last generation that find your nonsense charming.'

‘I do quite well with the septuagenarian set,' he admitted.

‘At least you're self-aware,' I said with a sniff. ‘But I still don't believe you.'

Joe let out an exasperated sigh. ‘What, you think I changed all my weekend plans then begged him to bring me along exclusively to torment you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Didn't have you pegged for arrogance,' he replied with a click of the tongue.

‘No, you had me pegged as a sexually frustrated, spoiled baby, half-arsing a teaching job until I find a rich man to marry,' I reminded him. ‘It's the twenty-first century, not the nineteen fifties, you chauvinistic arsehole.'

He dug his hands deep into his pockets and sucked in his cheeks as they shifted to a shade Farrow Ball might have called ‘Mildly Ashamed Pink'.

Before either of us could go in for another jab, the conservatory doors opened and Gregory Brent strolled out of the house with my father close behind, carrying both weekend bags Joe had brought in with him.

‘Here, Mr Taylor, give me those.'

Joe rushed back up the garden to grab them, his father standing, hands on hips and a pout on his face as he surveyed the garden.

‘Call me Hugh,' Dad said with a happy grin. ‘Very good to see you, Joseph, it's been an age.'

‘And you call me Joe,' he replied, smiling back. ‘Feels like yesterday to me. Running around your back garden, chasing Sophie through the sprinklers. And who could forget your famous chicken?'

‘Ahh, get on with you,' Dad gushed. ‘Imagine remembering that.'

You could practically see the heart eyes emojis floating above his head. Complimenting my father on his barbecue skills was the quickest way to win his love. Or any man's love, really.

‘We're thrilled to have you.' He patted Joe on the back like he'd just returned from the Hundred Years' War before linking arms with me and dragging me down the garden with them. ‘The more the merrier, even if we are fully booked up. I hope you don't mind a sofa bed.'

‘I'm sure I've slept on worse,' Joe assured him as the four of us made our way down the garden.

‘Don't speak too soon,' I said as I realised where we were headed. The dreaded cottage. ‘The only place I've ever seen that's more disgusting was my third-year uni house.'

‘She lived with three lads,' Dad said with grim recollection. ‘Very nice, very clever, completely oblivious to the concept of bleach. I still have nightmares about that bathroom.'

I smiled in spite of myself and shook my head, same memory, different lens.

‘Strongest immune system I ever had,' I told him, shooting a threatening look in Joe's direction. ‘And living with the boys taught me how to take care of myself.'

No need to mention all three of them were absolute wimps and I even had to set up the internet myself.

Dad flapped his hand in my direction then pulled out a set of shiny silver keys. ‘Don't let Sophie scare you, her bark is worse than her bite.'

‘Happy to put that to the test,' Joe replied quietly.

‘And the cottage has had a bit of a makeover since she was last here,' Dad continued blithely as I fought the urge to beat Joe to death with my fluffy bunny slippers. ‘I've been working on it all year.'

‘Dad, I love you but it needed a fairy godmother, not a makeover,' I said.

‘Just wait and see,' he replied with a laugh. ‘You might be surprised.'

Surprised was not the word.

Shocked, maybe. Stunned. Convinced I'd passed into a parallel dimension where up was down and the sky was green. The dark, dirty, cobweb-filled shed I'd avoided like my life depended on it had been transformed. From the outside, I could just about tell it was the same cottage but the centuries-old limestone walls had to be the only thing that remained. Yellow roses grew around the brown stable door and on either side there were two new windows, square panes with white trim sparkling in the sun.

‘You did all this?' I asked my father in amazement.

‘It's amazing what you can accomplish when you put your mind to it,' he replied, watching on as we each wiped our feet on the mat. ‘Your mum thinks I might have missed my calling.'

‘Mum might be on to something,' I breathed. ‘Bloody hell, Dad.'

All the gardening equipment, broken bikes, stringless tennis racquets, deflated footballs and rusty pogo sticks had disappeared and in their place was the most charming country cottage I'd ever seen. A snug, cosy place with low ceilings and polished floors, the inside every bit as inviting as the flower boxes that hung outside the windows. Everything was perfect, from the kitchenette and squishy, cream-coloured sofa to the thick rugs on the floor and tiny, tiled fireplace already full of chopped wood. But most impressive of all was the bed. Brass frame, fluffy duvet and gigantic marshmallows for pillows, it looked like heaven. A heavy, knitted blanket rested over the frame, begging to be wrapped around my shoulders on a chilly winter night and it took everything in me not to run across the room and divebomb under the covers. I was already in my pyjamas, after all.

‘Charlotte says it's folklore-coded which was apparently a compliment,' Dad said. ‘What do you think, Soph?'

‘I think you did a deal with the devil,' I replied, flexing my toes inside my slippers. ‘There's no way this is the same cottage.'

‘It's very nice,' Joe commented even though no one asked him. ‘Have you ever thought about going into renovation professionally, Mr Taylor?'

‘Hugh,' Dad said, blushing like a schoolgirl. ‘You haven't seen the best bit yet. Come on, this way.'

The three of us followed him out of the large, airy room and through a second stable door, Joe rattling on about the finishes and fixtures, me mentally planning my summer cottage staycation and Gregory absently poking at things and muttering under his breath.

‘Here it is, the highlight of the tour.'

Dad stood to one side and unveiled his masterpiece with a flourish.

‘Sorry, Dad, I'm never leaving,' I announced. ‘I'm moving back home.'

‘You most certainly are not,' he replied, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. ‘But I didn't do a bad job on the bathroom, did I?'

He had done an incredible job. There were all the usual things you find in a bathroom, toilet, sink, towel rack, but they weren't important. All that mattered was the massive, cast-iron claw-foot bathtub that sat next to the window, looking out over the rolling fields behind my parents' garden.

‘Never really been one for a bath,' Gregory said, twisting the sink taps. ‘Where's the shower?'

‘Glad you asked. Behold the pièce de résistance!'

Dad crossed the room and opened a door to the garden on the other side of the bath. Outside, jutting out from the side of the cottage, was a rainfall shower the size of a dinnerplate with a smooth pebble floor beneath it and honeysuckle-covered rough stone walls enclosed the space. Two plush bathrobes hung on brass hooks, along with towels so thick the thought of how long they'd need in the drier whenever I washed them made me feel faint. Wafting us back inside, Dad turned on the taps and, immediately, the space filled with lavender-scented steam.

‘Malcolm treated us to a weekend away at Soho Farmhouse for my birthday,' Dad explained, his glasses all fogged up. ‘Your mother was like a pig in shit the whole time, couldn't get her out the bloody bathroom so I thought, why not recreate it at home?'

‘It's very impressive, Hugh,' Joe said with what sounded like genuine enthusiasm. ‘Much nicer than Soho Farmhouse, I'd say.'

Of course he'd been to Soho Farmhouse. Probably went all the time. Probably with an influencer called Haeyleigh who only wore Lululemon and made him take her photo seventeen thousand times until she was happy with her duck face pout and peace sign combo.

‘This is all well and good,' said Gregory, backing away from the shower spray as though he might melt on contact with the water. ‘But surely you don't expect me to stay down here?'

Dad's smile slipped and he looked over at his friend, crestfallen.

‘You don't like it?'

‘It's very … rustic,' Gregory replied, glancing down at his yellow trainers. ‘I can't get in and out of that bath with my back and not to be rude but there's no way on god's green earth you're getting me in an outdoor shower. Are you trying to kill me? We're in England. It's chilly at night. What do you do about nosy neighbours? What if there's an unexpected storm while I'm soaping up and get struck by lightning? Best-case scenario, Peeping Toms. Worst-case scenario, flash-fried Gregory.'

‘There are no storms forecast and it's perfectly warm out here.' Dad pointed at heating panels hidden in the overhanging roof of the cottage as he turned off the water. ‘And it's completely private, there's no way anyone can see in.'

But Gregory held firm.

‘No, I'm sorry. If this is all you've got to offer, I'm going to have to head home. I wish you'd told me you were planning to have me camp out in an ancient shed when you offered me a place to stay.'

Gregory was now and always had been a knob. He didn't mean it, he just wanted to take the wind out of my dad's sails, but I knew Dad wouldn't thank me for pointing it out. I didn't realise how tightly I was keeping my mouth closed until I noticed the muscles in Joe's jaw ticking exactly the same as mine. Both of us were biting our tongues.

‘You can't leave before the party tomorrow,' Dad insisted, looking to me in a panic. ‘Perhaps you could swap with Sophie?'

‘Swap?' I repeated. ‘You mean, Gregory gets my room and I get to stay here? All weekend?'

‘If you don't mind moving your things.'

I could've passed out from joy. Ditch the overcrowded house and hide out down here, soaking in the tub, reading by the fire and handfeeding squirrels and deer and any other number of Snow White-themed-activities?

‘Works for me,' I said, already planning my bath schedule. ‘Gregory, you're welcome to my room. I'll clear out my stuff right now.'

‘Then it's settled,' Dad announced before his so-called friend could comment. ‘Gregory, you're up in the house, and Sophie and Joe will stay in the cottage.'