‘Oh, we’re fine. But we haven’t had to deal with what you have the last few weeks. And it sounds like Jasper’s been completely useless.’
Portia sighed. ‘No surprise there. I couldn’t believe it when he announced he was flying back to Cuba a couple of days after the funeral.’
Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, now you’re in Buttersley, Jake and I can help. I’ll give him a call. Let him know you’re here and tell him to make up the spare room. And of course it goes without saying that you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’
Portia smiled. She’d been in Buttersley less than an hour and already felt better. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I thought I’d stay at the gatehouse cottage. You’ve far too much on at your place, what with the children, and Jake writing, and everything. I’d only be in the way.’
Annie balked. ‘How can you even think that? We’d love to have you.’
Portia reached out and took her friend’s hand. ‘It’s lovely of you to offer but I need a bit of space. Some time to clear my head, what with everything that’s happened lately.’
Annie narrowed her eyes. ‘You sure?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Well, okay, then. But you’ll have to check the place is habitable first. It’s an age since I’ve had a chance to pop my head in. If nothing else, it’ll need a damned good clean. I can come over and help once I’ve closed up here. And then you can come to us for dinner. At least let us feed you.’
Portia laughed. ‘Only if it’s not putting you to any trouble.’
Annie gave an exasperated tut. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re never any trouble.’
Furnished with a bag of Annie’s chocolate and hazelnut cookies, Portia popped into the grocery store a little way along the street, where she purchased some basic provisions, as well as a couple of pairs of rubber gloves and various bottles of cleaning products.
Annie was right. The gatehouse cottage hadn’t been lived in for a couple of years. Not since Annie, who’d previously lived there, married her writer husband, Jake, and moved to a much bigger abode. Portia only hoped a good clean was all it needed. She really should’ve called Annie yesterday and asked her to check if the place was habitable. But if the verdict had come back that it wasn’t, she still would’ve come. Her desire to escape London had verged on the urgent. And her desire to see Annie’s friendly face equally so. She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at how much time she’d spent moaning to Annie on the phone of late. But there wasn’t another soul on the planet she felt anywhere near as close to. Yes, she had lots of acquaintances, lots of people she could call up at a moment’s notice if she fancied going out for a drink or to a club. But try and talk to them about anything other than who’d bought the latest handbag, or which restaurant was flavour of the month, and they’d gaze at you blankly. She and Annie, on the other hand, had history; knew each other better than most siblings. They’d attended boarding school together, becoming inseparable almost immediately. And despite the physical distances that had stretched between them since then, their special bond never weakened. Something for which Portia – at no time more than the present – would be eternally grateful.
So absorbed was she in her musings that, laden down with bags, she didn’t notice another body entering the shop just as she was leaving it, until she barged into him.
‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry.’ She tilted up her head, her gaze fusing with a dark, piercing one, from a tanned, handsome face.
‘That’s all right,’ he said, his mouth stretching into a disarming grin.
Portia smiled fleetingly, waiting for him to move so she could sidle past.
He didn’t.
‘Looks like you’re going to be busy,’ he remarked, a nod of his head indicating the bags bursting with cleaning products.
‘Er, yes,’ she muttered, aware of her pulse beating at twice the speed it had before this encounter. ‘I’d, er, better get a move on.’
‘Of course.’ He stepped aside. ‘Would you like a hand with your –?’
‘No. Thanks. I’m fine,’ she blurted out, stumbling on the step in her haste to escape.
In the safety of her car, Portia pressed the central locking device and attempted to calm down. Her heart was now racing so fast she wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it had brought on a coronary. Of course she wasn’t, she reasoned, used to random people speaking to her. That didn’t happen in London – and certainly not in the many war-torn countries she’d frequented. Well, not unless the person concerned verged on the deranged. Somehow, though, she didn’t think the young man in the shop verged on the deranged. He’d merely been pleasant, passing the time of day.
The issue wasn’t his mental state. It was hers. Her nerves evidently so fragmented she couldn’t cope with a simple exchange of pleasantries. Which proved what she had suspected: that she had some serious recuperation to do.
She only hoped Buttersley was the place to do it.
Wow. In the shop doorway, Joe turned and watched the gorgeous brunette who’d bowled into him scuttle down the street and jump into a very smart silver Audi. He hadn’t seen her around the village before. He certainly would’ve remembered if he had. That dazzling combination of glossy dark hair, razor-sharp cheekbones and never-ending legs meant she wasn’t a woman you’d instantly forget. Even in combats and T-shirt, she looked like she’d walked straight off the page of some high-class fashion magazine. In fact, so bowled over was he – metaphorically and, almost, literally – that his reason for coming to the shop had completely slipped his mind.
Oh, yes.
His lunch.
And he’d better make it a substantial one. Today’s post-prandial client – Penelope Fleeting – was his most demanding.
Choosing a delicious-looking roast beef sandwich, oozing with horseradish mayo, and packed with crispy lettuce and fresh tomatoes, Joe then swiped up a bottle of orange juice and a couple of bananas before making his way to the till, manned, as usual, by the shop owner, Mrs Gates. A great fan of wigs, the old lady’s current creation, in a pronounced shade of lilac, looked to Joe like it might have been lurking in the bottom of her wardrobe since 1963. She was, however, always extremely pleasant, her round, chubby face rarely without a smile.
‘You mixing with the aristocracy there, Joe?’ she chuckled.
Joe screwed up his nose, not having the faintest idea what she was talking about.
‘Portia Pinkington-Smythe,’ she explained. ‘Nearly knocked you over, from what I saw.’
‘Portia Pinkington-Smythe,’ he repeated. ‘Whose family own the manor?’
‘The very same. Although “family” actually just means Portia and her brother now. They’re the only two left since their poor father passed away recently.’
‘The old guy who used to live in the house?’
‘Ah ha. Been in a nursing home ever since he left Buttersley. Lost his marbles. A real shame given what a fine gent he used to be. Proper lord of the manor type. Anyway, how’re things with you? Busy afternoon ahead?’
A slight flush touched Joe’s cheeks. ‘You, er, could say that.’
Having paid for his purchases, Joe sauntered down to the bottom of the street and turned right, following the path to the riverbank. He sat on a bench there, overlooking the water. The clouds which had dominated the sky earlier had been replaced by a dazzling blue sky. Joe held up his face to the sun, his mind awhirl with the incident in the shop. So that was Portia Pinkington-Smythe, was it? Well, he wouldn’t