“And I’ve made the beds, the double and the single, so this Fiona can bring any combo of friends she likes. Is she gay?”
Josh smiled softly. Not from what he’d gathered from his few meetings with Fiona. She’d almost pinned him against the countertop in her kitchen before he’d convinced her she wasn’t his type.
“No idea,” he said, adding, “Tresco Creek attracts all kinds of people, you should know that.”
Sara stopped midway to adjusting a heart-shaped tapestry cushion so that it was exactly in the center of the pillow. “Some more tasty than others,” she said, her gaze traveling to Josh’s chest.
He glanced down and gave a rueful smile. He should have known, in hindsight, that it was a mistake to wander into the bedroom of the cottage, stripped to the waist. Even as Sara flicked a tongue over her lips, he guessed that the fence was going to have to wait a while.
“Sweetheart, I’m filthy,” he warned as she took a step toward him.
“So is what I have in mind.”
She entwined her arms around his neck and touched the tip of her tongue to his bare chest, grimacing slightly at the bitterness.
“I warned you.”
“I don’t care.”
“This is Fiona’s cottage,” murmured Josh. His fingers slipped inside the back of her white shorts, finding her skin deliciously warm. He was no longer worried about leaving dirty marks. He lowered his mouth to her ear. “I don’t suppose she’d be too pleased to know the hired help was having sex in her bedroom.”
“What Fiona Thingy doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and you won’t get anything dirty,” said Sara, releasing him, only to whip back the rug off the floor. The next thing Josh felt were wooden boards beneath his naked backside and Sara sliding on top of him.
***
An hour later he was back in the paddock, swinging a sledgehammer, almost wishing he hadn’t succumbed so easily. Almost, but not quite. If there was one thing he was sure of in this uncertain world, it was that he loved sex. He loved women, and until he’d met Sara a couple of years before, he’d wasted no time in indulging himself.
Josh had been one of those lucky blokes who bulked up young. At eighteen, he’d had the body of a man of twenty-five and he’d known it. Despite what the social workers and, occasionally Marnie, had told him, his “reputation” hadn’t put off the girls. In fact, it had acted like a magnet. Local girls and vacationers alike had flocked round him but nowhere had his pull been stronger than with the girls who arrived in Porthstow, regular as clockwork, at the end of every June.
Girls from places like Surrey and Cheshire. From universities like Durham, Oxford, and Cambridge. Places that would have probably ejected him from their manicured cloisters and halls if they’d caught him climbing up their ivy. Girls who were blond, raven-haired, brunette, and auburn. All with lithe bodies, shiny hair, and glossy accents.
They had one thing in common: when they heard about his “challenging” background, seen him in a wetsuit, and discovered that “Oh gosh, you actually do
manual
labor
?” they turned to shiny, well-groomed mush. Forget their PhDs in Anglo-Saxon poetry, their MScs in the sex life of the potato, or whatever the hell they were into, all they really wanted was to get his boxers off.
So he didn’t bother to tell them the whole story. How, after he’d stopped being quite such a bad boy, he’d worked his balls off to get a place at the local college and then done a part-time degree in business studies. How he’d worked as a community development officer for a while before he’d had to go back to Tresco Farm because, for the first time in his life, Marnie needed him more than he’d needed her.
Those glossy girls just wanted a taste of bad boy for the summer and Josh had no problem with giving them exactly what they wanted. Over and over again.
But as thirty loomed like a dark cloud on the horizon and his foster mum, Marnie, had struggled her way out of the world, Josh had had a shock. He’d grown tired of his diet of summer sex and, against all his better judgment, had started to want something more.
When Sara had turned up at the sailing club one summer, very cute and extremely capable, he’d thought he’d sensed someone he wanted to have more than a fling with. After two years of sharing skin and breakfast, he knew she wanted to move into the farmhouse and he was seriously thinking about inviting her to.
Seriously
.
“Shit!”
Midway to bringing the hammer down on the final fence post, a blast of pain tore through his shoulder. He cursed himself, knowing he should have worn the harness when he’d been windsurfing the day before. Maybe he deserved it, mixing it in a Force Five on the entrance to the estuary. Or maybe, he thought in disgust, he was just getting soft.
The post, already halfway into the earth, accused him. “Bugger it,” he declared. He picked up the hammer, took a deep breath, and brought it crashing down on the post-head. It sank into the ground and Josh straightened up, waiting for the wave of pain to pass. It did but it took a minute. Then he grabbed a two-liter bottle from the ground, drank half, and stood back to check his handiwork. The fence would do, he decided; it would stop the sheep from roaming, keep the cottage visitors happy. That was all that it needed to do.
Beyond the fence, the far side of the paddock, and the cliff edge that marked one boundary of Tresco Farm, the sea glittered. Today it was inky-blue topped with whitecaps and sun sparkles but Josh had seen it black, gray, green, and turquoise, depending on its mood and the weather.
Wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm, he studied the sky. That morning it had started off postcard-blue, the kind of day that drew day-trippers and weekenders from London and the Midlands like wasps round a jam jar. As he’d grabbed a sandwich at lunch, he’d heard snatches of the news on Radio Cornwall. Bank holiday traffic jams and pile-ups were clogging the highways as the public vied to grab their piece of the sun and sky and sea.
Josh didn’t blame them. And if he sometimes wished, for the sake of his overdraft, that Tresco Farm was not so far off the beaten track, there were far more times that he was glad you had to look hard to discover it.
And now, though the sky on the horizon was still blue at past five o’clock, Josh could almost smell the change in the atmosphere. He hadn’t lived in Tresco Creek for nigh-on twenty years, give or take a few lapses, without knowing what that heaviness in the air meant. He turned. Already there were clouds billowing up like anvils behind the cluster of whitewashed cottages which included Fiona’s bolt-hole, Creekside Cottage.
The water gone, he rolled out the final reel of fencing, secured it with a hammer and nails, and picked his T-shirt up from the ground. Good thing the job was finished. He reckoned he might not have had another chance for days now. He hoped Fiona and her friend would make it before the storm broke.
“You can come out now, Luce.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“And you’re absolutely certain none of them are out there?”
“Absolutely certain.”
There was a pause while Lucy considered just how certain Fiona really was. She certainly
sounded
confident enough and after all, she was, in theory, an expert on this sort of thing. It had taken a very long time to get to Tresco Creek, which Lucy found comforting. The more miles she could put between her and the newspapers, the better. In fact, it had taken so long that Lucy had fallen asleep somewhere around Exeter. As she’d dropped off, she’d been convinced she was naked and being chased down the M4 by the press, all throwing bagels at her.
“And you’re sure that it’s safe here?”
“Lucy Gibson, I, Fiona Bentley-Black, swear on my next advance and Hengist’s life, that no photographer or journalist is lying in wait for you up here.”
“OK, then.”
If Fiona had staked her word on Hengist, thought Lucy, then she must be sure. Peering through the mud-spattered windows of the Land Rover, she suppressed a gasp of surprise. It was no longer raining as it had been most of the way from London. In fact, there was blue sky peeping out from between the clouds. “Enough to patch a sailor’s shirt,” her dad would have said. Enough to clothe a whole fleet of sailors, thought Lucy, staring at the sky which seemed to go on forever. Or maybe that was just because it met the sea on the horizon and blended with it as the sun sank low in the sky.
Lucy jumped down from the Land Rover into the cool evening air. She thought she could smell wood smoke, but there couldn’t be any because it was too warm for anyone to want a fire today. Yet there was a definite freshness to the air, and a stiff breeze blowing from the sea set the goose bumps rippling on her arms.
“Do you want me to fetch your bucket and spade?” asked Fiona, clearly amused at her reaction.
“No. But it’s beautiful here.”
“You wait until the electric gets cut off while you’re watching
Desperate
Housewives
or the roof is leaking because the slates are loose.”
Lucy didn’t care. Creekside Cottage seemed idyllic to her. It was the end property of a row of six that faced outward across a field with… she squinted against the setting sun, yup, a field with sheep in it, cute sheep with little heart-shaped faces.
“Woof!”
“Oh God, not bloody sheep,” muttered Fiona as Hengist barked joyfully from the back of the Land Rover.
“Is that bad?”
“Only if they manage to come face to face,” said Fiona, opening the tailgate. Lucy could have sworn the Land Rover suspension groaned in relief as the dog leapt onto the grass.
“Stay-yy, boy!” ordered Fiona.
Hengist sniffed at a tub of geraniums, the sheep forgotten.
“I’ll get the bags,” said Fiona, grinning. “Chin up. You can relax now. I’ll fetch the booze in a while when we’ve settled in.”
“Thanks, Fi, I really am grateful, you know. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. I’ll remember you in my will, if I make one. I’ll even leave you my
Oklahoma!
program.”
“Is that the one Charlie got signed by the London cast including Hugh Jackman?”
“The very one.”
“Then you’re more grateful than I thought, but before you bequeath me all your worldly goods, wait until you see inside the cottage.”
Even if the cottage had been a derelict shed near a landfill, Lucy would have been more than grateful. In fact, it seemed to have dropped straight from the pages of a National Trust handbook, right down to the green front door, the trellised porch, and the tub of scarlet geraniums. There was even a wonky gate that squeaked as Fiona pushed it open.
“Bugger. This thing’s knackered. I’ll have to get it fixed,” said Fiona, wrestling with the lock. Then, suddenly, the lock clicked, Fiona hissed a triumphant “yes!” and they were inside. The door opened into the hall where a small window let in a glimmer of blue light. The smell of damp was faint but unmistakable, even over the tang of ozone and seaweed.
“Needs a fire lighting and, of course, the storage heaters have been off all winter. Normally, I’d have got it aired but, of course, I couldn’t let anyone know we were coming. You’ll be fine with a drop of gin inside you,” said Fiona, throwing her bag onto the couch.
Lucy hovered in the doorway, taking in the room.
“I’ll fetch some wood in from the shed while it’s light. We might need a fire later when the sun goes down.”
“Want any help?”
“Nah. I like playing Girl Guide and Hengist needs a run round the garden. Why don’t you put the kettle on?”
Once Fiona had left, Lucy pushed open a latched door which she guessed led into the little back kitchen. She flicked a switch and blinked as the strip light flickered into life before filling the kettle with water and popping it back on its stand, waiting for the faint hiss that told her it was doing its stuff.
Outside, she could make out Fiona at the end of the garden, stooping low over what must be the log store. No reporters had leapt out and grabbed her friend yet and Lucy smiled. She really had become totally paranoid lately and now it was time, if not to relax, to get things into perspective. To “sort yourself out, love,” as her mother had put it, and to decide what to do about Nick, if anything could be done.
While the kettle boiled, she headed back to the sitting room to try and make herself useful. Table lamp, TV, heating: that’s what she always did on dark evenings when she got home from work; put on the light and TV for company.
And waited for Nick.
She hunted in the usual places for the control unit, down the side of a large velour armchair, among a pile of fading copies of
Horse
and
Hound
, on top of the oak bookcase. On the shelves she had at least a year’s supply of reading material.
Blood
on
My
Hands
by Fiona Bentley-Black,
Hanging
by
a
Thread
by Fiona Bentley-Black,
Dying
to
Meet
You
by Fiona Bentley-Black, etc. She certainly wasn’t going to be bored while Fiona churned out her latest bestseller. She finally spotted the remote control, gathering dust on top of the last remaining log in the basket by the hearth. Even though the cottage must have been empty for months, there was still a soft undernote of wood smoke beneath the damp.