One shelf was completely clear, and very well dusted, presumably ready for him to arrange his non-existent collection of ‘Books I cannot travel without and have therefore transported from London to this island’. Even if he read more than about two non-fiction books a year – he’d read no fiction since school – he wouldn’t have brought them with him, would he? And didn’t most people have Kindles nowadays?
Upstairs, all three of the large double beds were made, with starched-looking white bed linen and bright – of course – velvet bedspreads. There were also piles of sparkling white towels on each bed.
Why hadn’t Cassie had the beds left stripped, as he had in his flat? He’d had his cleaner and the concierge company put all the flat contents other than furniture and kitchen basics into storage. Who wanted to sleep in someone else’s bed linen and use someone else’s towels?
James certainly didn’t. After a childhood in an often dirty flat, with grubby sheets, sometimes with unappealing strange men staying with his mother, he had an extreme aversion to mess, dirt, and sharing personal items with strangers. It was alright in a high-end hotel where they had industrial washing machines, but in a domestic home? Not so much.
Speaking of which, where were his parcels? Dee had ordered all the necessities he could possibly want for his stay on the island, and had texted earlier to say that they’d arrived and been signed for. Presumably it was Cassie who’d signed for them. He should have asked her. No way was he getting in touch with her again, though. He’d find them.
He’d noticed a couple of envelopes with his name on them downstairs. Maybe she’d left a note saying where she’d stored the parcels.
The first envelope, on a sideboard in the hall, next to a vase with big fresh orange and red flowers in it – thoughtful of Cassie, yes, but completely unnecessary – contained several typed pages.
Cassie was welcoming him to her home, as though he were a guest, and had made a list of instructions and suggestions. Like he was lacking in common sense and unable to use Google. Clearly a woman with time on her hands.
She’d listed ‘useful information’ about the house and the village and the island, and even the mainland, by category. She’d grouped things into an actual index. It looked like she’d included details about every conceivable part of life here, and also some inconceivable parts, like clubs – bridge, not night – and social events. There were a lot of events for such a small place. There were probably a lot in London too, for people who were bored enough.
James skim-read a couple of the pages.
The annual lawnmower race was taking place in a month’s time. Cassie imagined that James would like to go, and had included details on where her lawnmower was and how it worked so that he couldjoin in. There were pages and pages of information. A lot of lists. The vast majority of it pointless.
She kept alpacas and chickens in the field at the end of the garden. What? She’d lined someone up to feed them but he’d be welcome to feed them himself if he liked. Nope. Obviously not.
He hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed that he hadn’t made any lists for her. But they weren’t friends. They were effectively renting each other’s properties. Estate agents did not leave you lists of your neighbours’ telephone numbers or details on when the next full moon would be because night-time kayaking was blissful. Even if he wanted to, James wouldn’t have that kind of information to share. Like your average Londoner, he didn’t know his neighbours and he didn’t get involved in niche clubs and activities. He worked, he worked out, and he went out with his friends, not his neighbours.
He put the list back down on the hall sideboard and wandered into the kitchen. The other envelope he’d seen was on the kitchen table. What more could Cassie have to say?
‘Bugger me, the woman loves a list.’ He’d pulled the notes out of the second envelope and was flicking through them. It looked like these covered different aspects of life from the ones in the hall. Thorough wasn’t the word. Cassie had included so many things it would take him a week to digest all this information, if he wanted to. She had a master list. She had sub lists. She had sub-sub lists. She’d literally even pointed him in the direction of her cookery books. Which, unlike the ordering chaos of all her other books, she had arranged by cuisine and by genre of cooking (starters, meat, fish, Scandinavian, New England, French; the list could and did go on).
She’d also left him a fridgeful and a cupboardful of fresh food and he was welcome to anything he liked from the freezer. She’d stocked it with meals in one-person portions for him because he wasn’t likely to want to go shopping immediately, she thought.
‘Bugger me,’ he said again. Clearly they’d had different ideas about what a house swap entailed.
‘Language,’ said a woman from somewhere behind him. From inside the room. She sounded elderly, very Jessica-Fletcher like.
He turned round, clocking as he went some copper saucepans hanging from the timbered ceiling. Just on the off chance he needed a weapon.
The woman on the other side of the kitchen did look as though she’d stepped out ofMurder, She Wrote. Elderly and very small, although upright, and wearing a red twin set. And holding what looked like a cake tin.
‘Hello?’ he said. It didn’t seem like the copper saucepans were going to be necessary. A map might be, though. Had she wandered in here by mistake?
‘I’m Laura. I live next door. I brought you a blueberry pie and I have packages for you at my house. They were delivered this morning. Cassie was out running last-minute errands, so I took them in.’ The cake tin wobbled in her hands. James stepped forward and took it and put it on the table. A fruit pie? He didn’t eat dessert.
‘Hi, Laura. Thank you. That’s very kind.’ She wasn’t moving. In fact, she looked like she was eyeing up a kitchen chair, like she wanted to sit down and chat. ‘Shall I come and get the parcels from you now?’
‘Any time you like.’ Still not moving.
‘Now would be great if that’s alright by you. I have some necessities in there.’
‘Of course.’ Laura started to make her way slowly out of the room. ‘We can get to know each other on the way.’
Really?
James’s phone beeped as he and Laura emerged from the house. He took it out. Matt. After he got back with the parcels, he should take a photo of the view from the garden and the beach and send it to him.
Several other messages pinged in at the same time as the one from Matt, which was either a big coincidence or a sign that James didn’t have a great signal inside the house. He really bloody hoped that wasn’t the case. It was one thing choosing to leave London for a while, another having an enforced digital detox.
Laura wasn’t joking about getting to know each other, and there was ample time for it. Next-door neighbour here was not the same as next-door neighbour in London. Even at James’s pace it would have taken a good ten minutes to get to Laura’s house. At her pace, it took nearly half an hour, and she put that time to good use, definitely capitalising on the fact that from James’s perspective it felt off being short with an elderly person. She had a lot of questions, and James struggled to avoid answering them.
